On Being a Hermit

"Silence is the space in which God has been poured. Drink it."

                                                 - Rumi

I think I’m a hermit. Or a half-hermit. Or a hermit wanna-be. Which brings me to today’s question: Is there anything to be gained by spending time in long-term, intentional solitude? I’m interested in your stories. Here’s mine.

I remember three significant solitary retreats that took place over a period of five years in three different countries: Honduras, Argentina, and Bolivia.

 

In Honduras, I took the bus to Valle de Angeles, a small village known for its artisans.  Dropped off at the town square, I walked for several kilometers on a dirt road to a cabin, my guitar case handle blistering my palm.  For four days I stayed in a friend’s remote log cabin built from trees felled on the land site.  I cooked on a Coleman stove, read by kerosene lamps, and tried to sleep in the loft where the bright eye of the moon turned my nights into restless tossing and turning.  Strange, owl-like noises kept me awake.  Were packs of wild dogs circling the cabin? I was a stranger in a strange land, face to face with my own fears, with no real locks on the doors. Before long, though, I threw away my watch and sat for long stretches of unmeasured time playing my guitar, writing, and observing ant colonies.

In Buenos Airesa few years later I holed up in a cold, damp hostel in the theater district.  An ancient elevator with visibly fraying cables took me to the fourth floor.  When the accordion doors opened, I peered down four stories through a three-inch crack and stepped onto the solid floor.  My simple room held two pieces of furniture: a tiny bed with an obligatory bed stand. Wooden shutters opened to a factory courtyard, fog, and rain.  With no desk to write upon, I spent ten days drinking strong, Argentinean coffee at cafes in that domed city whose cathedrals reminded me of Spain. A solitary traveler so many thousands of miles away from home; I fought that gremlin of loneliness that often accompanies those who visit strange cities.  I walked wet cobblestone streets, made friends with the street peanut venders, and wanted to stay for a lifetime in that space where no one knew me, and no one had expectations of me. My time was my own, not parceled out in responsible portions.

Then: the Bolivian convent and Semana Santa, the Holy Week of Easter, when grief and huge decisions weighed upon me.  Once again I found myself on a bus.  It took me to the end of a dirt lane that led to a rural convent that housed kind sisters dressed in simple, gray habits.  I chose to be silent, so they served me homemade soup without needless chatter or curious glances at the green-eyed gringa.  I walked through the cloistered gardens bordered on all sides by an adobe wall with wrought iron Spanish gates made of intricate swirls, curves and leaves.  Outside on deserted, dusty roads, I walked until my feet blistered. I discovered no lightning bolt answers to my questions, and no decisions were made. But, I found that I could carry on. I left feeling as though my soul had returned.

I don’t know why I’m such an advocate for solitude. My times in hermitage haven’t sent me booming life-changing answers.  I haven’t been enlightened by an eternal Truth to bring down the mountain on stone tablets.  What I do come away with after intentional time in solitude is a centering, a calming, an internal quietness. Minus the hubbub of daily life, hermitage gives me a chance to turn down my internal noise, quiet the monkey-mind, breathe deeply, and let my hair, so primly tied up in a bun, loose to the wind.

Comments

[Datta]

I've spent time in hermitage officially and unofficially.
The official times were done at the Lama Foundation in Northern New Mexico in two very small 'hermitages'.
The unofficial time was done in my home on 7 acres with my daughter who was born 3 months early during the winter and wasn't allowed to go out due to the fear of catching a life-threatening virus.
It was December when she came home from the hospital and from then on I was at home with her, pumping breastmilk, pouring it down her feeding tube, and feeding myself. I was able to sneak out in the early morning when the grocery store opened and no one else was there shopping.
This lasted for about 5 months with occasional outings and visits with friends that ended with me stripping all my germ-laden clothes off and scrubbing my body before touching anything.
This experience had the most profound effect on me. I feel as though I became a different person after that very internal time. I became oversensitzed to the outside world. I started seeing germs flying around in the air and feeling them land on my body. I found people who coughed without covering their mouths disrespectful, I mean after all, my daughter's life was at stake here.
I grew sensitive to more than the germs of others though. Something happened to me that I still cannot explain. Either I was changed by the experience or something inside me was lifted to the surface. I became fearful of peoples emotional germs in the air, heck, I even became fearful of mine. Fearful that I wasn't strong enough to fight-off what might land on me, I quickly ousted all the emotional sneezers out of my life and only surrounded myself with those who were willing to own their own snot.

[Graham Harris]

I decided recently that human relationships are not for me. That is, relationships involving any real emotinal content. Having studied and taught psychology in universities around the spinning maggot pile called the Earth I am now emotionally drained. I am 65 yrs old. I live with my beautful boxer dog "Bibs" in one of the most beautiful villages in France. My view is uninterrupted 65 miles towards the Auvergne.
My interests are very broad but all now enunciate people. Remember the line from paint your wagon? "Only people make you cry".

Great blog Shamash - share many of your implicit views. Was a great Kerouac fan in early life.

Love to hear from you.
Graham H

[jeanette]

I find I need to consciously go into "Intentional Solitude" periodically, if only to regain and reclaim my sense of self, my center, and what I am about in this crazy, confusing world of ours. If not for this, I would go crazy, too. So, my Intentional Solitude times are precious times, a way of cleansing the dross and falseness off me, and make me one with my heart and soul again.