The early mornings are still immune. At least, they pretend to be. Asleep, I dream as I normally would have — of a classroom of unruly adolescents, of a day in the mountains, of Her. And when I awake, the dream-ether hangs in the air for a moment still; I exist in a world that, even though it was born from a dream, is more normal than the reality that awaits outside.
One wall of my apartment is entirely made up of glass. Six stories up, I can look down on an avenue and watch its quiet abnormality. If I am still waking, I can fool myself back into that dream-mind. Let it be like it was before. But then a lone Bogotano will appear below, walking his dog, a facemask secured over his nose and mouth, surgical gloves on hands holding the leash. And then the dream-mind must let go, leaving my true mind to face the realities of isolation.
* * *
A month ago I had one of my best days in Colombia so far. I went climbing in an area not far from Bogota. We had been spending every weekend there in order to make progress on the hardest route I have ever tried. On that day, I did the route, achieving a life goal of mine. There was a crowd there and when I came down, there were hugs and cheers and high-fives from friends I have made over my last nine months here. How easily we embraced then. How simple the pleasure.
That night was my friend Santiago’s birthday. Many friends gathered to celebrate and again we sat close to each other, greeted each other with hugs and kisses on the cheek. We joked about coronavirus then, all sat together eating lechona and drinking beer and being merry.
A week later they closed the climbing area. Then they put up controls leaving the city. And then the quarantine went into effect.
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| Photo: Juan Sebastian Riaño |
* * *
It’s been fifteen days. They say the quarantine will go on for a month, but even now they are hinting at an extension. In all likelihood it will be at least two months. There is a chance it will be three.
I live alone.
The ocean of time ahead of me is hard to fathom. On a call with my mother — I call more now — she reminded me, “At least you have spent a lot of time alone before. You are used to it.”
She is right. I’ve been spending time alone since I was young. When I was twelve, I spent three days camped alone in the Canadian Rockies, a rite of passage designed by my father. (He was camped nearby, though out of contact, and was ready to rescue me if I ran into trouble.) By the time I was eighteen I took a year off before college and traveled the U.S. alone, living out of my truck. In adulthood I have taken international trips alone, climbing in Asia, Europe, and South America, traversing the Himalayas on a motorcycle — I even named the bike “Solivagant” on that trip, which means “to wander alone.” I’ve written magazine articles on the pleasures of solitary trekking in the mountains, the peace that it invites. My career for the last twelve years has involved me questing out alone into one foreign country after another and adapting to the challenges of new schools, new languages, new customs. It has been a professional life that is often isolating, and yet I have made it through, I’ve enjoyed it, I’ve called it adventure.
But to equate those experiences with what lies ahead is false. On my travels, there were always new people to meet, new places to explore. Travel invites the potential to move from isolation into new and exciting communities. There was also always the physical challenge and reward of climbing and hiking in these new places. There was fresh air and vast landscapes, aspects of the experiences that were fulfilling and good. And even that twelve-year-old who was restricted to a small camping area for his solo had something that I now know is a great luxury: an end. He just had to make it three days. As lonely as he got, he had a number to count down from.
I’m counting up now. Fifteen days today. To what number I am counting to, I know not. And though I do not know when this will end — none of us do — I know that, having finished one more day, I am that much closer to the end, whenever it may be. Knowledge of that forward progress offers some reprieve. It has been my mantra, in fact. At the end of each day, I tell myself: You are one day closer. You are one day closer.
If nothing else, this time is teaching me about my pride. I once felt so successful in my ventures alone. For being the archetype of the loner, I would pat myself on the back. (Who else would there be to pat me on the back anyway?) In December of 2016, after a year in a remote part of Bhutan, I wrote, “This part of my life, I feel, is a great story. But the theme continues to elude me. Is it about abandoning the materialism of America? About finding spirituality among Himalayan Buddhists? Is it about adventure and challenge? About loneliness perhaps?” Now I must face that question with new eyes. I’m also aware from my experiences that for those of us who are known for our independent resiliency, there are less check-ins, less calls. He’ll make it, they believe. He always does.
I continue to tell myself the same thing. You’ve weathered other storms. You’ve known the darkness and have beaten it back. You can do it again. Loneliness has been your companion more than once. A lifetime of lonely adventures has given me so much good. And those experiences are an advantage for the challenges to come. But that life has also led me to the way in which I must now face this challenge: alone.
January of 2017, the next entry as I left Bhutan and set off on my motorcycle toward Nepal: I wrote, “as is the plague of the wanderer, other existential questions have started to arise ... What purpose does this adventure serve? When will I grow up, settle down, commit to something stable? What is the effect of such long-term loneliness?”
For those of you who have stayed put but have cultivated communities around you, have built families, have fallen in love — I envy you. To spend this time in quarantine with others is a blessing. I spend more time than I’d like wondering how much easier this would be if She were here. And if you have Her next to you (or Him), as much as She might be grinding on your nerves these days, know that you are lucky. Don’t take Her for granted.
* * *
I am not beaten. Not yet. I have convinced myself to slip into something like a monk’s mind. In the mornings I meditate. I built a small climbing wall, and I use it almost daily. I do the perfunctory work I need to get done for my virtual classes. I cook new recipes and hone them for the day when I can share the meals with friends again. (You will eat well, my friends. You will eat well.) I read. I write.
And I continue to examine those existential questions on loneliness. I weigh what it has given me and what it has taken. There is now time to reflect on a whole life that has led up to this moment. My hope is that by scrutinizing these questions with this monk’s mind, I may now start to arrive at answers. And if not, well, at least I successfully distracted myself for another day. Then, before going to bed and returning to the normality of dreams, I can say again to myself, You are one day closer. You are one day closer.
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