From Scar to Bloom

Loneliness as a Season of Growth

Photo by Ben White on Unsplash

A few months back, I wrote about my first bout of adult-onset loneliness. It was while studying abroad in Greece some 25 years ago. Ronald McDonald and Elvis were involved. You should read about it. 

More recently loneliness has begun to pop up in the most unsuspecting places, my dreams. 

I’ve been dreaming a lot lately, or at least remembering my dreams a bit more often. I took Julia Cameron’s advice, and keep a journal by my bedside. Should I wake from a particularly interesting dream, I take some notes. A common theme lately has been a startling feeling of loneliness. I’m in a room with strangers. I’m sitting alone in my high school cafeteria. I am in a park looking at others eating a picnic together, my basket empty of food.

It’s a bit surprising considering how much I’ve been around people this summer. My kids were home for much of June and July. We’ve had more house guests this year than the last several years combined. I even hosted a big Independence Day potluck complete with cornhole, smash burgers, and a watermelon in the pool. We had a lovely time in France, and then Rhode Island, and then I took my annual canoe trip to the Adirondacks with eight buddies. My life has been a beautiful, socializing wellspring of activity.

So why the loneliness?

Most people who know me would say I’m extraverted, which to me means I get my energy from interacting with others. Conversely, my wife, who is an extraordinarily social introvert, must deliberately seek alone time to recharge her batteries. As a result, I’m seldom alone. I’ve had a roommate or a partner since I was 18 years old. I’ve never gone to a movie by myself, and I can’t think of a worse way to spend dinner than eating alone. 

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve made an effort to intentionally take myself out of rotation. Nowadays that most often takes place in my 700 square foot cabin among the pinion pines and junipers of the western edge of the Mojave Desert.

At the cabin, there is no loneliness. Only that intentional isolation known as solitude. When I’m experiencing solitude it’s because I’m trying to figure something out, or unwind from overstimulation, or make space to create. It’s a retreat, a monastery, a safe space.  Plus, the cabin is full of chores to keep me busy. There are animals to converse with. Stars to admire. Breathtaking views to ponder.  

"Loneliness and the feeling of being unwanted is the most terrible poverty." – Mother Teresa

Case in point, I was last at the cabin just before we left for France. A record breaking heat wave was pummeling the desert. Temperatures climbed well above 100 degrees despite my 5,400 feet of elevation. I had just finished a brief nap, an obligation during this unseasonable heat. Sleepy-eyed, I walked out onto the porch to sit in one of my weathered and rickety adirondack chairs, admiring the view of the Sawtooth Mountains. 

Suddenly, my cell phone began to vibrate. Yes, unfortunately even in the middle of nowhere, my cell phone rings. A good friend was on the other end, so I fumbled for the phone and answered hello, the sleep still heavy in my voice.

That’s when I saw my unexpected visitor, an eight point buck was drinking from the water trough I keep filled for thirsty wildlife just off my porch. Startled by my sleepy drawl, the deer lifted his head above the brush that was hiding him from view. Surprised, I shot bolt upright. My chair creaked like it might give way underneath me. For a moment, the buck and I locked eyes until I broke off to admire his ample antlers, still fuzzy with velvet. 

A guttural “woooowwww,” dribbled out of my mouth. 

With that, the buck’s ears flicked back against his head, and he bolted, barreling down the hill. Just as my slumbering brain began to spool up, the bushes rustled to life with four does darting in unison out from their own hiding places, stampeding down into the wash behind their husband. 

“Everything ok over there?” my buddy’s voice crackled from the phone that I’d dropped into my lap.

Sometimes loneliness comes with saying goodbye.

My cabin is called Dos Palomas after my first houseguests, two mourning doves who perched in an old gnarled juniper near the porch where I sat admiring the keys. Doves mate for life, and this pair was cooing at each other like star-crossed lovers. They probably had been together for many seasons. Since that day, I don’t think they’ve never left the property. In fact, last January they even made an appearance on the porch after three feet of snow had fallen in a rare Mojave blizzard. Each spring, they have a brood of a half dozen young. And each fall, the fledglings head out into the world to find their own way. The parents left behind.

Maybe my feelings of loneliness are in anticipation of the pending departure of my eldest daughter. She is about to start her last year of high school, and as a result, our calendar has been brimming with college visits and conversations about how our family dynamics will change forever next summer. Am I mourning her departure?

It’s possible, but doesn’t quite hit the mark. Although I am anxious about this next chapter of parenthood, the relationship with my daughter this year has grown more connected, more intentional, not more distant. As a result, I actually feel closer to all of my children despite their looming matriculations. 

"The worst loneliness is not to be comfortable with yourself." – Mark Twain

Blame the Metaverse

Maybe I should blame social media, the newest boogie man for societal anxiety. I have to admit, social media has done a number on #IRL (that’s “In Real Life” for the less digitally inclined). It seems like fewer and fewer people are experiencing the world and all it has to offer, opting instead for the much more curated, tailored and compartmentalized metaverse that Instagram, YouTube, or TikTok provide. 

I came across a podcast with Robert Putnam who has spent a career researching this kind of loneliness. His seminal work, Bowling Alone, explores the increasing social isolation in America that actually began well before the IPOs of Twitter or Facebook, but has only accelerated with these new digital drugs. Essentially, Americans are less engaged in the connections and networks that create a sense of community; things like clubs, churches, and even dinner parties. This has led to a breakdown in the social fabric, or what he calls a “disconnection from social capital.” The result is people feel lonely because they have fewer opportunities for meaningful interaction and support.

I can relate at some levels to this loss of social capital. I stopped going to church years ago. I no longer volunteer with my favorite non-profits. I forget to call friends on their birthdays. I often feel too exhausted to accept dinner invitations. Grabbing a drink with a buddy feels more like a chore, or worse, an undeserved luxury. It’s not uncommon that I make only two personal phone calls a week, relegating the rest of my loved ones to short text bursts. 

But that loneliness is self imposed. I’m still getting invitations. I could easily walk to church on Sundays. Dinner or drinks with friends are simply a phone call (or text) away. I’m not pained by this loneliness. Maybe I’m just exhausted.

Pruning Loneliness and Being Seen

I’ve been meeting weekly with my sister over Zoom. We’re reading Julia Cameron’s 12-week creativity reboot, The Artist’s Way. It’s been a fantastic literary journey, and a gift in terms of how it’s restored our sibling relationship. We are now spending more meaningful time together than we have since I was in kindergarten. A year ago, I would never have considered burdening her with my internal dialog. But now, things like me recurring feelings of loneliness come up in discussion all the time. And this week, my sister must have heard something more significant in my voice because she followed up our session with an email. It was rather matter of fact and almost corporate in its structure, complete with bullets and thesis statements. But the point hit its mark hard.

“We’ve discussed pruning as a metaphor and what that would look like when you apply it to your own life, and I was thinking that a tree needs to be pruned when there’s too much growth so that it can concentrate its resources on generating fruit. Maybe that is the lesson you are learning right now.”

For context, I am writing a book about pruning. Both literally pruning 130 olive trees, and metaphorically pruning my 46 years of life. Could it be that the pruning I’ve been doing is making me feel alone? Maybe the byproduct of creativity is loneliness. Although I tend to seek solitude when I am writing, the fine line between solitude and loneliness is the state of mind. Both occur while alone, but one leads to “pain” and the other to “glory.”

Thanks sis! 

And then I got an email just the other day from my aunt in France. We shoot little notes back and forth throughout the year, and she often sends along thoughtful articles or her favorite museum exhibit reviews. 

This week, she sent me an article by Lloyd Strickland writing for The Conversation. The piece looked at the literal translations of everyday greetings in languages from around the world. Strickland mentions how the use of “Hey,” “Yo,” and “Sup” in English are shockingly informal when compared to greetings in other languages. The more respectful “How are you doing?” is also rather insincere as it’s seldom delivered with a “genuine interest in or concern for others.” 

But what caught my eye was the way the Zulu language greets one another. The word is “Sawubona,” which literally means, “I see you.” 

I can’t think of a more beautiful greeting. Who doesn’t want to be seen? We all deserve to be a little more present in the thoughts of others. And isn’t it extraordinary that you might be greeted by your friends, family, and complete strangers with a “I see you.” The common response in Zulu is "Ngikhona," which means, "I am here." A simple exchange of words that eloquently reflects the importance of mutual recognition, empathy, and community. Sign me up!

That’s it! Now I realize why all the dreams of loneliness. The previous year has been full of change. I’ve closed another chapter in a fruitful life, started a new one, and I’m writing a book that is revisiting chapters of my past, present, and future. My sister’s right. I’ve done a lot of pruning this year. I’ve hacked at the obviously dead branches, cut perfectly healthy ones that simply weren’t producing fruit, and I’ve even trimmed those that I hope will become the next trunks of my life. It’s hard, meticulous, and scary work. And, I likely won’t see the results for many seasons.

At its root, my loneliness stems from wanting to be seen as the new me. I’m impatient for others to see the new growth, the healthier leaves and branches, and the delicious fruit that I know will grow. But right now, folks only see the stumps and scars of all that hacking. Maybe they’re a little scared of the sweat and dirt on my brow, and how tightly I’m holding that ax. 

So, maybe the dreams and the pangs of loneliness are not so much about a loss, but a transition—a temporary period of waiting to be fully seen. Pruning, after all, is a practice of faith. You cut away with the trust that something better will take its place, even if for a time you’re left with bare branches and raw spaces. There is a void where new growth has yet to show, but old habits and roles have already been shed. It’s uncomfortable, yes, but it’s also necessary. This loneliness might just be the quiet before the bloom. And perhaps the real challenge is not to retreat from it, but to embrace it as a sign that the next season of connection, creativity, and being seen is just around the corner.

I see you. I am here.