It has been a enormous privilege to have my piece, 10 Things I Want my Daughter to Know, read by people far and wide. It has also been interesting to see which points seem to most resonate. It is #10 that draws the strongest reaction, and criticism, and I think rightfully so. I stand by my point but absolutely agree I ought to have said it differently.
I was frankly more surprised by the strong reaction to #9, which cautioned Grace against trying to fill “a gnawing loneliness … inherited from me. That feeling, Woolf’s ’emptiness about the heart of life,’ is just part of the deal.” Over and over again, people told me I was missing something essential, diagnosed me with depression, or chided me for having a desperately bleak outlook on life. But the thing is, I didn’t think I was saying anything particularly inflammatory. I thought everybody felt this vague loneliness at the center of their experience, this unnamed, ineffable emotion that waxes and wanes depending on the day, week, or hour.
There’s no question this is true of me. The fact that I assumed this feeling was universal tells you how inextricable it is from my daily experience. There’s something inside me, deep, inarticulate, but powerful, and I can’t control it any more than I can adequately convey the degree to which it shapes my life. This truth, however, doesn’t make a sad person. I could, and would, argue that it allows me to feel profound joy.
While I recognize that we are all tuned into this feeling of loneliness to various degrees, I still think it is part of what makes us human and that it exists in each of us. Furthermore, I think that much of our addictive or distracted behavior (food, relationships, drinking, drugs, obsessive iphone-checking, you name it) is an effort to avoid awareness of this echoing emptiness. Or this darkness at the heart of life. Or this inexplicable awareness of something sorrowful that we can’t evade. Even as I write this I think: I’m going to get more comments about how depressed I am. And believe me, I’m not. But there is a seam of sadness that’s stitched through my life, some hollowness that underlies everything, that ebbs and flows through my consciousness. What I know now is that when I make an effort to really be here now, and to stop my frantic distractedness, that buried loneliness rises up.
Have you ever felt like the universe was talking to you? That experience when random, disconnected sources come together to form an undeniable chorus? And sometimes that chorus makes you feel less crazy and less alone? Well, I have. It’s how I connected Dr. Seuss with Mark Doty a while ago. The reason this particular topic, the loneliness that lies under all of life, is in my head, is because of Louis C.K., Caroline Knapp, and Hafiz.
Louis C.K.’s much-shared explanation of why his children won’t get a smartphone, which I watched several times, contained these sentences, which made me gasp:
That’s what the phones are taking away, is the ability to just sit there. That’s being a person. Because underneath everything in your life there is that thing, that empty—forever empty.
Yes. It’s through sitting with the emptiness, eschewing the behaviors that numb us to the darkness at the core of this life, that we learn to be human. I could not believe this more.
It was in Caroline Knapp’s beautiful collection of essays, The Merry Recluse (thank you, Lacy) that I read her piece titled Loneliness. Short and powerful, it made me stop, cry, underline, and re-read.
…sometimes I think I was born with it, born with a particularly acute sense of myself as apart from the world, as somehow different or lacking.
…the loneliness of my experience tends to be immune from reality, from circumstance or logic; it lies within me, a small, persistent demon that stirs in my quietest moments, during unplanned evenings, on Sunday mornings. It is a sense of void.
Yes. Just: yes. I too have a small, persistent demon. It exists in my chest and often functions as a glass wall between me and my own life. I watch, nose pressed up against the invisible barrier, always feeling removed. No matter how I shift and agitate, I cannot escape the painful reality of life’s impermanence. The fact that even as I live a moment it’s gone. The fact that no matter how much I grasp onto a particular season of life, photograph it, write about it, inhabit it, it slips through my fingers.
What’s new to me, at least in the last few years, is that this loneliness can be as valuable as it is undeniable and inescapable. Hafiz writes:
Don’t surrender your loneliness so quickly.
Let it cut more deep.
Let it ferment and season you as few
human or even divine ingredients can.
I can’t get away from this darkness at the heart of my experience, but maybe it also makes me who I am. Perhaps I am learning from and shaped by it in ways I can’t yet articulate. There is such liberation in this thought. This emptiness, it echoes, but it also informs the way I see this world that I so dearly love.
It’s the same emptiness that both Caroline Knapp and Louis C.K. describe. It’s the same gnawing loneliness that I referred to in my 10 Things. And I thought everybody had it. The reactions made me question that, but I’ve come to the conclusion that we all do, it’s just a question of how much we feel it. For me at least, the answer is a lot, and often.
I am so glad I saw this today, having missed the original post. Stand by your beautiful words, all of them. They make a difference.
Stunning prose, as always. This is why I keep coming back. You have an ability to make me re-examine what I thought I knew just days ago. I wrote a post about sorrow last week, and how it is that emotion that I think is actually at the core of what I feel more so than worry. It was a recent revelation. But now, reading these words of yours–and this in particular resonated with me: “But there is a seam of sadness that’s stitched through my life, some sadness that underlies everything, that ebbs and flows through my consciousness.” and also “the painful reality of life’s impermanence”–makes me see that perhaps a part of this ache within my heart is due to a loneliness much like the one you describe so eloquently here. I sense I will be digging deeper as a result. Also, have you read Party of One: A Loner’s Manifesto, by Anneli Rufus? I read it this summer and so much of it resonated with me (not all of the chapters, but many–lots of underlining for sure!)
Much in this essay resonates with me — as is so often the case when I read your words. I know that sense of loneliness. And I think you’re right that we frequently allow ourselves to be drawn to things which temper or hide the loneliness — whether ice cream or bourbon or obsessive iphone-checking.
My struggle these days is to separate this kind of essential human truth from honest-to-God depression. I experienced terrible postpartum depression after our son was born, and though he is now almost four, I’m still not sure I’ve sussed out the dividing line between what you’re calling loneliness, as an essential part of the human condition and an essential component of being awake and alive instead of numbed — and what I will call depression; the sense that life is only barely manageable and nothing will ever get better and I am in this alone. Maybe the two can coexist. Maybe there’s a way to try to temper the one (depression) without losing the other (awakeness.) I don’t know.
i remember reading your original post and thinking it was beautiful because it came from a place that was you. I also think that sometimes people are afraid of loneliness and that is why they fill it up with so much static. The busier you are or say, the busier you are perceived to be then you do not have to just –be–
I enjoy being. The feelings that flood me are authentic and mine and I can own them without anyone putting a label on them.
I agree with Beth, stand by your words as they do make a difference
I can relate to your feeling – your words ring true for me too! And I believe it’s part of our “setting” as writers to see ourselves in some way as “not part of it all”, as the ones who watch it and write about it. And because we felle like that, we can describe it better…As for the the emptiness – I know that too. Part of that came to an end for me as I embraced faith, but I don’t want to pour out missionary statements on you 🙂 I only want to say this: I’m sure there is a place in our heart for other people, for living in community, for sharing our lives, and also a place that is just ours (and I for example need this place “just for me” a lot). But there is also a place there that God created especially for Himself. Therefore, we won’t be able to fill this place, no matter how hard we try. Hope you don’t mind this. Thank you for your honest, deep, authentic and superb writing, I enjoy it very much!
Yes, Lindsey. I agree wholeheartedly. No, there is nothing about that void that points to depression or whatever attempts we as humans use to try to explain something mysterious away, to contain it. That hole, I believe, is the mark of the artist.
It is the place which some of us are not afraid to feel. It is what propels me forward, onward toward finding the beauty in each day, sitting with it, attempting to capture it and reflect it for others to see. But that hollow is easy to fill with busyness or other vices, as you said. Thank you for not filling yours with other things, for listening to that place, and for reflecting it back with words. It is, as you are, beautiful. xoxo
Beautiful and thought provoking words as always. I had not set aside time to watch the Louie C.K. piece before and it contains such an important message. I fear the sadness that you so embrace and am so guilty of picking up my phone and spending wasted time on it instead of feeling any encroaching sadness. Thank you for giving me things to think about today!
I completely relate. Baby in lap so no chance to say more. This is not depression! It’s depth.
Loved that smart phone interview! It went straight to my heart. I deeply appreciate that you share about the loneliness … and yes, it’s there for me. Sometimes nagging at the back, sometimes right at the front. It ebbs and flows. But it’s there. I think it’s called being human. And the more we embrace it, the more human we become.
I also think … dear Lindsey, that this is part of what makes you such a gifted writer. That you’re in touch and unafraid to talk about this part of you.
You and I have talked about Shadowlands and the balance of joy and sorrow and how you can’t have one without the other. What is new to me here is the realization that not everyone feels as we do. How lucky we are to be able to feel everything (joy or sorrow) so thoroughly and deeply. I can’t imagine it any other way. Thanks for another great post!
Well my friend, it will come as no surprise to you that I share this place and these feelings with you. Sometimes, I do wish it weren’t so. I also know that if we didn’t wrestle with the ineffable, we wouldn’t be who we are. The sadness, the loneliness, the joy, the awareness of life’s fleeting beauty and pain — these are the burdens and the blessings, inextricably linked, of being alive. Love what you wrote here and, even more, the way your chorus of loyal fans so truly “get it” and are grateful to you for expressing the truth!
Thank you for writing about this feeling, that apparently many of us recognize and claim as our own, so eloquently. Your timing is a bit uncanny, this being a piece that’ll sustain me through the day 🙂
I wholeheartedly agree with Tina. It is what makes you such a good writer. I found you on your blog and was struck instantly with how similarly I saw life to you. I recognize the patterns of numbing the pain through internet shopping (mostly filling shopping bags and not pressing purchase) and I recognize the same behaviour in my children, through gaming. Thank you for putting so eloquently into words, as you always can and do. Just this weekend, in all its rich beauty, I was overcome with its peaceful perfection,as one daughter set the table, the other daughter peeled carrots and my boys worked away at math and chemistry. I was also overwhelmed knowing this will change and they will not always be doing this and could change at any minute. I work at appreciating the moments and not worrying about the fact they are only moments and will change. I suppose I just love them so much, life so much, as I believe you do too. I am so glad you can express all of this and please keep expressing your truths as they are truths to many.
Lindsey,
the wise C.S.Lewis said: “We are born helpless. As soon as we are fully conscious we discover loneliness.”
At birth we physically detach from what has sustained us for a few brief months.
I believe we search in our subsequent aloneness to establish a spiritual connection that lasts beyond our lifetime — an everlasting bond.
For me, the Incarnation — God become Man — is His invitation to never be lonely again.
I wonder if, like so many things people say in comments on the internet, if actually they are so acutely connecting with what you’re saying, even on a subconscious level, that they have to try and bash you down. Loneliness….different for different people, and something I have felt my whole life, too. It took me a long time to feel ok with being alone, and now I embrace that part of me – most of the time. It’s innate to who I am, and it’s also what gives me the ability to think, reflect, revise, throughout my life. We recognize the fleetingness of life, the precious nature of the moments we do have with those we love. Thank you.
I think that everyone feels this loneliness. So much of our media and our entertainment is about trying to overcome this loneliness. And so much of our own behavior is driven by it.
For me, it does ebb and flow, like life itself. How aware of it I am often depends on the week or month and what is going on.
Thank you for sharing your touching perspective on something we all struggle with.
Dear Lindsey, I so identify with this as I too have a sharp shard of loneliness, always with me.
I did a Buddhist retreat a decade ago and we spent the entire retreat talking about this. There, it wasn’t called a darkness, but a brokenheartedness. And what I learned is that when we are in touch with our own brokenheartedness, we can access unlimited tenderness towards ourselves and the world. And ironically, it’s that brokenheartedness that allows us to love wholeheartedly in the present moment without being attached to what happens next.
Dear Lindsey,
I read a lot of stuff on the net. I never comment but I will today because I think all people brave enough to speak their truth (humanity’s truth), both painful and light, deserve praise. It doesn’t happen enough. We’re all terrified of that emptiness but it is recognised by the Existentialists, the Buddhists, Mindfulness Based Meditation Practioners, and so many more.
Being authentic in life means not turning our heads away from uncomfortable aspects of our existence which, paradoxically, yes, are the hollow spaces that are as filled with joy at times in proportion to the amount of emptiness that exists there at times.
You aren’t depressed. You’re real and honest.
Thankyou
Leigh
I need my loneliness, can’t imagine life without it. I’ve just never been so brave to put it out there like you have 😉 And no, you are definitely not depressed, just honest and thoughtful.
Thank you so much for saying that. I really appreciate it. It’s often hard to feel that (that my words make a difference), so it means a lot to hear it. xox
I loved that post. Thank you for writing it. I don’t know that book but will check it out right now! xox
I don’t know either. For me, true depression manifests as more of a numbness than a keen sensitivity, you know? Everyone is different, and I think that sense of manageability or trust that the curve will turn again is important to that dividing line. I wish you strength parsing where exactly that border is. It’s not easy. xox
Thank you so much for saying that re: making a difference. I really appreciate it. I enjoy being, too. What a good way to say it.
Lindsey, THIS:
“Gifted, Sensitive, In Need Of Meaning: Existential Depression”
http://highability.org/36/existential-depression/
Thank you so much for saying that. I can’t express how much it means to know that my words resonate with you – really!! xox
I think you’ll like it – as I think we’ve discussed I loathe watching video on the computer, too, but this was worth it. It’s short! 🙂 xox
Thank you so much. xox
I like the image that this echoing, this vague hollowness, is just being human. At least for me, it is. I so appreciate your kind words. xox
Yes! Shadowlands. Oh, yes. And yes, you’re right: I feel lucky to be able to feel the whole range, and even believe that there’s a shimmering beauty to the sense of bleakness that descends now and then. I can’t always see it in the moment, but I always can after the fact. xox
No surprise at all! 🙂 But that doesn’t take away from how grateful I am to know that there are kindred spirits like you out there. xoxo
Thank YOU for letting me know that this resonates. xo
Oh, yes. That floating feeling of wow, this moment is just perfect (which by the way I most frequently feel in the most mundane, ordinary moments, like the one you describe: regular life). I know what you’re talking about and it always brings me to tears. I haven’t learned how to let go of my anguish that these moments are fleeting. xox
Oh yes. He WAS wise. As are YOU. Thank you! xo
Yes, I agree and had the same experience: I think I ran away from this loneliness for a long time, unwilling to stare into it. But now that I can, the truth is, I can’t look away. xox
Thank you so much for this comment. It’s astonishing to me, now that I can see it, how much of this human life is devoted to merely avoiding something that seems (to me at least) so fundamental and essential to living here on earth. xox
Brokenheartedness. I like that expression for what I’m trying to describe. It took me paragraphs upon paragraphs and I didn’t come close to the perfection of that one word: brokenheartedness. Thank you. xox
Leigh,
Thank you so much for this comment. I appreciate your taking the time to write it more than I can express. And yes, I think it is about that: not turning away. Staying, in every sense of the word. I am still learning, have so far to go still. xox
Thank you. xoxox
I so get this…the lonliness. I feel it all the time, sometimes to a greater degree than other times. And I’m not depressed. I’ve just always had this feeling that I’m not quite whole, that I don’t quite fit in, that even when I’m in the middle of a circle, I’m still a little bit on the outside. I have always just thought of it as having a little bit of a melancholy streak. And I didn’t really realize that everyone didn’t feel this way. I thought it was just part of being human. I’m not a sad person — I get great joy from a lot of things and love a lot of people and am loved back — but somehow at the end of the day, it always just comes back to me. And sometimes, on those days where I have been pushed and pulled and touched and just generally worn out, I welcome the solace that the lonliness can bring.
As the number of those I love who have passed from my life grows, and the days I have left to love the ones who remain shrinks, I have realized how much sorrow and joy are conjoined twins. Yes, the loneliness is a gauge of connectedness. Yes, depression is the absence of feeling, not the darkness of it. You cannot miss what you’ve never had, and we can only feel profound grief and isolation if we’ve felt great love. For me, the challenge of the second half of my life is to cultivate deeper love and connection with those who remain in it. It is hard, for a lot of reasons.
Have been trying to formulate a coherent response to this all day and failing. Just wanted to at least say that this post deeply resonated with me and I have been thinking about it all day. xoxo
Oh Lindsey. This is what I wrote today: http://shannonlell.com/2013/10/07/this-too-shall-pass/
Eerily similar to what you have expressed here.
But there is one big difference that has given me serious pause.
I’m coming to see the loneliness as something that I should feel, not run from, but absorb like water. If you don’t run, I realize that it is not this big scary thing, but actually quite beautiful. If you can withstand the horrible fear that comes with feeling the “hot loneliness,” as Pema Chondron calls it, then you can realize that it will not hurt, but will bring about a deeper joy.
In my essay I am reminded of this fact. That this TOO shall pass and on the other side is the groundedness; the deeper roots burrowing into the the Earth. A feeling of solidity and solidarity.
If I can stand WITH the loneliness without fighting it, I am reminded that it will not hurt, it will pass, and I will reap the treasures that come after.
Sometimes, it reads that you prefer this loneliness, when in fact, you just understand it far better than most of us. I think this is where people get confused. You understand better than most that what lies on the other side of the fear of a broken heart, is greater joy.
This idea is backward thinking for many people, me included. It’s like telling them to stick their feet in the fire and promising that it will only burn for a little while, but don’t worry, it will feel good in the end. I’m not entirely there yet. I still recoil from the flames, but I’m trying not to.
I am just on the edges of the joy, groping around for something I cannot yet… even with the light from the flames.
I, too, always assumed that everyone felt this way.
But thank you for putting it out like this. Thank you for articulating it. Your writing is so beautiful, both here and throughout your blog.
By the way, that Louis C.K. video nearly destroyed me when I saw it. So funny and heartbreaking and devastatingly true.
Beautifully written. And, after recently coming out of a loneliness funk, I will say that as hard as those are, I think they’re essential to feeling the range of emotions and appreciating the contrast.
Hm. I think you are right. I think we ALL do, and some of us feel it much more acutely, more often, more deeply. I know I feel it almost constantly, running deeply through the loveliness that is my life. Ah, the impermanence, though! As I left for work yesterday morning, I noted that I must snap a picture of the blazingly glorious oak tree before the sun set. I forgot. This morning, the tree, while still glorious, had dropped most of its leaves during yesterday’s stormy weather.
I wept. Metaphorical? I don’t know. Maybe.
I completely agree with you, we all have loneliness, though some of us are more sensitive to its presence than others.
This line of yours, in particular, resonated with me today:
“What I know now is that when I make an effort to really be here now, and to stop my frantic distractedness, that buried loneliness rises up.”
How important it is to allow ourselves this, and how often one forgets…
Well, if living your life, in your skin, is being “depressed” – then I’ll take it!! In all seriousness, I can relate to so much of what you are saying, yet I know I am not depressed. And I know from reading your daily words for a couple of years now, that you are not either. People are wired so differently, and those who are always at the center of wherever they are, and not behind the “glass wall” (exquisite description), simply can not relate. So instead, they assume “depression” instead of “wiring”. Very, very different realities! Beautiful post. xo
Thank you so much xoxo