solitude

While at Oak Island this year I experienced solitude in a very personal way. I was not lonely; I was not merely alone; I was not escaping companionship. I was sole, dwelling in myself and resting in myself. I found a place to do this: a spit of sand extended into the sound at low tide. I would walk out at low tide, through shallow water, and sit on this extension of the beach that was made available through the dredging efforts of the Corps of Engineers and the pulling back of the Atlantic. I brought my books, pen and paper, binoculars and camera. I read Blanchot's Waiting Oblivion. I drew in the sand. I observed the distant birds and boats. I looked back at our beach house. I felt equipoise. And when we left the beach I discovered that I retained it in me, independent of location.