My Solitude

Delicious. Absolutely delicious. Better even than chocolate (although chocolate regularly contributes). That is the best I can do to describe my solitude. As much as I enjoy all sorts of social and cultural events and interacting with all sorts of people, coming home is always dessert.

I live surrounded by the things I have loved for so long. Things my mother and grandmother acquired and enjoyed. Things my great-grandmother produced as she pieced the beautiful quilts that eventually would find their way to me to be treasured in a way she hardly could have imagined.

My little house is filled with collections—pitchers, strawberries, hearts, eggs, angels, scrapbooks, my uncle’s watercolors, and folders upon folders filled and overflowing with ideas.

In the midst of all that is precious and could be distracting, my writing desk beckons me to let a special magic overcome me, as all I need do is simply sit and the ideas begin to flow. I never know what is going to materialize—whether poem, essay, meditation. But I know before anything comes into consciousness that it will delight and that the writing of it will energize me to the extent that afterwards I will honor it by tackling some procrastinated domestic chore.

My experience convinces me that life is intended to be joyful and that each of us can find our center, allow it to feed our spirits, and live out of that which is more comforting, more exciting, and more powerful even than our egos.

Ann Glover O’Dell

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