A look at the lonesome

It takes a truly lonely person to see a truly lonely world. The more often I stare out and look at the world around me the more I see a beautiful yearning, a disconnect between each tree and bird and spider and rock in all of its interwoven isolation. I see each of these little entities as lonely, searching for a way to connect to the life surrounding it, just out of reach. Like the stars that shine all by themselves; a congregation of blinking lights laying haphazardly on the black blanket of sky, all completely oblivious that there are others out there.

I see this disconnect in the lonely heart of my plum tree. Its mottled branches stretch out towards the sun, the trees to both of its sides and hanging heavily, as though the ground would even be an acceptable friend. I call it my yearning tree; it stands day after day with arms open wide, asking and never receiving the love it sends out.

I see the ache of being alone in the first waking bird. I've never gotten to see him straight on, but he comes into my yard every morning. He lands in the trees heavy handedly--shaking the branches and squawking. He takes the sleeping world by the shoulders and begs it to wake up; begs the light and the warmth to come back to him. He waits to see the world he loves with impatience, waiting for that connection.

I see the lonesome lifestyle of seclusion in the black widows I find around my yard. They lay in webs, sure and ready killers, but in the light they run for cover, hiding in the dark crevices away from prying eyes. They long for the dark like a vice. Alone they wait through the berating day for the darkness to return. In my eyes they are the loneliest of all creatures because they do not even seek for a remedy to their estranged lives. There is no hope, there is no yearning, only emptiness. The passing of days in terms of when the dark comes back.

In a way, I see the things in my yard like people. We all are lonely creatures. We can consider ourselves a part of our families, our communities, our schools, and our friends in the same way that a tree is a part of a yard. At the end of the day though, my skin is my skin alone, my flesh is my flesh. I am not owned, I am not claimed or tethered. I am utterly alone. We all are. Whether or not we overcome this is our own choice. There is a choice to be a black widow and hide, see our disconnectedness as insurmountable and draw away from the world we know. Or we can be trees, open ourselves to the world, send love without being able to expect anything in return, beg the world we love to greet us the way the early rising bird does.

We can all choose the type of lonely to be, and if we all reached out, maybe we wouldn't be so lonely after all.