Book Excerpt - Celebrating Time Alone: Stories of Splendid Solitude

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The New Hermits: On a Journey
to Ourselves

by Lionel Fisher

(Excerpted from CELEBRATING TIME
ALONE: Stories of Splendid Solitude)

In the spring of 1996, Sarah Holbrook moved to a place as basic as the life she wants to live. The 44-year-old entrepreneur, who had parlayed her intelligence, charm and wit into an annual income approaching six figures, sold her home and a flourishing business in a major Northwest city to purchase six acres and a 15' x 30' cabin in a remote valley of Washington’s rugged Cascade Mountains.

Here, the middle child of an English family of three boys and two girls, all born in the same house on Trollope Street in a working-class neighborhood of London, went to ground, so to speak.

Her new home is thick with maple and soaring fir, though the previous owners had logged some of the timber, leaving shorn roots and torn branches bulldozed into muddy piles. A recent windstorm brought down eight more trees, which she will have to clear as well.

"The place is a mess," she observes ruefully. "But I loved it the moment I saw it."

The cabin has a loft across its midriff, says the twice-divorced mother of a grown son now on his own and living across the country. The roof was built with a steep pitch to handle the winter snows; she’s able to stand upright only in the center of the lone, sprawling room.

The structure has no foundation; it was erected on concrete posts that are sinking into the earth and she’ll have to jack up the cabin to lay in a foundation. There is no kitchen; she draws cold water from a well tapped by a pressure tank. There is no bathroom; she’s installed a composting toilet shipped to her from a manufacturer in Maine.

"But there is electricity," she announces with a wide grin.

An emerald forest embracing a bountiful garden beside a snug cottage garlanded with bright shutters and, inside, yards of white lace and flowery fabrics. This is what Holbrook sees when the monumental work is done.

"I will take care of this place," she vows softly. "And it will take care of me."

I ask the inevitable question, one she’s no doubt heard endlessly from family and friends. "Why?" In the prime of her life, why has she come to this reclusive place alone?

Holbrook is silent for a while, choosing the exact words to articulate reasons she’s no doubt given many times before—to convince herself, I sense, more than others.

"My dream is to live in peace and dignity," she says finally.

"To respect nature and explore the creative side of my humanness. Here I can make my own mistakes. I won’t mind making them because they’ll be my mistakes. And I’ll learn from them."

Another pause, then, "I don’t even mind the work, which is pretty daunting, but I’ll handle it."

"Will she get someone to help her? The answer is curt. "Someone else would just take over." I picture John Wayne striding up, the distinctive list to starboard, standing there, arms akimbo, competent, assured: "Move over, little lady, I’ll handle this."

I know exactly what she means, but Holbrook drives home her point anyway: "Whatever I built here wouldn’t be mine anymore."

She shrugs, grimaces, runs quick fingers through black hair besieged by gray. When she speaks again her voice is gentle, the hazel eyes have softened. "Most of my life has been spent trying to earn other people’s esteem, their approval, starting with my mother. Now this place is mine. This place and this life. I own them completely."

"I’ve come to realize no man is going to rescue me, that I need to make my own future secure. No one is going to do it for me. I’ve decided I need to be self-sustaining, that I can’t rely on anyone but myself, and this is a good way to be."

"I’ll live in harmony with the seasons, be kind to my environment, be energy-efficient, try not to waste, not to pollute. I’ll live simply, have less stuff, do what I love—sew, tend my garden, learn, build things, be quiet, maybe even become serene one day."

She lapses into silence once more. Then says softly, "I can grow old here without feeling the need to be young and beautiful."

What about physical intimacy? The question brings a chuckle. "I miss it, of course," Holbrook replies.

"I still wonder if I’ll meet a man someday who’ll be ‘the’ one, as they say. There’s a sadness I sometimes feel that I won’t have another romantic love. But I’m not really hopeful."

Holbrook laughs. "It’s just as well since I’m not very good at picking mates. In the past I’ve chosen men with addictive problems and huge attitudes. And I’ve always had trouble with people telling me what to do."

She laughs again. "Of course, I miss the sex. Growing up in the sixties I was openly sexual. I’m a highly sexual person, always have been. Now, nearing menopause, I’m losing out on the best sex of my life."

And that’s all right with her? "Sure," she snaps the word back. "If it means taking care of my other priorities right now."

Is she afraid of being lonely?

"I was at first," Holbrook replies. "But once you accept your aloneness, once you face it and quit being scared, it becomes like a wonderful secret you learn. Then you know it can’t hurt you."

"Then it becomes precious."

Most Americans wouldn’t agree. Or understand. And certainly not sympathize.

They’d shake their heads in disapproval and say that Holbrook, the successful entrepreneur ensconced in her reclusive cabin, had found her American Dream of material success and social acceptance. Then threw it away. And for what? Withdrawal, isolation, loneliness!

Call them the new hermits.

In greater and greater numbers they are going against the grain of society, deliberately out of step in the march of life around them, consciously out of sync with the ordained way of doing things. Like the desert fathers of old, who were the rebels of their time, they are foregoing common ground for individual paths in search of their own destiny.

They are modern men and women of all ages, in all walks of life, driven by a fierce need for self-actualization, daring to venture into deserts of their own making.

Having pursued the American Dream, they have come closer than any generation to being perfect parents, perfect co-workers, perfect neighbors, perfect friends. Some have achieved wealth, status, even fame in the process, only to find it wasn’t enough because they’ve lost sight of who they are and the preciousness of the ordinary. Having kept faith with conventional wisdom, they have found it wanting. No longer consumed by practical considerations and manifestations of success, they are attempting to bring meaning and passion back into their lives.

Driven by a fierce need for independence, self-knowledge and a feeling of relevancy, for them time spent alone, away from the soul-robbing demands of everyday living, has become crucial to understanding their true selves, why they are here, their pertinence to God and to the world.

Let us learn, then, from those in search of what they have not been able to find and hold in the press of humanity around them: peace of mind, gentleness of heart, calmness of spirit, daily joy. Those who are mastering the art of flying solo and soaring to their highest human potential.

Who trust their aloneness, using it to embrace and nurture their individuality, to celebrate themselves in their own special ways. Who have come to understand that to know and to love and to be of value to others, they first must know and love and value themselves; that to find their way in the world, they have to start by finding themselves.

"Before we can surrender ourselves we must become ourselves," as Thomas Merton pointed out. "For no one can give up what he does not possess."

This article is excerpted from Lionel Fisher’s new book, Celebrating Time Alone: Stories of Splendid Solitude (Beyond Words Publishing, Spring 2001), which records the emotional and spiritual triumphs of men and women who have found amazing grace alone. At a time when more of us than ever are living alone—an estimated 40 million Americans at the turn of the century—we continue to seek our happiness and fulfillment, our answers, our very identity in others, poins out the author.

His book affirms that it’s all right to be alone, to want to be alone, even to be lonely at times because the rewards of solitude can make the deprivations so worthwhile. Fisher, who also writes a self-syndicated newspaper column,"SINGLES SCENE: The Art of Being Alone," invites you to share your thoughts and experiences on celebrating time alone. Reach him at beachauthor@hotmail.com.
© 2001 Lionel L. Fisher. Reprinted with permission of author

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