Time for Me
“Women need solitude in order to find again the true essence of themselves.”
—Anne Morrow Lindbergh, Gift from the Sea
My husband is out of town with our two youngest children, which means I’m alone for a few days.
The house is eerily quiet. It took me a little while to adjust to the idea that I was the only person in the house. I walked through all the rooms, seeing the wreckage of two teens who quickly packed their duffel bags a few minutes before leaving; I crossed my fingers that they at least grabbed their toothbrush and clean socks before they went out the door.
My dog is with me, and despite my lofty attempts at discussion (Who’s a good boy?), he’s not much of a conversationalist. To be honest, I prefer it this way. Maybe I should have picked up the phone and called a friend, but I haven’t. I’m relishing in this quiet. I’m protecting this rare jewel because I know I need it.
When the family returns, the house will once again vibrate with life. We can’t help but feel all the things our housemates are feeling: we breathe the same air, why shouldn’t we also partake in the moods, whether sullen or joyous or sad, of those around us? By then I will be ready to relish in that, and appreciate how each day is imprinted by their laughter, personalities, and observations.
But right now, all I have is time.
Usually, there is never enough time. It seems I’m always racing against the clock to drop someone off, pick them up, get dinner on the table. I’m often late. Hours fly by, and most nights, I lie in bed thinking of the things I didn’t accomplish.
But when time is mine, I have the unaccustomed delight of weighing decisions, long ago put aside, with complete thoughts as I sip my morning coffee. I hang sheets outside in the sunshine to dry. I walk to a nearby store to pick up a few items. I play music—loudly—on a bluetooth speaker that I carry with me as I move through the house.
The time is mine today, and that is a luxury that makes me feel alive and rejuvenated. I can’t believe how long an hour feels. Not in a dragging, languishing sort of way, but a sweet, dreamy way.
I’m listening to the audiobook of Anne Morrow Lindbergh’s classic, Gift from the Sea. Even though the book was written 66 years ago, I could just as well be sitting in the sand beside her right now. We would both have clean notebooks in our laps, pencils sharpened and at the ready. We’d probably sit in silence, our breath matching the ebb and flow of the tidewaters, communing with a cloudless sky and hollow seashells. There would be nothing to say to each other, because it’s already been said. Just as Mrs. Lindbergh regained a little bit of herself as she took a vacation by the sea, I am also finding myself again.
