Shed Your Skin In Aloneness
Life happens in cycles. The periods of solitude are not without significance for our growth and renewal.
Hi,
How are you this week? What expression does your face fall back into when nobody’s holding it?
Aloneness is a curious, unique state. Many of us feel suspended in it, dreading it, but not knowing ways to escape.
In my own aloneness, I’ve learned that escaping its embrace too soon is equal to escaping myself. I believe aloneness comes to hold a space for us, in which we can freely, and yes, cautiously at first, explore the depths of our own hearts and minds. It is in aloneness that we can relax our faces, and let them be what they truly are, as they need to be. This is not so much about the time — taken for oneself. While it is, of course, imperative to exercise patience as well, it is not all that aloneness offers.
The true gift of solitude is that it enables us to question thoughts and perceptions, to change our minds, over and over again, to say yes and no and yes again, all on the same day, to the same thing. We are without confinements of external expectations towards our behaviour or a particular version of our-selves, to which others grew accustomed, and thus ask for every day.
This steady and humble space invites us to stand in it naked, without shame, without the desire to impress and lure, but open and vulnerable, with nothing to hide. Therefore, the nakedness it calls for is not merely physical. It demands of us that we shed something much more important than just those few layers of fabric — it is there to hold us when we’ve rid ourselves of our own outer skin, made of pretend, insecurity, desire, aversion, and self-image.
“To be alone for any length of time is to shed an outer skin. The body is inhabited in a different way when we are alone than when we are with others. Alone, we live in our bodies as a question rather than a statement.” — David Whyte, from Alone
Nakedness means vulnerability. It applies both to the mind and body. To be naked, physically and figuratively, is to be without the means of defence. To be spread out, exposed, pried open, for everyone to see.
Isn’t it delightful to finally be able to become who we are, and who we’ve always been? A question for the sake of exploration, free of binding and definitive answers.
I talk on the phone with R. The ocean spilt its enormous, vast body in between us again, and if one tried swimming through it, they’d inevitably lose themselves. He’s on the street, walking somewhere from somewhere else. His words to me are broken in uneven bites, as some are meant for his friends and acquaintances whom he passes by. Anywhere he goes, there’s a familiar face, familiar arms. Meanwhile, I’m far, and within my aloneness. A part of me wishes that the voices I overhear on the other side of the phone call were meant for me as well. A part of me wants to be greeted, held, smiled at. A part of me wants to escape. Meanwhile, I let myself sit. I’ve noticed the resistance — come and sit with me; there’s room for both of us, I say to it.
What will this aloneness offer me?
Every time I retreat or am made to retreat by the sudden departure of familiar bodies, I find that it becomes easier and easier to connect with others afterwards. It is the layers of skin that I shed, I am sure of that. They no longer isolate me as much, my wall is not as thick as it’s been. So, I am excited — that is, in that part of me which allows the peaceful coexistence of contradictory feelings.
Life happens in seasons. There is time for searching and there is time in which to let the finding happen. This is what my dearest friend, and partner said, when he still lived. We might want our lives to be subject to some order, and predictability, but they would never listen. Why would they? They know better than us. Life’s not governed by fear. It doesn’t divide into favourable and not-now-maybe-later-thank-you. It just unfolds as it must. We might not like its ways sometimes, and yet, it will still happen as it pleases, indifferent to our preferences. What’s the use in disagreeing with it then? I mean, of course, one needs to take responsibility, learn and build, work and acquire, but that’s just the little we have control over. All of the rest, the true teaching of life, is up in the air; it comes with the wind as it blows through our thick layers and carefully arranged matters, setting them all in motion—or causing to weather.
The nature of life is cyclical. And although spring happens once a year, right now, outside of my window, it might not be so in our lives. There can be many springs, many winters, summers, and autumns in our lives, all in one year. We might learn something precious only to question it with discontentment a month later. We might surround ourselves with loving faces and caring hands, and before we know it, or before we are ready, the only face that can offer love is the one looking back at us from the mirror, and the only hands carrying care are those we press firmly to our cheeks, trying to catch the tears cutting through their landscape.
A birch tree knows it well.
During winter, the birch tree is in a dormant state. It looks like it's sleeping because all its leaves have fallen, and its growth slows down significantly. This period of rest is crucial for the tree's survival, allowing it to conserve energy and water during the cold months when the ground might be frozen, making it hard for roots to absorb the much-needed liquids.
As temperatures warm, the birch tree "wakes up" from its dormancy. This is a time of rapid growth and regeneration. The tree starts to produce new leaves, and its roots absorb more water from the thawing soil. In early spring, before the leaves fully emerge, birch trees produce sap — a nourishing water that can be tapped and enjoyed by people. I washed my face with it, I poured it over my head and pressed into the wounds on my body, and I sipped it slowly, with my eyes closed, grateful to the tree for its gifts.
Summer is a period of continued growth for the birch tree. Its full canopy of leaves is now present, allowing the tree to photosynthesise—convert sunlight into energy—efficiently. This energy fuels the growth of new wood and the development of seeds. The birch tree is fully awake, soaking up the sun's energy from the sky and water from the soil to sustain its growth.
As days shorten and temperatures drop, the birch tree, once again, prepares for the upcoming winter. Its leaves change colour to beautiful shades of yellow, brown and red, and eventually fall off. This process is part of the tree's preparation for dormancy, reducing its energy needs and making it less vulnerable to damage from snow and ice. The tree has now completed its annual cycle and is ready to enter another period of rest.
The birch tree experiences its seasons with patient knowing, and humble obedience. It does not object its own nature, nor does it resent the natural world for its seasonality. Rooted in its aloneness once, it is ready to share abundantly later on. It’s a cycle of solitude and renewal that we, too, experience in our own lives. This period of rest, though outwardly still and oftentimes stripped of our external engagements, is rich with the potential for growth. Obeying our winters is how we can sustain ourselves until the warmth of connection and the light of understanding touch us again. And when that moment comes, we will be overflowing with a renewed, nourishing essence of our beings.
In order to decide where you’re going, it’s important to know where you’ve been. The vast and absorbent spaces of aloneness serve to lead us back to the core of our existence. They enable us to let go of what’s no longer supportive and to walk on lighter and more fit to take on new adventures and to share more freely. While experience may reward us with clarity and age may eventually offer wisdom, it is through claiming the space of solitude, each time it comes, that we allow ourselves to understand where we’ve been, and where we are headed.
The state of dormancy, which the birch tree enters in her own seasonality, is the time to integrate the myriad events of life into our beings. Sleep, as Dr. Michael Grandner, the director of the Sleep and Health Research Program at the University of Arizona, said, “is one of the ways in which we embody the world around us. When we lay down to sleep, all the things our body interacts with physically, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually get integrated into who we are.” And although I don’t mean sleep literally here, this sentiment still remains true. I think we are, in the majority of our society, trained to action. We value the sheer act of doing above anything else. As if that was what life asked of us. This is not to say one should stop the work they’re doing, and just sit and abide, at least not at all times. It is rather an invitation to allow the cycles of life to operate as they are meant to, without our objection. To hold space for integration, and saturation. To allow the periods of fruitful action to be interwoven with those of insightful observation.
If we don’t stop and look, how can we ever know where we are going? How would we know where we are needed? Because that’s where we should go — where our uniqueness serves its one-and-only purpose. Shedding our skin, we might find out where that is.
Question to you, dear reader:
How do you experience your own seasons of renewal?
I like your ideas that it is easier to connect with others after periods of aloneness. And
this ease of reconnecting is enabled by the shedding of layers during the introspection of solitude.
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