True solitude is a din of birdsong, seething leaves, whirling colours, or a clamour of tracks in the snow.
In a time of anxiety, doubt, demand and fear how do we find ways to cope with the gloom-laden pressures of our lives? How do we encourage a sense that we’re still pulling some of the strings rather than becoming a puppet of circumstance.
I know that when I fail to acknowledge the need to breathe I become overloaded, anxious and bruised, causing me to overreact to minor annoyances. One of the best ways I’ve found of coping at such times is by seeking out and enjoying what might be called object-orientated solitude.
It’s a form of solitude that encourages focus. It involves stopping for sufficient time to single out something thin and then using all the senses to savour that object in-that-moment, be it a bird on a fence, the urban pond or the vivid greens of the nearest tree…
We live in a very tense society. We are pulled apart… and we all need to learn how to pull ourselves together… I think that at least part of the answer lies in solitude.
~ Helen Hayes
It is only when we silence the blaring sounds of our daily existence that we can finally hear the whispers of truth that life reveals to us, as it stands knocking on the doorsteps of our hearts.
~ K.T. Jong
Object-orientated solitude should be the state of being alone without being lonely. A form of solitude that encourages a positive and constructive state of engagement with oneself within the world. It’s a pause for reflection, for looking, listening and learning. It’s often silent and always deeply enjoyable.
It’s something I’m mindfully work on and trying to cultivate as I find in object-orientated solitude something refreshing; an opportunity perhaps, to replenishes myself and regain a more positive perspective on the challenges of life.
I have a great deal of company in the house, especially in the morning when nobody calls. ~Henry David Thoreau
A large, still book is a piece of quietness, succulent and nourishing in a noisy world, which I approach and imbibe with “a sort of greedy enjoyment,” as Marcel Proust said of those rooms of his old home whose air was “saturated with the bouquet of silence.” ~Holbrook Jackson