Solitude

Been feeling a bit, um, isolated lately.

Not that I’m antisocial—I’m certainly not. And I’m busy enough—I am. But that deeper connection—that bit where you come home and dump all over someone about the bad day you just had, or crow in the ear of whomever because of the really cool things that have happened lately…that’s the part that’s missing.

I’m not much of a joiner. I like intimate circles of friends. I don’t like a bunch of superficial acquaintances you can’t discuss the “hot topics” (sex, religion, politics) with—but by the same token, I don’t dismiss such acquaintances, because one relationship usually leads to another eventually. You can’t afford to lock yourself in a box no matter how hard it is to form deeper relationships, or no matter how many failures in that area you’ve had—I know because I’ve had a few. Yet that real intimacy seems to elude me.

This isn’t a confessional piece. I’m not going to pick apart my good and bad points. I have had some rock-solid excuses in the past couple of years for not wanting to form any more relationships, and for cutting out some of the ones I did have. But now that I’ve gotten over all those glitches, I’m finding it’s harder than ever to start up again—and I wonder why.

I volunteer at a local concert venue (www.kentstage.org). It’s a great place for local and national acts—I run the concession stand and hobnob with the staff and get to meet and greet all the performers. It’s a fun thing to do on weekends. I also volunteer at an even smaller concert venue, a hometown coffeehouse that features local performers on a monthly basis. The music community, especially the folk music community, is a small, intimate circle of people, who know each other—it’s like a family in a way. If you play anything vaguely acoustic (and I do), or if you know how to work sound or lighting, or if you just love to print out posters and mail out flyers, this is the sort of volunteer work that seems more like play—and it pretty much fills the weekends. Also, you get to meet a lot of the nationally known performers; they aren’t prima donnas, they love knowing who their fans are, and will gladly sign your CD inserts, and they were just like you, yesterday—so they’re a lot more grateful to know you. Yet, even with all this accessibility, all this familial bonhomie, you can still feel like you’re just on the edge of it all, rather than in the middle. I’m not even sure what it would take to get into the middle.

One of my friends in this crowd, an itinerant musician I’ll call Joe, greeted me Saturday night at the concert and said “I don’t have a band.”

“Were you supposed to bring one?” I asked him.

“No. I mean for St. Patrick’s Day. I need a band.”

Joe plays all over, usually solo; but sometimes he grabs the nearest musician and says let’s do a couple—no rehearsals, no formalities. He’s one of those performers who can pick up his guitar and play hundreds of songs in any key, anywhere, with any vocalist—even if they don’t know what key they sing in themselves. (This impresses me no end. I once sang with Joe on a festival stage—I began an old-time gospel number a capella—and pretty soon he was playing along. After the number he said to me “E-flat minor?” Hey—I just sang. I didn’t use a pitch-pipe. How was I to know that I sang in E-flat minor? Who’da thunk it?)
Anyway, Joe lamented that he didn’t have a band. He knows I sing. He knows I play Irish music. He knows I’m a whiz on the tinwhistle. We’ve done the St. Pat’s gig together before. But did he ask? Nope. I wasn’t insulted—I just felt a bit ignored. Isolated. Un-thought-about.
Trust me when I tell you I’ll get over it. However, it got me thinking. Not merely about the music people in my life, but also about other aspects. I used to be a member of several organizations that I no longer affiliate with; I used to belong to clubs I no longer belong to. I used to do some short-range travel to see people I no longer see. All these things are what kept me socially involved at a much higher rate than I am now.

This is both good and bad. On the one hand, it’s easier to plan my week. I don’t get burnt out as much as I used to. I don’t feel all pulled in ninety-six different directions. But on the other hand, I’m, well,isolated. And it’s just a bit chilly out here on the edges sometimes.

I also ran into another person at this same concert; a woman whom I’ve known for a long time, but haven’t seen around for years. In the course of our greeting, I asked her if she was seeing anyone—I knew she had ended a long-term relationship since last I’d seen her. She said, no, she was happily single. And that also got me thinking.

I, too, am happily single. I come home from my day’s work and everything is right where I left it the night before—housework takes no time at all. I know exactly how many days I can go before having to do laundry. I can buy the small sizes in the grocery store. A carton of juice lasts forever.
Sheets stay cleaner a lot longer. I can wear the most comfortable clothing in the world: a pair of old sweat pants and a huge, baggy top. And on summer mornings, when I’m not working, I can take my newspaper and my cup of espresso out onto my porch swing and spend a quality hour or two doing the crossword, sipping coffee in the stripes of warm sunlight pouring through the slat blinds, playing airs on my whistle, or staring at the birds at the feeder. It is impossible to feel bad, lonely, or even a little depressed on those mornings.

In my house, now that I’m not in there with someone else, convenience, tidiness and comfort have evolved to high art.

I guess there’s an upside to isolation after all. Sometimes the best songs are those you play by yourself.