In the aloneness...

It’s quiet, and this apartment that I have worked hard to bring to life over the past two years post-divorce is solid, textured, warm, and safe. I moved into this apartment with nothing else besides my books, clothes, my favourite chair, and 2 lamps after searching and applying for over 40 places in Geneva (yes it is that hard to find a place here and yes it is equally as racist and violent trying to rent a place as a Brown woman and single parent). And slowly this place has come to life, first through the big pieces of furniture that I built on my own (I send virtual high-fives to anyone who has built IKEA furniture on their own) while sobbing through post-divorce tears, and then through the little things like the 3 plants I finally bought this year. But there is still no framed artwork on the walls (I have been collecting some and they will go up soon), and 2 ceiling lights are just hanging lightbulbs because I haven’t decided what kind of light fixture to put, and there is a carpet for the small living room floor in my mind that I haven’t been able to find yet. But, it’s my space, and in this world where safety feels distant, I sometimes sit in my chair, look around at my daughter’s artwork, my books, and the peace that lingers here and thank the universe for all of it.

It is in this space that I wind down the end of this year by myself and am grateful for the quiet. Solitude can be a friend, but it can also turn into a vacuous black hole where you find yourself crying and belting out All by Myself at the top of your lungs only for your neighbours (Swiss apartments have thin walls) to bang on their radiators and remind you that you are indeed, not by yourself (which is why I am also grateful for the grumpy dude that lives next door). But that vacuous black hole feeling can sometimes feel inescapable, overwhelming, and disorienting - feelings you move through when you are holding shattered pieces of your heart due to grief or loss or heartbreak or any number of life experiences which remind us of our finite time as humans.

Truthfully, I have been alone most of my life, my mind a constant refugee in this world that feels too noisy, too painful, and too confusing. It is why trees have been my constant friends since childhood, and the wind, birds, and long walks my medicinal accompaniments throughout my lifetime. And yet, I have experienced debilitating bouts of depression that have robbed me of those same medicines and forgotten power in my deep-rooted (pun intended) companionship with trees. This is why I now know the difference between loneliness and solitude and that usually when I feel lonely, it is because I am ignoring deeper parts of myself that need my attention.

These years of awakening and reckoning with the violent systems which continue to bind us and in which we have to live and operate, also require us to reckon with how we have ingested the false (and dangerous) narratives of individualism. This individualism leads to isolation which does not allow us to remember our interconnectedness with, not only other humans, but also, the trees, the wind, and the ground beneath our feet. It is why, Indigenous cultures and people and their ways of being in a community with the land and the trees must be centralised and brought once again into right relationship. But this cannot happen if we as a body of humanity continue to fear solitude because of our own ideas of individualism which reinforce not needing ‘solutions’ that return us to nature, and each other.

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I type this after having returned from a walk, and sitting with a friend who saw me through most of my divorce, a Japanese Maple tree. This tree/being has an immense canopy, now shed to preserve energy, and a perfect knot at the base of its’ trunk where I have sat many times in tears, including this visit. It continues to hold and transform my stories and remind me of my connectedness, and place within this web of life.

I am now retreating into my den on my end-of-year journey to return to myself after an immense year. But before I go, I am sharing a few gifts that have accompanied me this year and continue to help me along the way. I hope that wherever you find yourself today and in the days to come, we can meet at a tree one day soon and remember the roots that connect us all. You are not alone, friend; we are all here together.

In Community,

Uma

I invite you to add your communal resources that accompany you in moments of solitude in the comments below.

• Listen: Bahar (Spring) by Ustad Zakir Hussain, Bela Fleck, and Edgar Meyer (With the passing of Ustad Zakirji, we lost yet another incredible human and a connecter of worlds.)
• Read: Gathering Moss: A Natural and Cultural History of Mosses by Robin Wall Kimmerer (I love the reminder that this book offers of the importance of the biodiversity of seemingly small ecosystems such as mosses).
• Watch: Where Olive Trees Weep (…”a beautiful, poignant, heartbreaking film about the struggles and resilience of the Palestinian people under Israeli occupation.”) and Taking Root: The Vision of Wangari Maathai
• Visit: If you have a tree friend you haven’t seen in a while, go visit them and say hi. I promise they will be so happy to see you. And if you haven’t made friends with trees in your area, neighbourhood, or city, go explore.
• Hear: When we hear bird song, our nervous systems inherently know we are safe (backed by science - look it up :)). I sometimes go to sleep with this playlist (Forest Bathing) after stressful days.
• Share: Voice or video notes with the people who have seen/held you through this year. It can be 1 minute long or 10 minutes long. If you don’t feel like conversing, this is still a great way to connect with the humans in your life you love and share their flowers with them in this moment.
• Do: Write, journal, paint, bake, cook - do something that offers you, in small and gentle ways, movement.

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