A Room of My Own

Though I’ve set out to climb Mt. Hood this spring, the imagined snapshot of me standing at the peak, surrounded by white silence, alone at the top of the earth, makes my heart race.  That image in my mind and the fear in my body describe the feeling I avoid at all costs: loneliness.

I know other mothers who cherish alone time.  They are somehow refreshed by the solitude.  While I like the idea of peace and quiet, I am anything but refreshed by being alone.  My response to coming upon a free chunk of time is to make plans with a friend.  Otherwise I am in front of the TV, sucked in to the artificial world of sitcom, or drama, or reality show, or infomercial.  What’s on the TV doesn’t matter.

I know that sounds sad.  I’ve spent hundreds of hours dredging through memory as I write my book, so I know where it all comes from.  As a kid, I was alone too much.  And it was sad. 

But now as a nearly 40-year-old woman, this particular fear has become a problem.  There are things I need to do alone.  Like carving out large chunks of time to write.  And more chunks of time to exercise.  Unfortunately, neither of those things can be done effectively with other people.

I’ve spent a lot of time contemplating my “ideal” writing scenario, imagining a room of my own.  Currently I write while my family buzzes around me or after they all go to bed.  It isn’t necessarily the quality, focused time I need, but it works to a point.

In the vein of growth I began with my last birthday, I booked myself an overnight stay this Sunday at Edgefield to write.  Even though the hotel is probably haunted like they say, it “feels” right so I figure it’s worth a try.

Instead of the scared little girl at home by herself, a new image flashes in my mind.  It’s Monday morning at check out.  A woman stands at the counter, she radiates peace. It’s a woman who’s written 30 fresh scenes for her book.  And she’s ready to plan the next overnight.  Alone.