i never know what people mean when they complain of loneliness.
To be alone is one of life's greatest delights, thinking ones own thoughts,
doing ones own little jobs, seeing the world beyond
and feeling oneself uninterrupted in the rooted connection with the centre of all things.
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people who complain of loneliness must have lost something,
lost some living connection with the cosmos, out of themselves,
lost their life flow
like a plant whose roots are cut.
And they are crying like plants whose roots are cut.
But the presence of other people will not give them new, rooted connection
it will only make them forget.
The thing to do is in solitude slowly and painfully put forth new roots
into the unknown, and take root by oneself.
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i know no greater delight than the sheer delight of being alone.
It makes me realise the delicious pleasure of the moon
that she has in travelling by herself: throughout time,
or the splendid growing of an ash-tree
alone, on a hillside in the north, humming in the wind.
- d h lawrence <loneliness, the uprooted, delight of being alone> |
