anthimeria

Depending on the season, my little self was more often than not curled up on the couch reading – or in the industrial kitchen at my parents’ restaurant, burning the pads off my tiny fingers – or standing in pouring rain under the broken eaves-trough at Uncle Ron’ s ramshackle house – or maybe tucked neatly into our backyard zucchini patch inspecting the specimens.

Most people are surprised to learn just how introverted I am. That I can stow away in my apartment for whole long weekends in the quiet, maybe venturing out for a walk or market trip or book and coffee, but often not even. I like to see movies alone, and lunch as one in a pretty dress, and sit in the park on a blanket making up love stories for the squirrels. I’m a lot like my little self, actually, who went about things deliberately and quietly and alone.

Time and time as one has been in my thoughts quite a bit of late.

My sister moved out recently, but a point of contention when we lived together was my need for silence and space. It was difficult for us both to deal with this – she wanting to dive into our days as I walked through the door, me seeking a few minutes space before dinner as repos. I get her frustration – I probably would be, too. Trying to articulate to someone you love that you just need time alone after a day spent in constant communication seems selfish, and perhaps it is.

I love cooking whole dinner parties, but there’s something special about a meal for one. I have a well-thumbed anthology of essays called “Alone in the Kitchen with an Eggplant” that documents the act of dining in solitude. Some folks are totally averse to the idea: Laura Calder goes so far as to say one should never ever eat alone if it can be avoided. But I find great comfort in cooking for one – knowing what I prepare is exactly what I want, no compromises or fretting because I’m eating avocado on toast for the fifth night in a row. Setting the table – one spoon, one fork, one knife, one pretty napkin, one tealight – has a nice ritualistic sensibility about it.

At big gatherings, my family is used to their niece/daughter/granddaughter/cousin who slips out to the porch or up to a spare bedroom or away to the kitchen to methodically rinse dishes. A friend suggested to me that this isn’t introversion at all – just sensitivity to loud voices and noises, but I think the two are inextricable. Space, to someone who seeks solitude, is necessary, sacred – and can be invaded in many ways. My Greek relatives live loudly and tactilely, ruffling hair and pinching cheeks and clinking glasses and sparring about politics – and I love this. But it’s life lived without a space barrier, be it physical or acoustic or imagined.

There are exceptions, sure: I love spending one-on-one time with a close friend. Dinners in and out, exploring, long walks, conversations on the couch with glasses of wine or steaming mugs of tea. The best company in the world, I think, is sitting in an armchair reading, with a favourite person close-by – each of us doing our own thing – occasionally looking up to smile or share a passage. The welcome being of quiet company. Feeling someone around without words, indulging in the reverent dead air.

“In solitude, where we are least alone.”

I realize – and I grapple with the idea – that I’ll never be able to force myself to be happily busy-bodied or to embrace a packed schedule. Nine of ten times, I am heading home after work to my pyjamas over dinner and drinks. I’ll always need a little space when I walk through the front door on a weekday night. Surely there are more of me out there, who embrace this idea of being together, alone. Or sometimes just alone.

[photo via]