I am drinking today and I know it’s out of loneliness.
It’s one of those times where I’m completely content sitting at home in comfy clothes with a blanket on me cuddling with my cats and don’t want to make plans with anyone or leave my house or do anything at all.
And yet there’s an aching loneliness in me that has me in tears.
“Aching loneliness.” Those are the same words I’ve been using in my writing since I was a teenager.
It’s a loneliness that has no cure, because I have no desire to cure it. I don’t want to actually spend any time with anyone right now. I’m completely happy cocooned in my home on a bright sunny Labor Day drinking a delicious red wine while the scent of the Creole chicken and andouille dish simmering in the slow cooker gradually takes over my house.
It is a loneliness that is a part of who I am and for which I would trade nothing.
I could seek out activities, romantic partners, plan quality time with friends.
I could get in touch with people and get folks together for a last-minute gathering. I could replace my loneliness with love and belonging and laughter.
But I don’t want to.
I want to sit here and watch TV and be quiet and cuddle with my cats.
I want to be lonely. I don’t know why it’s satisfying, but it is.
We’re coming up on the time of year when it’s finally acceptable to embrace these witchy, dark, moody tendencies. I’ve started wearing my darker nail colors again. I’ve been craving black clothing.
I’ve been feeling intense and magical and powerful.
Magic. That’s what I feel. It comes up through the ground and it takes over my being. It floods me with knowledge of my strength and fortitude. It reminds me of my power, the core of who I am and what I’ve always been.
This is it. This time of year; this is me.
It is glorious. I accept this loneliness. I revel in it.
I sip my wine, and I light my candles, and I acknowledge the loveliness of my spirit coming home.