This is Your Time

When you are part of a large, loving, extended family, as I am, solitude can sometimes be a pretty hard state to achieve.  

Don’t get me wrong, I love the family gatherings with the laughter, the tears, the arguments, the music, the dancing, the spilt drinks, the chocolate melted on the sofa, the general craziness of getting together with family members from one to ninety one.  I love each and every one of them and I revel in their company, both individually or in a group.  I love the fact that my own children, their other halves and the grandchildren all live within about ten minutes of our house, and I’m happy that they know they can call in at any time - and they do.  To me, that’s what family is all about.  And when family isn’t around then there are friends to fill the space.  Our home has always been an open house.

However, much as I love the company of others, I am also very happy to spend time alone.  In fact, more than happy.  I love it.

My periods of solitude might be few and far between but that just makes them all the more precious.  Sometimes they come about by accident - a little voice calls out, “Bye, grandma,” the front door closes and all is quiet.  I sit in total silence, memories of a frantic afternoon are stored and peace descends.  Like a blanket, it envelopes me, as my mind slows and clears.  This is bliss, the total opposite of the mad few hours we’ve been enjoying, although that, in itself, is a different kind of happiness.  Sometimes my periods of solitude are planned: an hour on the bed, reading, snuggled under the covers; a brisk walk along the prom, just my thoughts to accompany me; an afternoon on the computer, editing photos. 

I’m sure, if I lived alone, with no family or friends, then the solitude that I now enjoy could well become a pain and not a pleasure:  a prison of loneliness.  The ticking of a clock, the drone of the TV, cars on the road outside - these background sounds would only serve to emphasise the fact that I was alone, and not by choice.  Thankfully, solitude is still a treat for me.  As a photographer, time alone with my camera is something I relish.  I become distracted if shooting with someone else.  Much as I love to chat, I find my best shots are those where my eye has been allowed to wander and focus without the distraction of conversation.  My mind will wander too, thoughts of where I’m going, what I’m aiming for, what are the optimum settings, where is the next capture likely to be?  This is my idea of heaven.

And then, home to the husband, a cup of tea, a chat about the day.  And possibly a room full of children....

As I walked along the prom this morning I was thinking about the subject of solitude, when I spotted this man and his dog, away from everyone and everything.  Now, that's solitude.

This is Your Time by Jill Reidy 

Find a quiet place

In or out

It doesn't matter

Add a blanket 

Or a coat if out

Gloves, hat, scarf

Whatever keeps you warm

Check head is clear

Thoughts are flowing

View is restful

No interruptions

Ignore the clock

The screeching of the gulls

You're on your own now

This is your time....

Whilst researching the subject, I came across this quote, and decided it was written specifically for me.  

'Solitude is fine but you need someone to tell that solitude is fine.' 
― Honoré de Balzac

Thanks for reading, Jill

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The Romantics - So Glad I Found You

It had been a decade of uncertainty, feeling lost and out of my depth. I’d been riding an emotional roller-coaster that got faster and faster and would not stop. I jumped off, brushed myself down and wondered why I hadn’t done it sooner.

I lived alone, quietly. I had my job, my home, my car and I think I had my sanity, though others might have doubted it, I didn’t question it much. I enjoyed the silence of my own company. There had been too much noise before. I read book after book, Irwin Shaw, Colleen McCullough and Edna O'Brien amongst others. I unpacked the collection of Marshall Cavendish Mind Alive magazines that my father had subscribed to for me, which had remained untouched throughout my teens. I learned a lot from the articles that interested me and took pride in fixing the magazines into the binders that made it into an encyclopaedia.  If I wasn’t reading, I was writing. No television at this time, but I had a radio if I fancied ‘Saturday Night Theatre’ or ‘Play for Today’ and I had my record player.

My English Literature studies were far behind me, but I found myself revisiting the Bronte’s, some Dickens and my favourite stories from Joyce’s Dubliners. From somewhere into this mix came poetry and those poems familiar to me were taking on new meaning, or perhaps I’d missed something  before. It was the poets, the ones we call The Romantics and I latched on to something that I felt I belonged to.  I had (still have, my photo) The Penguin Book of Love Poetry and I read bits of it every day. It probably wasn’t the best poetry to throw myself headlong into. Death, separation and desolation were subjects perhaps best avoided, but difficult to do so when words were reaching out to me, especially those of Byron and Shelley.

I wish I could have been in the party or at least a fly on the wall in the summer of 1816 when Lord Byron, Percy Bysshe Shelley, Mary Wollstonecraft (later Shelley), and others were having fun at Villa Diodati by Lake Geneva. It must have been a tremendous storm to keep them indoors for three days, if what I read is true. They wrote horror stories to scare each other, which might have been the beginnings of Mary’s novel, Frankenstein.  I imagine that writing was not their only past-time. Their lives were forever intertwined.  I love to read about their bohemian lifestyle and their freedom, but I wonder, were they really happy?

Somewhere buried in the archives of our house, I will still have the framed poems that once adorned the walls of my house. I liked to do calligraphy, back in the day when my eyes still worked, and one of the first I made for myself was Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Sonnet XLIII, from the Portuguese.

 

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.

I love thee to the level of every day’s

Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;

I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.

I love thee with the passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints, - I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life!- and, if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.

 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806 - 1861)

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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