One Hundred Hours of Solitude

Carmel-by-the-Sea, California

Billy caught a plane at Monterey Airport this morning, and returned home to Los Angeles for ten days. I am probably not the only person in the universe who feels that every time someone I love boards a plane, I may never see them again. I particularly don't like saying goodbye at an airport on September 11th. And I am certain that on that front I am not the only one who feels so.

Eleven years ago, I was getting ready to go to a pilates session when I switched on the radio in our master bathroom. It was tuned to 89.3 KPCC, one of our local NPR stations which is based at Pasadena City College. Like everyone else who turned on the TV or radio that morning, I knew almost instantly that something wasn't right. I called out to Billy who was in the kitchen, inquiring whether he was watching the TV in the kitchen. He was not. Turn it on, I called out. Something's going on.

Within minutes we each knew something had happened in NYC. And within the next few minutes I emailed my friend, Max, who had begun a new job uptown in Manhattan just the day before. Max, Check in, was what I wrote. How many people emailed, texted, and left voice mails like that on that day? Max emailed me back that he was safe. Then, I sent similar emails to all of our friends who travel for business. Where were they? Were they safe? They all were.

I never did pilates that day, though I did drive there. In most crises in my life I have initially operated under the delusion that if I act like everything is ok, everything will be ok. Though this has never proved true, I still seem to fall under the spell of that failed magic -- that staying on track will turn back the hands of time and reverse the damage. I have a strong belief that this will work. This never works.

I was probably acting under a similar impulse after I left Monterey airport today. I went about normal business for the next two hours until I got Billy's call that he had landed safely: I drove back to Carmel, stopping at Bruno's for a Monterey Herald; I returned to our home-for-the-month, and made myself my second mug of Scottish Breakfast tea; I read the paper. Then I walked into town and went to Carmel Belle for breakfast. Erin, who works there, greeted me and I told her that Billy had just left. We'll take care of you, she said, and I believed her. Billy called. I celebrated his safety with one more cup of tea, a poached egg, and two huge slices of toast with butter and a lot of very good blackberry preserves. I ate it all. I deserved it.

I have about one hundred hours of solitude ahead of me until my two fristers, Lydia and Debra (known here as LOL and DG - see blogpost Sisterhood of the Traveling Scarves, available here and now!) arrive on Friday. Being on my own is a mixed blessing -- the most challenging part being that you have to be open to what it feels like. At times it feels lonely; at other times I feel absorbingly self-centric in my own little Carmel universe -- like when I indulged in the toast this morning. Days are productive and fun. Nights are, well, dark. The house creaks, then is deafeningly silent. I still sleep only on my own side of the bed. When I wake up in the morning, I just have to make the bed on my side. It's weird and a bit ghostly.

But this time alone allows me the luxury of undisturbed reflection; time to ponder some personal issues. It provides the focus that I usually lack in my hurried life in Los Angeles. As my pace slows, my mind clears. Then time moves much the way it is supposed to, and so does life; neither getting away from me as they often do when I am at home. Here, I shop daily for the ingredients that will comprise my dinner. I walk to the beach and into town, and I write a lot: in my journal; emails to my fristers and Max; here on my blog. I breathe. Tomorrow, I will begin to make plans for the upcoming weekend with Las Chicas. But before their arrival on Friday -- one hundred hours of solitude, mas o menos, commencing on this day of remembrance for us all. Thank you for reading my blog. Pray, love, remember . . . Shakespeare.