Torturing Tranquility Like a Treasonous Prisoner

Solitude

I admit it, I can be a pretty loud guy.  Solitude is thine enemy.

Although one of my favorite quotes has always been Teddy Roosevelt’s, “Speak softly, and carry a big stick,” I’ve often governed myself more along the lines of:

“Yell a lot and make sure there’s a bazooka bulging from your backpack.”

I try, but sometimes I can’t help it; solitude wasn’t the way I was raised. It’s like spending a lifetime trying to drop an accent, only to have it roll carelessly from your tongue as soon as you’re too exhausted to notice. 

My mom does not believe in solitude.  She comes over for dinner once a week, and as soon as she starts speaking, the sound from her mouth are as though someone has strapped a bullhorn to the end of her chin.  Worse than the volume is the mirror I’m looking in.  

The apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree. 

Daisy’s the opposite.  Solitude is her eternal lover.  Her dream vacation, as she said just last week, would be a few days on a Tibetan mountain top where no one would shatter her solitude until she granted permission in writing.  

As long as I’ve known her, her need for at least a little quiet falls somewhere neatly between food and water.  

When we first moved in together, I’d come home from work, barging into perfect solitude, jumping up and down like a puppy dog needing to be pet.  She would look up, cross legged on the floor, and whisper, “Don’t you ever need any downtime.”  

I’d say, “You are my downtime, Baby!” (Yes, that is an actual quote.)  

A decade later, things have definitely changed.  Of the countless gifts she’s given me, her absolute love of solitude has to be one of my favorites. 

I’ve never loved silence or solitude more. 

The problem is, quiet is like anything else.  You taste it, you like it.  You like it, you want it.  You want it, you can’t have it -

YOU GET EDGY. 

Last year, when I first started writing, my fingers could keep dancing across the keyboard, solitude or no.  Max would be playing with his race cars (alongside the torrent of requisite sound effects), while Mia was engaged in a series of twirls and pirouettes expertly crafted to capture my the attention of dad, all adding to the crashing symphony from itunes still running in another room.

No problem. 

Now, when I’m trying to write and there’s a plastic bag outside that’s fallen in step with the breeze, I feel like sticking my head out the window and shaking my fist.  Of course, I’m exaggerating.  

A little.  

But there’s no escaping the fact that I’ve become dependent on having some solitude at some point in my day.  I need, and now demand, at least twenty minutes for each one of the Earth’s rotations.  That’s fair, and it’s the only thing that helps me go from this:

To this:

Perhaps if I could bump my solitude to a couple hours, I could pop out a novel or two.

Writer Dad

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Have a great weekend.

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