A perspective on the treasures of solitude
" To be alive is to not only love
- Erik Rittenberry To live is to be madly alive
your solitude, but to bring
forth the treasures only
found in solitude"
When I first read the poem by Erik Rittenberry, I was drawn to this stanza, quoted above, and how truly reflective it is of the purpose of living. To love your own solitude seems at first glance to be the type of easy going stoicism that sounds incredibly profound while scrolling through social media's sludge, or when chanced upon on a wall painted with graffiti. The truth is, regardless of where it was witnessed, this stanza carries with it an almost universal truth, that we are in some way, solitary through this pilgrimage through Earth. This pilgrimage through life, through Earth, brings us to some sacred destination, such as meaning or purpose, but the pilgrimage itself is sacrosanct, because it affords us the possibility to explore our own solitude and find these treasures that Rittenberry speaks of.
In my case, I have found that much of my life has been solitary. Indeed, in this valley, I am much of a solitary man. As the lone Indian surgeon, I find myself in the pilgrimage of solitude in a career that does demand solitude in many ways. This solitude is multifaceted, it is the solitude of my own night shifts, where I manage critically ill surgical patients till the morning shift arrives, or when I find myself returning home through the dark forested path between the hospital and where I live, meditating on the day gone past. In these solitary journeys, I have discovered that this solitude that is so often expounded upon, is almost as sacred a ritual as prayer is, and indeed, if the tradition of every monastic order is to be truly understood, this solitude is the medium through which they seek their own redemption and enlightenment. Not being much of a believer in the morality and immorality of theology, I prefer to view this solitude as a necessary nurturing medium through which we can understand ourselves better.
In my solitary walks through the forest, much my like solitary walks through other forests and cities, I have found that I love my own solitude because it allows me to critically examine myself, my thoughts, my work, and indeed the path that I must take henceforth. It also allows me to confront my shortcomings, and in the plain view of no other witnesses but myself, I am inclined to be more honest than I would be if I attempted to speak to witnesses. Aside from the usual examinations of the self, the day, and my actions and emotions, solitude is often the only soothing antidote to tumultuous and difficult days. These difficult days are many, not far between, and on most days, I have become accustomed to them in a way that it is only during my hours of solitude that I acknowledge that my day was difficult, and that I had confronted some of the worst tragedies that human beings could imagine, and sometimes the surrender to despair does seem worthwhile. After all, the work of surgery is not easy, which is why there are so few of us.
The treasures of this solitude are varied, and I doubt that they are the type of treasure that Rittenberry alludes to. There is comfort in knowing that in solitude, I can find resolution to the many dialectical opposites of the day. Between despair and hope, the bridge is built by the tentative woodwork of solitude. In my personal life, I have had to explain my existential need for solitude in varied ways, much as one has to sometimes describe a vice. Sometimes, I have described my need for solitude as a "need for study", because this is the closest approximation of what solitude sometimes is, a study of something that requires deep contemplation in the absence of other people and ideas. The treasures that come forth from this solitude are consolations arrived to by reason and deduction. Poetry is not the result of solitary meditations, and for that I am thankful, but certain convictions certainly are.
The study of these convictions is an area of focus on this site. I attempt to study these convictions, born of solitude, and to bring them forth. A long time ago, I had given up on the idea of writing, because I had feared that I had become a parody of the very thing I despised : the snot-nosed bookish academic who built sculptures to regret through his writing. It is only recently, after this meditative journey that is being a resident of surgery, that I have come to the conclusion that the treasures of my solitary pilgrimage through the world, must be given form because they are neither sculptures to regret, nor are they grandiose verbal sabre rattling to something abstract but grand, but these treasures are a series of observations, consolations and of course, wisdom, brought forth by the meditation on the innermost turmoil of the solitary foreign surgeon. It is these treasures I hope to share, because without the privilege of an audience, they remain a hidden secret and therefore, a vice.
Source
Erik Rittenberry " To live is to be madly alive" Found here