One of . . .

One.

When swollen with grief, or frustration, or anger, or annoyance, or any number of things, or even love, joy, gratitude, laughter, or amazement, the intensity of our experience and the fullness of it gives us that feeling of alone-ness—not loneliness, but of being only aware of ourselves. It is as if I am only aware of myself and what I am feeling. That fullness short circuits awareness of others even in their presence. It’s as I I feel that I am the only one having that particular experience. But I am wrong.

Even in moments of intensity, I am not alone. We are not alone. There are others around us, often waiting for us to reach out to them, with our voices if not our arms for now, waiting to connect. Or they are there for us to simply acknowledge. More than 7.6 billion other souls fill on this planet. I cannot comprehend that number of people. And we are not the exclusive inhabitants here. Some, scientists who are qualified to do so, estimate that there are more than 130 billion mammals here, too. Add to that more than 200 billion birds, and more than 3.5 trillion fish, and bacteria—there are more than 5 million trillion trillion. (I don’t know how many zeroes that requires.) I am not alone. We are not alone.

Alone must be a matter of perspective. It must be a matter of who we can connect with, or even who we prefer to connect with. And when I am not with those dear ones, I can feel alone. My feelings are so limited. I’m sure there are good psychological reasons for that, but nonetheless, I must realize, I am not alone.

When I was out walking, I passed this tree about two blocks from home, and in its bark, a single leaf was nestled. Somehow it had snagged in place, perhaps by a spider’s web secreted away in a shadow. But there it was, alone, and on the ground at my feet were perhaps tens of thousands of other leaves, having completed their journey from branch to ground. That one leaf encapsulated my feelings at that moment, but not my reality.

My reality was and is that I am surrounded by people that I love and care for—but they are all out of reach. I have lived my life defining togetherness, not-alone-ness, as being able to be in physical contact as somehow emblematic of my emotional contact.

So, here I am yet again, after who knows how many days, weeks, without human contact, trying to bring my feelings into reality when all they want to do is scream or yell, or perhaps just sulk. I’ve been down this road—daily. I keep thinking, I’ll get this, I’ve figured this out, I understand, but here I am again. . . waiting for that hug.

So, I’ll pet my dog. And I’ll climb into bed tonight, and I’ll hug myself for awhile. One more day. So much to be thankful for. But here in the waning hours of evening, I’ve used up my supply of patience for today. I’ll lean into a new dose of it in the morning. For we have a long journey ahead, and as a friend reminded me, though I may have stopped here for a moment, the woods ahead are dark and deep.