hermit year (pity party closing in)

The year is closing, and with it comes a loneliness of a new hue. Last night I dreamt a friend of mine sent me a cover letter to review. It was for a job in Uganda at a nonprofit feeding and teaching children. 

This isn't a farfetched dream for her. Only a few months ago, she was with her mother in Africa, proposing to local men for a green card. Perhaps they thought she was joking, as none of them said yes. She was ready for a huge leap into a new world. She's adventurous that way.

Then there’s me. I am stuck in the dark, a potato rotting in the back of the pantry, only really noticed once it begins to smell. I’ve been crying. Snot-dripping-into-mouth-crying on and off for two days over the stupidest things. 

My big leap is a puddle jump compared to her. I switched jobs, but not really. I moved laterally from one organization to another: same position, same kind of work. 

The only real shift was going from senior to freshman—so I feel as incompetent as ever. I know this is how it naturally should play out: growing pains, a learning curve, acclimation, adjustment. 

If I were talking to a friend, I’d tell her this is normal. It is normal to feel out of place as you adjust to something new. It's normal to feel sad even if you made the right choice. Yes, I can tell myself all these things, yet the only path forward is to feel my way through.

My fears compound, the weight of one pressing on top of another. To be honest, as much as I crave human contact, I hate it right now. I feel like a flustered mess, as if every word, tone, noise, squeak, and wheeze of mine grates upon the bones of others. 

I have forgotten how to be a person with other people. While my well of thought overflows when I’m alone, I can barely muster a handful of jumbled, stupid sentences for another person. They are nothing like what's in my head.

Though I have been in near-constant relationships since I was 14, I know I deserve and should be alone. I was born, raised, bred to be alone. My ability to truly love seems to have been beaten out of me. And at this point, it would seem that the feeling is mutual; people don't seem capable of loving me the way I want either.

What's more, solitude's eminent promise looms on the distant horizon. It scares me even more. Lately, I am cycling through five types of self-hatred, and there really isn't an end in sight. Just my own incompetence. Unwilling to stay the same and unwilling to change.

I keep telling myself all the things that are rational, logical, and make sense. I remind myself that in a few weeks, it will be different. I’ll be out of training at work and actually taking on responsibilities and tasks. I will miss all the down time. I will miss all these empty, quiet, lonely moments in my day.

What I really need is something other than me for a moment. I desperately need something outside of myself to confirm it. A hug. A sign that I’m okay. An affirmation. External validation. 

Do you think anyone in my life, unprompted, would say, "You’re okay" to me? No. They are so busy. They are not in limbo like me. They are chasing dreams of Africa, raising children, becoming doctors, taking cruises, falling in love. Don't get me wrong. I love that for them. They earned it. I want them all to succeed. 

But then there’s me. I'm just here. I can smell the rot, but I don't think anyone else can yet.

This morning my husband, the only human I talk to face-to-face, said, "You ought to think about if AI can take your job. Plan what to do. "

God. With where I'm at in this job, I barely know if I'm alive, and you say that to me. Add a new fear and incompetence to the pile.

Again, I tell myself, there's something on the horizon. This is growing pains. The learning curve. I've been here before. It always ends. But until then, I'm still just here, in the dark, waiting for the rot to be found. But no one's coming. I have to dig myself out.

Hermit Year (Almost Over)

Today I wore a necklace—

yellow dried flowers, resin

set on shell, a choker

I found at a thrift store

eleven years ago—

a lifetime ago.

I left my husband,

comatose in bed,

to see Billy Joel in Chicago

with his friend—

a woman.

I didn’t think twice

when we stopped at the thrift store.

I bought this necklace.

We went to the concert,

rode the L there and back,

fell asleep side by side

on her couch,

season two of Orange Is the New Black

spooling through the night

until Netflix asked:

Are you still there?

We weren’t.

I had already moved on—

to a new husband, new house,

new job, new life—

still wearing the necklace.

Everyone talks about five-year plans,

about goals. I never had the chance

to tell her I did those things

we dreamed about that night.

Cause divorce always ends

conversations with his friends.

And now, as the wheel turns again,

the gears grinding beneath my feet,

I see the house that was never quite right,

the coworkers I liked well enough,

the streets I never liked to drive—

and I can say goodbye, goodbye,

knowing I’ll land gracefully,

wearing the years

around my neck

like gold.

hermit year (reprieve)

How I once delighted in the thought

of folding endlessly into myself,

cradled in the quiet of only-child solitude—

a life I once treasured, now trembling.

The bridle tightens, my mane pulled

into clumsy yet unmistakable truths:

this was never how it was meant to be—

a single stall, the world blurred at my periphery.

I turned to poor company—screens—

to hearts that lit red,

to the comfortless rhythm

of ones and zeros winking at me.

I havent liked a single thing I've 'liked'

for weeks now.

And dreams of tomorrow?

Even poorer company still.

I should return to galloping—

wind, sun, and the wild beating

of hooves beside me:

the ones who loved me

even when I could not love myself.

I am tired,

worn from polishing in private—

the dull ache of unseen work

never meant to shine for anyone.

Let the viral posts wait. Let the inbox swell.

Let the to-do list yellow in the light.

Perfection is a myth I no longer feed—

its never ending need,

its reward, dust.

My dry mouth wants more.

My hermit year was not meant

to bury me deeper in shadow

but to lift me—

strong flanks, bared teeth—

northward, where I know I belong.

The South has broken me in.

Now, I lean not on pride

but on God,

and on the goodness found

in crooked lines, spilled ink,

and half-built sanctuaries.

Until I arrive at the homecoming

I’ve been hungering for

all my life.

My Hermit Year (almost halfway through)

"A young person is like the springtime of the year. The full time of the fruit is not yet, but there is promise of the blossom...Know that your life is full of glad promise. Such blessings can be yours, such joys, such wonders, as long as you develop in the sunshine of God's love."

My hermit year, almost
halfway through, is deliciously lonely—
lonely like my only-child childhood,
when a five-minute conversation
could be relived seven times before sundown,
each a different variation—
in the past, in the present,
in some imagined future—
each with a different ending.

The days folded like origami:
cranes, cats, boxes—
moments flaking off
like fish in a church fish fry sandwich,
from a church I’d never been to,
except now, because of a sign by the road
Mother saw.

We always stopped.
Summers were storytime adventures
unbothered by people or plans.
We walked through woods,
built fairy teepees from twigs,
introduced ourselves to ferns
and learned their names.
Reading, reading, reading,
acting out TV scenes—
maybe this is how people behave?

I wanted to understand them—
in the same way I wanted
to understand the opossum’s skeleton
behind a bush,
where I watched the flesh
rot away in the heat
of one lovely, lonely summer.
I learned more from that opossum
than any teacher ever tried to give.

And I’d fall asleep at night
not knowing a single thing
about what I was doing
and feeling that might be okay—
a peace in not needing answers,
just the quiet rhythm of being.
Tonight, I will sleep the same way.

Hermit Year

When the walls of Jericho came tumbling down

and I was the last one standing—

in my peat moss sandals,

adjusting my crown as a modern lady,

"I’m almost four decades younger than him."

A fact I could no longer lean on heavily,

but like a boxer on the ropes,

fighting a childhood nightmare,

I must accept it, like a punch—

This is simply me, as I was always meant to be,

and no one else’s doing.