REFLECTION: Islands, by Anne Morrow Lindbergh

From Gift From The Sea

How wonderful are islands!  Islands in space, like this one I have come to, ringed about by miles of water, linked by no bridges, no cables, no telephones.  An island from the world and the world’s life.  Islands in time, like this short vacation of mine.  The past and the future are cut off; only the present remains.  Existence in the present gives island living an extreme vividness and purity.  One lives like a child or a saint in the immediacy of here and now.  Every day, every act, is an island, washed by time and space, and has an island’s completion.  People, too, become like islands in such an atmosphere, self-contained, whole and serene; respecting other people’s solitude, not intruding on their shores, standing back in reverence before the miracle of another individual.  “No man is an island,” said John Donne.  I feel we are all islands – in a common sea.

We are all, in the last analysis, alone.  And this basic state of solitude is not something we have any choice about.  It is, as the poet Rilke says, “not something that one can take or leave.  We are solitary.  We may delude ourselves and act as though this were not so.  That is all.  But how much better it is to realize that we are so, yes, even to begin by assuming it.  Naturally,” he goes on to say, “we will turn giddy.”

Naturally.  How one hates to think of oneself as alone.  How one avoids it.  It seems to imply rejection or unpopularity.  An early wallflower panic still clings to the word.  One will be left, one fears, sitting in a straight-backed chair alone, while the popular girls are already chosen and spinning around the dance floor with their hot-palmed partners.  We seem so frightened today of being alone that we never let it happen.  Even if family, friends, and movies should fail, there is still the radio or television to fill up the void.  Women, who used to complain of loneliness, need never be alone any more.  We can do our housework with soap-opera heroes at our side.  Even day-dreaming was more creative than this; it demanded something of oneself and it fed the inner life.  Now, instead of planting our solitude with our own dream blossoms, we choke the space with continuous music, chatter, and companionship to which we do not even listen.  It is simply there to fill the vacuum.  When the noise stops there is no inner music to take its place.  We must re-learn to be alone.

It is a difficult lesson to learn today – to leave one’s friends and family and deliberately practice the art of solitude for an hour or a day or a week.  For me, the break is the most difficult.  Parting is inevitably painful, even for a short time.  It is like an amputation, I feel.  A limb is being torn off, without which I shall be unable to function.  And yet, once it is done, I find there is a quality to being alone that is incredibly precious.  Life rushes back into the void, richer, more vivid, fuller than before.  It is as if in parting one did actually lose an arm.  And then, like the starfish, one grows it anew; one is whole again, complete and round – more whole, even, than before, when the other people had pieces of one.

For a full day and two nights I have been alone.  I lay on the beach under the stars at night alone.  I made my breakfast alone.  Alone I watched the gulls at the end of the pier, dip and wheel and dive for the scraps I threw them.  A morning’s work at my desk, and then, a late picnic lunch alone on the beach.  And it seemed to me, separated from my own species, that I was nearer to others: the shy willet, nesting in the ragged tide-wash behind me; the sandpiper, running in little unfrightened steps down the shining beach rim ahead of me; the slowly flapping pelicans over my head, coasting downwind; the old gull, hunched up, grouchy, surveying the horizon.  I felt a kind of impersonal kinship with them and a joy in that kinship.  Beauty of earth and sea and air meant more to me.  I was in harmony with it, melted into the universe, lost in it, as one is lost in a canticle of praise, swelling from an unknown crowd in a cathedral.  “Praise ye the Lord, all ye fishes of the sea – all ye birds of the air – all ye children of men – Praise ye the Lord!”

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