The man sat at the kitchen table by the back window, drinking coffee and looking out at the back yard. It was the last day of February in a leap year. The man was alone. After working a twelve-hour shift, he had risen early that morning while it was still dark. It was a Sunday morning and he was off from work for the next four days. He had driven to the golf course, teed off at dawn and walked nine holes.
The man was all alone on the course until, when approaching his ball near the one hundred fifty yard marker on the fifth hole, he heard a crashing in the woods to the right. A buck and a doe burst into the fairway in a full gallop with their white tails pointed skyward. Halfway across they cut to the right, thundered into the trees on the left-hand side and were gone. The man stood in the chill of the morning air, his heart pounding and his mind making mental notes for a painting of the scene he had just witnessed.
He sat now drinking his coffee and listening to the silence, which was broken only by the songs of the birds in for their morning meal at the feeders. His wife was on a four-day trip to the North Georgia Mountains, celebrating the birthday of one of her lifelong friends. She had boarded their two whippets at a kennel farm outside of Lula because the man was working that end of the week. He was alone, but he was not lonely.
He had enjoyed the time alone. It had been very therapeutic. It had not been an easy winter for the man. He had suffered from seasonal depression in the past but had come to terms with it and had even learned to embrace the winter months, so he thought. This year it had hit him unexpectedly and particularly hard. Beginning in December, there had been weeks of what seemed to be continuous rain. The man had always loved the rain and listening to it on the windows and the roof, but after three months of steady downpour, he had retreated into his shell and was having a very difficult time digging his way out of it.
He still loved to sit at the window and gaze out into the woods, seeing the trees, the creek and the leaves on the ground. It was very soothing during the rain, sometimes the harder the better. But the daily deluge was beginning to wear hard on his psyche and on his emotions.
The mornings were the worst. The man was a habitual early riser. He had been so for most of his adult life and even treated his days off like workdays. He would wake at four a.m., shave, shower, make coffee, dress and be in his studio by five. He would work at least until ten, sometimes a little longer and sometimes a little less. During the last six weeks that routine had been shattered. He simply could not bring himself to rise and work, then mentally berated himself for not doing so. His mind would be going fifty different directions at once and he would lay perfectly still, telling himself, “quiet mind, quiet mind,” until he was able to get up and function.
The time alone had helped. Even while around others at work, he was able to think and to reflect. At home and in the quiet time in his car during the commute, he was able to refresh, renew and replenish. The man was alone but he was not lonely. He knew loneliness. Loneliness was isolation completely different from solitude. Loneliness could tear the body and soul apart while solitude could restore them.
The morning feed was over and the birds had left. The man finished his coffee, washed his cup and put it in the dishwasher. The grass needed cutting. The rain had made the winter rye grow to about shin-high level and the ground was finally dry enough to where his lawn tractor would not carve huge gashes in the yard. It was the time of day when he could crank his lawn equipment and not be that guy in the neighborhood on a Sunday morning. He went upstairs to change into his work clothes. His wife and dogs would be home that afternoon. He could not wait to see them.