The recluse

Since I was young, I’ve been attracted to the alone. That is, places that are lonely. And, too, being alone. People say — how can you be alone? Isn’t it…lonely? How can you travel by yourself?

While I love being in, with other people, I also savor being alone. Being silent. Speaking nothing.

I think this came from a time when I was young, that being alone was common and that exploring, finding things, objects in nature, engaging in fantasy was a common examination and play. Pretending I was an ant by using a magnifying glass. Digging little tunnels, placing candles, imagining that I’m in there. Climbing trees, pretending that I was a kind of raptor, studying the ground below. But most of the time, alone. All one.

And that’s the way to be in aloneness — a kind of being in yourself.

And I think about that in this, the house built alone, far out there in the reaches of no where.

And, why — why out there?

Seeing these, studying these — I wonder how these people, these builders, create these worlds — in the midst of their work. Something to the aesthetic of contemplation of beauty, something to security — nestled protection?

Some place to experience majesty.

The beauty of experience is about that — sometimes there’s wonder in sensing these things alone.

All one.

In quietude, seen and sensed, this:

It’s okay, alone. Thriving, in the architecture of silence…