When I  finally coasted into The Precious Days of retirement, I knew I would have ample opportunity to indulge my need for solitude. Hours alone writing and reading and thinking and just being…heaven. The deeply camouflaged introvert in me got a chance to take center stage during lockdown, and I continued to pay attention to my need for aloneness as often as I could. 

So what is it about solitude that I love so much? I mentioned reading, writing, and thinking, my top three solitary activities. Done separately or combined they bring both peace and energy. That may sound contradictory, but I am simultaneously soothed and stimulated by my solitary time. I remember playing in a large bedroom closet for hours as a child, just me, one doll, and lots of imagination. The emotional independence of solitude was exhilarating. Negotiating play and moods with other children was something I did, of course, but it always set me on edge, as did school. It seems I was forever saying the wrong things to friends, classmates, and especially teachers. A few years later, the my teenage bedroom was another sanctuary. Every school night after dinner, you could hear the bang of my bedroom door, and I was gone for the night. School books for homework, books of poetry, a few Ingenue magazines, a Diet Pepsi, a bit of sandalwood incense to burn, and an endless stack of albums. I was in my element. Those albums, so many inspired by my brother’s extensive record collection, became the score of my formative years. Then from high school, to college, to my first jobs and apartments, to a professional career, to marriage(s), and now to The Precious Days, I have discovered that my solitude has a soundtrack. I have returned to certain songs over and over during the times of my life when I had to go deeply inside myself to just be “okay.”

I had heard the description of solitude as an oasis and loneliness as a desert.  Thinking about the oasis and desert imagery, along with my own personal soundtrack of solitude, landed me at the perfect platform for such a metaphor: BBC Radio 4’s Desert Island Discs. 

The premise of the show is: “Eight tracks, a book, and a luxury: what would you take to a desert island? Guests share the soundtrack of their lives.” I won’t go into any analysis about the book I’d choose (Loretta Mason Potts) or my luxury item (a bottomless case of journals and pens, pretty obvious). I am focused on my soundtrack of solitude. So with apologies to Lauren Laverne, this castaway is making up her own rules. 

Tracks One and Two:

When I was growing up and starting school, it became increasingly clear that we weren’t an altogether happy family like the ones on television. We weren’t always unhappy, but there was often palpable tension: some shouting, some fighting, demons my father wrestled and secrets my mother kept. Thankfully, my older brother wrestled with the real world to single-handedly bring music into our lives. He chose records that would speak to his own preadolescent tastes, but also entertain my parents. For me, the songs that flowed out of our hi-fi were a childhood backdrop to hours of sitting alone on the linoleum floor in the sunbeams of the living room bay window. This was my own little desert island, as I quietly played with paper dolls and coloring books, and imagined a happier life, courtesy of tunes like these:

There is a Place by the Beatles, Please Please Me, 1963.

“There, there is a place
Where I can go
When I feel low
When I feel blue”

Everybody Loves Somebody by Dean Martin, Everybody Loves Somebody, 1964.

“Everybody finds somebody someplace
There's no telling where love may appear
Something in my heart keeps saying
My someplace is here”

Tracks Three and Four:

By high school, things had already reached their crescendo of family dysfunction. That, coupled with my own adolescent angst, kicked my need for solitude into high gear. It was becoming more obvious to me that I liked being alone, working alone, and avoiding home and school drama. At times I felt directionless, and as with most teens, things hit hard and hurt deeply. Being alone with music helped me find solace through the sheer relatability of songs. Here are the two tracks that felt like anthems of my youth that I’d take to the desert island:

Like a Rolling Stone by Bob Dylan, Highway 61 Revisited, 1965

“How does it feel, how does it feel?

To be on your own, with no direction home

Like a complete unknown, like a rolling stone”

Hey Miss Lonely by Shawn Phillips, Faces, 1972

“Hey miss flipped-out, don't you ever want to scream and shout?
Telling this sphere about all the wrong there is, my dear
Got to remember that you're part of the day
Hey miss lonely, you can stay, don't go away”

Tracks Five and Six:

Investigating and interrogating myself, moving deeper and deeper into introspection to figure things out without the clutter of opinions, ill-fitting examples, and how to’s from others characterized the bulk of my adult years. Changes were tumultuous: acquiring degrees and certifications, changing roles in professional education, leaving and making friends, marriage and divorce. During these times, blessed solitude gave me the fortitude to persevere to brighter days, inching closer year by year to a more authentic self. Here are the two tracks I would take to the island to represent the solitude of my “adulting years”:

Landslide by Fleetwood Mac, Fleetwood Mac, 1975

“Well, I've been afraid of changin'

'Cause I've built my life around you

But time makes you bolder

Even children get older

And I'm getting older, too”

Here Comes the Sun by The Beatles, Abbey Road, 1969

“Little darlin', I feel that ice is slowly melting

Little darlin', it seems like years since it's been clear”

Tracks Seven and Eight:

During the pandemic and moving forward, more and more frequently nature has become the setting for solitude. Outdoor walks in snow, rain, and sun, from cold mornings to sweltering afternoons just feels like the right environment for deep communion with myself. Since my last years of work and into my first year of full retirement, “getting through” has moved to “keeping on.” And part of that keeping on is continuing, as a closet introvert who craves solitude, to reach out to others and give them support when they need it, work on being a good person, and try to avoid the distractions that interfere with genuine connections. These last two songs have sustained and grounded me, nurturing my love for solitude and also reminding me to continue to try to do good, even if sometimes I get it wrong—I would want these with me:

These Days by Nico, Chelsea Girl, 1967

“I've been out walking
I don't do too much talking these days

These days
These days I seem to think a lot
About the things that I forgot to do
And all the times I had the chance to”

The Weight by The Band, Music from Big Pink, 1968

“Catch a cannon ball now to take me down the line
My bag is sinkin' low and I do believe it's time
To get back to Miss Fanny, you know she's the only one
Who sent me here with her regards for everyone”

My personal solitude soundtrack has helped me both hide and heal the broken bits of life, in my own time and by my own rules. There is a rear-view mirror on my desert island oasis of solitude, and through it I’ve glimpsed sunset-bound, camel-riding ghosts, mercifully fleeting images of sadness and past regrets, and slowly evaporating mirages conjured up by guilt and worry. Year by year, the horizon reveals a more solid and hopeful future, and in the here and now I am happy with this phase of my life and the abundance of solitude. Should I take a look at solitude from another perspective? Can too much solitude possibly be a bad thing? Solitude and loneliness straddle a chasm of isolation as we age. But those deep thoughts are for the next blog post. For now, let's fill our heads and hearts with the soundtrack of The Precious Days. What would your eight songs be?