Reflections from the Low Country — Part 6

Silence is golden. It is also lonesome. Solitude is precious. And painful.

It is the beginning of Week 4 of my journey to the sea, and it is raining. Loud, intense downpours that never relieve the oppressive humidity and render impossible any attempts to escape. It is a perfect day to crawl up with a book or a movie, but I am full of rest and therefore restless. I am lonely, and it is painful.

At the beginning of this venture, I saw the solitude as a gift, protecting it, guarding it, hopeful for what it had to teach me. Nearing the end of this journey, I see the necessity of coming here alone, and the importance of returning to the among. Lessons learned in private rarely find a permanent foothold if not tested in public.

The energy of this place rescued my spirit. I will carry it with me as I go, drawing from its wealth when I find myself weak. Many have asked if I shall make a home here, drawn in like so many others who come to visit and never leave. If that were but an option. Alas, my home is across the sea. And I must return to the mooring where it knows how to find me.

I sit in the lonely, the still, the quiet, the rain. Certain that this is part of it but uncomfortable nonetheless. I must breathe through it. So I write, uncertain that these words will offer any reprieve but knowing that the process protects me from further damage. That much I have learned here. For the words build an instantaneous reflection; a means by which I can go back, when one day in the distant future I find myself once again longing.

It is not always possible to fill your own cup. Sometimes it is just empty.

But what I know about the empty is that it doubles as anticipation for the being filled. It knows that if it can survive the wait, my cup will runneth over. Again.

I have no answer for the waiting, the silence, the solitude. I’ve learned that trying to fill them with artificial means, places, or people leaves me feeling less, not more. The sea suggests only that the tide will return, not what one should do in the interim.

I breathe. And seconds slide by. The cup is closer to being filled.

And it rains.