Lessons in Solitude: Arriving.

4.19.11.

It is cozy in this private room of Charleston's NotSoHostel. Titled the "Dylan Room," I cannot help but wonder if it is named after the great Bob Dylan. Single bed. Bare, wood floors. A quaint, antique-looking desk in the corner facing one of two windows.

Took three trips to lug all of my things into this room. This is my retreat, my getaway. So I want it to feel as comfortable as possible...in a simplified, bare-essentials-kind-of-way.

11:21 pm.

My GPS...er TomTom (affectionately called "Templeton" on occasion) informs me that I have arrived at 516 Spring Street. So why can I not find what I'm looking...

11:42 pm.

Still driving in circles within a half-mile radius, I'm sure. Just...want...to...park. And...sleep.

12:15 am.

My things are loaded in. There are quite a few people sitting and chatting on the second story porch outside of my room. Maybe I'll say hello?

12:16 am.

Oh wait. One predominant male voice is discussing (lecturing, perhaps? Certainly not conversing - I only hear one voice..) the economy and taxes. At 12ish am? No thanks. I'll be an introvert tonight.

12:50 am.

Room complete. So homey. Perfect for solitude. Now do I move it all out before 10 am? Money issues...

12:59 am.

Wash hands. Face feels gross. Everything feels gross after sitting in a car with myself for nearly 6 hours. Need to wash face. Why not use the hand soap for my face? Who says I can't? My face is covered in skin just as my hands are covered in an outer layer of skin. Done. My face feels awesome. And smells like lavender. Sometimes rebellion is the best option.

1:35 am.

(1) Time for sleep. (2) I'd really like to write more, though.

Okay you win, Option #2.

1:36 am.

On the drive here, I had a hypothetical glimpse into my near future (some prefer to call this a "daydream"). In this daydream, I chose this solitary retreat to be one not just of solitude, but a vow of silence. My dorm room neighbors were fascinated by my quiet manner and eventually asked me to explain. I grabbed a piece of paper and wrote the words: "vow of silence. spiritual thing." The girls were intrigued and invited me to the beach with them where we never spoke words to one another, but instead shared in the bond of peaceful, wordless days on the shore.

Such 'saintly' daydreams. We'll see how that pans out.

Now I'm thinking it might not be a bad idea to spend my time in (1) silence. (2) Or mostly silence.

Option #2 again.

Okay sleep. Good night, me.

.

Lessons in Solitude: Reflections from a Vow of Mostly Silence.

I had been desperately craving to get away. Not in the usual wanderlusting-can't-stay-in-one-spot sort of way. I needed to be alone, to breathe without uttering words in conversation. It was a strange craving for someone like myself - someone that thrives off the words from good conversation, the verbal or non-verbal company of someone else. But it was undeniably a part of me and a part of me that I would soon remedy, given the first opportunity.

This first opportunity arrived for me in the form of spring break. The studios & school that I teach for were all taking this break on the same week, hallelujah! I quickly began researching hostels on the east coast, found a cheap one in Charleston, and made my way there on the night of April 20. My car was packed and I had Ollie, the travel owl and my bicycle for company.

Once there, I made a list of vows for myself - vows of "mostly silence." My life is filled with people, talking, conversation, introductions. All beautiful things, but it is my belief that an excess of anything is in need of a break at some point.

And yes, I was at that point.

One of these vows required me to write as much as possible, ESPECIALLY when I wanted to talk about it instead. I frequently begin talking about issues and struggles before I really let them steep and sit and be meditated upon. I am not against talking to someone you trust about the things you go through, but I do believe I am at fault for too quickly speaking and not enough time spent in thinking things through first.

Which leads me to the point of this note: my journal gained a good number of ink-filled pages throughout the duration of my stay in Charleston. This week I plan to post the thoughts I feel most publicly appropriate - lessons learned in solitude. Lessons learned in steeping. Lessons learned in resting.

We'll keep it light and simple for the first couple of posts.

Lessons in Unseen Weight

2.28.11.

I close my eyes for a moment and feel the physical burn of weariness from the past few days. I am thankful to be closing up this day - the sort of day that holds a certain, unseen weight to it. The sort of day where I am aware of sirens everywhere - fire trucks, police cars, and most terrifyingly - ambulances. The sort of day where I feel close to tears at any given moment, though it is not certain why. My insecurities rise to the surface and, though I try hard to place a veil over them, it's like trying to hide behind a lamppost. The clouds toss back and forth the idea of darkness and storm, never quite sure of whether the coin is face up or tail up.

Though I try in great effort on some days to fight it, today I have given into the unseen heaviness that has seemingly slowed my steps to a crawl. I want so badly to believe that it does not exist, that it is all in my head - that I am strong enough to take on the blues in the front lines of battle. That nothing is too great to defeat me, especially something I don't even have a name for.

But no, I am only foolish enough to believe that I am invincible, that a weight cannot add pounds to my day - that I, alone, am strong enough to take on anything at any given season in my life with ease.

And I rest alone in the knowledge that my Father does not despise a bruised spirit, but cradles it like a father holding a child with scraped up knees.

Like a father waiting with open arms to a wander-lusting son, saying, "Come on, let's get the pig slop off of you. I've got a feast prepared."

Like a gardener waiting for a seed to break through the soil, patient as I am having to grow; unsure of what I will be.

I rest alone in the Loving Arms that take my bruised spirit and tell me that these bruises do not hold their sway forever. That I am not forgotten and left for dead. That I am still breathing, still filled with Life.

And life is exactly what I need to reminded of today.

lessons in greener grass.

I just got off of the phone with a dear friend. She is currently out of the country, following her heart into the great Central American unknown, teaching youth to see the world through the new eyes of a camera lens, filming heart-wrenching film projects in one of the village dumps where many call "home," pulling a kayak out in the afternoon to catch the sunset at dusk and reflect on the day. Doing exactly what she was born into this world to do for this moment.

I am here, inland and in the safe parish walls of a city I never would have imagined my trails would lead me to. Surrounded by familiar language, familiar faces, familiar conversation, the freedom to choose where I buy my groceries, easy internet access, a job that keeps me steady and lets me sit in a room with a piano.

Both decent sounding, eh?

To hear our voices on opposite ends of the phone line, you might think otherwise. Both of us weary of separate challenges, yearnings of the heart not met in our current situations....one longing for the comfort in good, familiar conversation, the other trying desperately to not focus on the urge to pack a bag and be somewhere else in the world.

Both of us are where we need to be. But that pesky, green hue is shining on the other side of the fence and I suppose it takes a conversation of stark contrast to put it all back into perspective.

My friend will have her familiar conversation soon enough. I will have my adventures in time.

Patience. Trust. Obedience. Prayer. Contentment. Discontentment. Living presently. And gratitude.

Tonight, gratitude. Reminders of the Hand that covers me in grace and blessing and love. And the pain and goodness of growth.

Visual gratitude:

Being woken up & dragged out of the house by my brother to see the sunrise. On Thanksgiving Day, 2010.

Everyone and everything used to encourage the pursuit of passions. And willing to learn your songs for free :)

My interesting variety of jobs here in Charlotte that are living proof you can make it as a "full-time musician."

Sweet reminders of my Tennessee home. The people and places that have given me foundation to be who I am becoming.

A kindred spirit, a child that brings joy and light, conversation that brings sanity, laughter and love at local bakeries.

the promise of new adventures :)

Making Altars: Part I.

Tonight is a night of remembrance. Just what were those moments where I absolutely knew, with everything in me, that God's hand was so strongly guiding me into His path for my life? The characters of the Old Testament were always building physical, tangible altars to serve as reminders of God's sovereignty in their lives. I'm okay with attempting to repeat history, with slightly different materials. For now, my "altars" will be pen to paper, keeping pace with the memories as they return to me...

"You Probably Shouldn't Be Here."

When I entered college with intentions to be a music student, I thought I could somehow get away with using my voice as little as possible. The plan was to sing in the less-strict, non-audition choir on campus so that I could meet my needed ensemble requirements and hide away with my composition papers for the rest of the time.

But, of course, this was not going to work out for me.

After studying my schedule more closely, I realized the only large ensemble that would work was, without a doubt, the ever-strict, audition-only Concert Choir.

I had never been in a "real choir" before. I'd never made it past the mostly-elderly, lightly-populated church choir of my quiet, Southern Baptist upbringing.

So you can possibly imagine the fear that welled up inside of me as I prepared myself for my first vocal audition.

I remember entering the choir director's office - quiet, timid, sure that I would be rejected the moment he realized I had no experience singing with professional groups. I handed him my application. After scanning the information, he asked what "part" I sang. "Um, I'm not sure. In church choir, they always made me sing the soprano lines." (What a lame answer! I was done for!)

He sat the paper down on the desk, looked at me and said, "If you're not sure of what part you sing, I don't even know that you should be here, auditioning for choir. And we really need altos, anyway. (silence) But since you're here, we may as well hold the audition."

At this point, I almost felt relieved. Good, I won't get in! Now they'll HAVE to stick me in somewhere else!

He began doing various exercises to find my vocal range and I sang in as much ease as I knew how. I was already at the bottom, so I had nowhere to go but up, right? We then reached the most trying point of auditions: sight-singing.

The summer before entering college, my mother "warned" me of this "sight-singing," this panic-inducing terror used by music professors to strike fear in the hearts of their students. So, on a few occasions, she would hand me a sheet of music that I had never seen before, play the first note of the phrase, and make me guess the rest. I really didn't put too much thought into it past those few moments.

Until this moment.

Just as my mother had prepared me, the choir director played the first note of the line and left the rest up to me. When I finished, he seemed surprised and said, almost to himself, "Huh. That was better than most of my upperclassmen."

The dreaded audition process ended soon after and his parting words to me were, "Well, I think we can give you a spot in the alto section."

And that. Was that.

But in my heart, "that" was much bigger.

"God, what did you sign me up for?" A sense of joy, of excitement began to fill me. The choir director's doubts had been proven wrong! I couldn't have predicted this outcome if I had tried.

And so, for the next four years of my life, I experienced "real choir." My spring breaks were always decided for me, as we spent the week touring around a part of the United States or another part of the world. My "free" hours of the day lessened due to extensive rehearsals and campus concerts. My ears always ringing with the sound of vocal student friends belting out their latest soulful rendition of our semester's repertoire. And I would not have traded it for the world.

I knew, as I would soon see in many other instances, that God did not hold a desire for me to half-heartedly sing in the background, in the seemingly easier paths of mediocrity. I was to pursue this gift with excellence, always. I am to pursue this with excellence, always.

Maybe I don't always know what part to sing. At least, not yet. Maybe it's when I am at the bottom with nowhere else to go but up, that I am able to sing with ease. Because His promises are greater than what my straining eyes cannot yet see. So yes, excellence. Always.

Even if I am told I probably shouldn't be here.

Quiet mornings.

I'm looking forward to having this sort of morning when I wake up.

location: Manali.

what i've been up to lately.

For edited versions of some of these photos, click here: erin.daltonphotos