Alone, not lonely

Even as young as four years of age, I remember the solitude of being alone.  I was no sage or monk at age four.  It was somehow better than the chaos at home.  It was more than escape – it became communion with quietness in a way that my creator could reveal himself to a small child.  Just being was a real condition.  It wasn’t until I began my journey in adulthood that I was able to know the difference between a human being and a human doing.  The joy of climbing over the fence, walking down the cow pasture, through the woods to the creek, where I then balanced my steps across an abandoned bridge, with only I beams left; the skeleton of something past.  From the bridge I would follow the meadow along the other side of the creek, with grass nearly as tall as me, to a hill.  There was a hill, some glacier dump or something.  It mounded out of meadow and was steep.  I could climb it though.  There were a pair of golden eagles nesting at the top of a dead tree.  They had the vantage point of the valley up there!  I would look out from the hill, on the side where  it was open.  The sun touched me like a comforting hand.  I would listen to the cry of the eagle, the wind lullaby the valley below.  The leaves and branches swayed with its rhythm.

Here I was at peace.  Not simply the absence of alcoholism and dysfunction,  the yelling, or being the lost child and having to do a man’s work at too early an age.  It was a place to bang a tree with a stick to release my anger.  A place to grow in wisdom and be myself to those who watched from the invisible world, through the imagination of a child.  Jesus said to have the faith of a child, to have a child’s heart.  I think at that age I was simply guarded, protected and comforted by my angels.  I can sense now, that I wasn’t alone.  I never felt lonely when I was alone.