The dynamics of isolation are complex. As an extreme outlier on the introversion scale, as well as a practicing hermit, I’ve found myself alone for some significant time.
I can feel lonely. We’ve all been lonely, and it’s an exquisite kind of pain. It’s one of the reason why I seek connectedness with nature and my dogs.
I can feel the quiet. In a noisy world, the quiet that can accompany isolation can provide room to enjoy oxygen.
I can feel empowered. Without debate and manners, decision making can happen smoothly and I can make a lot of fun, big, off-the-wall stuff happen. Mons Domus and this Spring’s large garden project are good examples.
I can feel contemplative. Without the chatter of society, I can wax and wane philosophical all I want. This shapes my approach to life, playing in each decision. A lot of my ‘Rambles’ category posts are the result of this state.
I can feel unique. With no pressure of compliance, my individuality shines. I find that I like myself, and can more easily work on parts of me that need some development.
I can feel outcast. Even though my isolation is by choice, I sometimes wish friends would check in or demonstrate curiosity about my experience. I know it’s because they are probably just respecting my choice to be alone, but I still enjoy hearing a ‘hello’ sometimes.
I can feel asynchronous. Not only losing track of days, but not feeling a tie to my generation, my century. My needs and routine is generally without dependence upon the date. I need my car less and less. The internet and the sun are my only ties to time.
And lately,
I can feel feral. With only cursory social interactions with people this spring, and the company of over 40 animals between raise-release transient residents and resident critters, my schedule is their sleep, their wake, their eating. My mind is that of prey, cycling them in and out through their shelters to keep them safe from the persistent predation of snakes, raccoons, cats, dogs, and foxes. Socializing with the resident pets so they feel connected to their pack leader, or honorary flock member.
That’s several hundred interactions with animals every day, and maybe one interaction with a human. I’ve never felt it quite so keenly, an I’m not sure I’m enjoying it. It’s not as if I’m bigfooting it in the forest or some such, but it’s forcing not only the outer world of Humanity farther away, but my own. I know people are animals, but we have a species identity, as do they (well, maybe not imprinted birds.). I feel as if the zookeeping with no socialization is causing me to lose my species identity a bit. The chit-chat online seems abstract. At my physical therapy appointment this week for my neck, I found myself utterly unable to participate in the friendly banter that goes on there: speaking out of turn, off topic, not following the course of narrative in other’s chatter. I’m far from a conversationalist with my hearing and autism, but this was far worse than usual.
I think I will listen to some audio-books or play accordion today to make certain that I exercise some of what I enjoy about being a human. I’d hate for this monastic experiment to end with bigfoot sightings on the mountain!