Aloneness

After my father died, my mother would often say that while she felt alone, she was not lonely.
There’s a subtle distinction between those two states. Loneliness carries suffering: a weight, a heaviness, an awareness of what’s missing. It dwells in the past—on what used to be—and aches for the gap to be filled.

We live in a world that is more connected than ever, yet loneliness seems to be increasing. Our screens give us contact but not always closeness. There is so much noise, so many ways to reach each other, and yet so few places to simply be.

Aloneness, though, holds a different potential.
It can be a doorway rather than a wound.
Being alone offers space to reflect, to savour the world without the distraction of another presence.

When I walk alone, I can pause whenever I wish, notice the wind, the rustle of leaves, the way light shifts across the path. If I were with a friend—lovely as that might be—we would likely be absorbed in conversation and miss this quiet communion with the world.

Aloneness can open into solitude, and solitude can widen into a sense of depth and belonging. In that still space, the boundary between self and world softens. What once felt like emptiness begins to shimmer with life.

Practice
Once each day, allow a few minutes of conscious aloneness—no phone, no music, no agenda.
Sit or walk quietly and notice the textures around you: light, sound, the rhythm of your breath.
As you do, whisper inwardly,

“I am alone, and I am held.”

Feel how those words shift in the body.
Do they soften the heart?
Do they widen the sense of space?
Let that simple noticing be enough.