Solitude

I love the word solitude. It’s pure Latin of course, as many of the best English words are. A good Latin dictionary will give you a thought provoking array of possibilities to translate the noun solitudo-solitudinis (third declension feminine) ‘a being alone, loneliness, solitariness, solitude, lonely place, desert, wilderness, desolation, want, destitution, deprivation, orphanage, bereavement.’ I was struck by the darker tone to some of the meanings when I looked up the word. My unconscious assumption had been that solitude had an entirely positive meaning in English, denoting a pleasurable state of being alone with one’s thoughts. However when I reached for our Chambers English dictionary I stood corrected: ‘solitariness: absence of company, a lonely place or desert.’

 The fact that I’ve seen solitude as a constant friend for as long as I can remember can be traced back to the third verse of the classic Buddhist work, ‘The Thirty Seven Practices of a Buddha’s Child’ by the Tibetan Buddhist master Gyaltse Thogme Zangpo (1297-1371). I committed this text to memory as a child and Verse 3, with its wise and wonderful advice to ‘rely upon solitude’ when strengthening one’s practice of ethical behavior and disengaging from thoughtless participation in worldly life has always been my favourite one.  In a similar vein, a friend and I have just begun re-studying the seminal guide to the Buddhist path, ‘Entering the Bodhisattva Conduct’ by the great 8th century Indian Buddhist saint Shantideva. There are several verses on solitude in Chapter 8 ‘Meditation’ which cause a deep well of happiness to spring up within me when I read them;

‘Disillusioned with the objects of desire,

I will develop joy in solitude.

in peaceful forests

With no conflict or defilements.

Fortunate ones, cooled by sandalwood moonlight,

Stroll and contemplate the benefit of others,

Among wondrous palaces of immense rocks,

As a silent, soothing forest breeze blows.’ (Chapter 8 Verses 85-86)

And so, whenever I hear the word solitude it feels just like coming home; the silent yet essential counterpart to true enjoyment of the company of others and of course to any meaningful and positive human interaction.

Those dictionary definitions got me to thinking though. A rather uncomfortable degree of self reflection revealed that much of the past decade which we have spent in the US has been, for me, a study in a desolate manifestation of solitude. It is one that creeps up on you by degrees and can suffocate you before swallowing you whole unless you wake up to the death grip which its anaesthetizing tentacles have you locked in. It is as far from the life affirming and morally strengthening sense of solitude as it is possible to be. A fact which illustrates the breadth and depth of the reach of this abstract noun and is a stark reminder of the inescapable need for ruthless self examination and honesty for anyone desiring more than an ultimately unfulfilled life and waste of human potential.

As it happens, there’s one more reason why I reached for that Latin dictionary a few days ago. I’ve been singing again recently. After returning from France somehow it didn’t quite flow. My teacher went on tour, then I was out of town and the weeks escaped us. Now that lessons are back on track we’ve been casting around for material for me to get my teeth into. The answer came calling while I was chatting with a friend about our favorite female singers. There’s really only one and there she was in all her magnificence in my mind’s eye: Billie Holiday. As my amazing teacher Sandra Pehrsson is a wonderful jazz vocalist, learning to sing in the style of Lady Day is going to be an exciting new project.

If we take solitude as desolation momentarily then I think that Billie Holiday, of all artists, might have known a thing or two about it. I first discovered her while studying at St Anne’s College, Oxford many moons ago. There was a Jazz Club that we all joined as green first year students as I recall. It met every Wednesday evening upstairs at the Wheatsheaf pub in town. Those were great nights. One of the students who was a regular singer must have performed one of Billie’s songs. From there I discovered the album Solitude and fell in love with every song. Each time that I listened her voice transported me back to a world of effortless cool. She channeled world weary sophistication and heartbreak and conjured up late nights, smoke filled rooms, tinkling martini glasses and searing emotional pain through her pace and phrasing alone. Whenever I hear these songs I’m always conscious of the tragedy of her life experience and of the words from Not Dark Yet by Bob Dylan, ‘Behind every beautiful thing there’s been some kind of pain.’

Yesterday morning my daughter who has been sick this week and I dropped my son at the bus stop under a heavy grey sky. We dashed back to the car and were cocooned within our own small solitude while a flash rain shower drummed against the roof. I have been playing Billie Holiday in the car partly for my own enjoyment and also to deepen my daughter’s musical appreciation. The seamlessly elegant track, You Turned the Tables On Me, floated on the air. Suddenly it occurred to me that Lady Day should always be heard on vinyl where texture and depth are permitted to dwell in the experience and not through Apple Music on a car stereo hurtling blindly towards the digital fragmentation of the very fabric of our world.

Perhaps we all need to remember that solitude is essential if we are to begin to come to terms with the tragedy of our human existence and to light the lamp which will, in the final end, burn brightly enough to illuminate our own darkness. To quote the Bard of Hibbing once more,

I was born here and I’ll die here against my will

I know it looks like I’m moving, but I’m standing still

Every nerve in my body is so vacant and numb

I can’t even remember what it was I came here to get away from

Don’t even hear a murmur of a prayer

It’s not dark yet, but it’s getting there (Not Dark Yet, Time out of Mind 2001)