Reflections from the Path – Step ∅: The Sacred Bloodsport of Solitude

It starts with silence. Not the peaceful kind, but the kind that makes your skin itch. The kind of silence that crawls into your ears when the party ends, when the phone stays quiet, when the door doesn’t slam shut behind anyone because no one ever walked in to begin with. That’s not solitude. That’s exile.

For years, I mistook solitude for consequence—a verdict handed down after a hung jury of lovers, half-gestures, cowardice, and romantic sabotage. If connection was the goal, I was a back-alley street magician, brilliant at conjuring the illusion of intimacy just long enough to escape the final act. And when it all crumbled, I’d sit alone, call it fate, and pretend I hadn’t built the escape hatch with my own two trembling hands.

But there’s a second current that runs deeper—a realization that solitude isn’t punishment. It’s a practice. A choice, yes, but sometimes one we make long before we’re aware of the reasons. Maybe I didn’t want to be loved badly enough to risk being loved well. Maybe I needed to prove that I could do it all alone before letting anyone in. Or maybe, as the years stack up and the noise of the world turns shrill, I started to understand that solitude is not the absence of connection—it’s the crucible where the self gets reforged.

Fenton Johnson knows this. A Kentucky-born writer and former Harper's contributor, Johnson is one of the rare contemporary voices who speaks of solitude not as a fallback or lifestyle accessory, but as a legitimate spiritual path. In his deeply personal Harper’s essay, "Going It Alone: The Dignity and Challenge of Solitude," he argues that a consciously chosen solitary life—one that is reflective, engaged, and artistically or spiritually grounded—can be as rich and meaningful as any coupled existence. He writes from experience, having spent decades living alone, drawing strength from his proximity to the Trappist Abbey of Gethsemani, where Thomas Merton lived and wrote. Johnson's childhood was steeped in the strange, earthy mysticism of monks dancing on kitchen tables and bourbon-infused fruitcakes passed between cloister and distillery. His view of solitude was never sterile or grim. It was celebratory, embodied, and alive. And that matters—because he offers us a blueprint for how to live outside the cultural default setting without drifting into isolation or despair. He doesn’t evangelize loneliness; he elevates solitude to the level of art and spiritual governance.

And this is the difference—the razor-fine cut between solitude, isolation, and loneliness. Solitude is intentional. Sacred. It’s what’s left when you strip out the fear, the wounded ego, and the emotional debris of failed connection. Isolation is fear in drag—running from life while pretending you're choosing it. Loneliness? That’s the soul screaming because it has no one to tell the truth to.

But I’m not lonely.

I’ve got a home that feels like a Zen retreat curated by Lemmy and Thich Nhat Hanh. My dogs are joy on four legs, holy fools who teach unconditional presence better than any guru. And I’ve got people—real people—who I can call at any hour and dive straight into the heavy stuff without preamble or pleasantries. I’m not alone in the world. I’m just no longer interested in selling off pieces of myself for the illusion of togetherness.

Carl Jung said that loneliness isn’t about being alone—it’s about not being able to say the things that feel important to you. And by that definition, I’m anything but lonely. I’ve built a life around those things. Around saying them, writing them, living them out loud. What some people call solitude, I call spiritual governance. Emotional feng shui. A long, slow exorcism of the bullshit I used to call love.

And here’s the kicker—solitude isn’t just holy; it’s hilariously human. As writer and esteemed Zen teacher Zuisei Goddard has said, we want love like a starving man wants bread, and then when someone finally offers it, we run screaming into the woods. True solitude lets us feel that hunger without begging for scraps. It lets us stop chasing ghost approval and sit still long enough to hear the beat of our own goddamn hearts.

Other teachers describe it in terms of sitting with discomfort. Just sit with it. No phones. No junk food. No distractions. Just you and the abyss and maybe the faint smell of dog breath. It’s not about defeating loneliness, it’s about seeing what’s beneath it. Usually, it's not a void. It's a voice. And it says: You are already enough.

As Jane McLaughlin-Dobisz reminds us in a wonderful piece in Lion’s Roar, we’re all baked from the same cosmic cookie dough. The moon, the pine branch creaking in the wind, the strangers on the street—they’re all part of the sangha. And the sangha isn’t just the community you sit with on retreat. It’s everything. The paper has the cloud in it. The music has the silence in it. The solitude has you in it. And you are not alone.

So pour a steaming cup of mint tea or a mug of coffee hot enough to peel paint. And then sit with your silence. Reteach yourself your own loveliness. Then, if the spirit moves you, turn on some Bell Witch, light a candle, and listen to the sound of your life filling the room.

If you feel something ancient stirring in your ribs, congratulations. You’ve just met the sacred bloodsport of solitude. And this time, you didn’t flinch.