Hallelujah! Reveling in gifted moments of solitude in a shared home (Part Two)

She only asked once but she already knew the answer.

“Would you like to join us?” my sister-in-law asked on a Sunday morning last May as we readied my brother for church.

I had just moved in with them. It was a time of settling in with one another, becoming reacquainted with idiosyncrasies, and testing out teamwork abilities for my brother’s in-home care.

“Nope,” I replied.

We returned to the tasks at hand: carrying in portable oxygen tanks, securing them behind my brother’s electric wheelchair, then working together to lock said vehicle into various anchors and straps inside the van.

~

When the heart of a singleton beats inside one’s chest whilst living with others, moments of solitude in a home are sacred. Not unreachable, ethereal-sacred nor organized-religion-sacred, but holy as only those who adore living alone understand. When a home is empty of everyone except you, it is pure, cleansed of others’ energies, with only the sensation and sound of your pulse thrumming in your ears.

If noise and other stimuli enter the environment it is only because you gave consent. You sing or you absorb the quiet. You stand at the stovetop, making yourself a meal with no regard to others’ particularities and allergies. You call a friend to give authenticity and profanity a chance to unfurl. You walk aimlessly around the home as opposed to engaging in purposeful chores for the common good. You unroll the mat for naked yoga. You masturbate.

~

For the most part, two hours on Sunday is it. There are no other opportunities for alone time in the home. Now, as I type this, I reside in a capsule of quiet; my brother’s loud oxygen compressor is turned off and resting as he uses the travel tanks outside the house. The ever-blaring TV is also in a state of respite.

The sun shimmies across the coats of two deeply black, rhythmically breathing animals – one dog, one cat – nearby on the sofa. Nature just outside the window enters my eardrums with open arms: rustling birch tree branches in a spring breeze and small birds conversing. The house heater just kicked on and the closest air vent rattles with a metallic softness.

This is the time to allow a flaccidity, as it were, of my soul. Become cooked noodle. Grow moss across skin. Return home to the only person I can actually save: myself.

This is Part Two of Not-Yet-Sure-How-Many posts about the singleton experience.

As the world continues to lose its mind, here’s to doing what we can to lessen the pain while remaining loyal to ourselves.

Keep your chin up, keep pedaling.