I arranged my life so that now, at 70 years old, I’m able to live my fantasy: time and space to myself. Freedom from commitments, other than those I choose. And what I choose most often these days is solitude.

I’m writing this in my “office,” which is a mess of books and papers and a few cardboard boxes holding more books and papers and unused power cords. There’s a space heater under the desk (actually a table) and a gym bag in the corner, a few paintings hung on the walls and propped on the bookcases, including a few by my daughter, and mismatched file drawers and some very cool bookends from my sister. The plywood floor is partially covered by a threadbare oriental rug that came to me from someone, somehow, some time, and the rest features painted dragons and faces and the words “Super Lizard Save Me” framing a creature that looks something like a frog with arms (front legs?) raised in a posture that might be threatening if it looked more like a lizaard.

The view out the window is the lush green of leafing-out trees and a profusion of wild growth along the creek, which runs behind the barn and, and this time of day, sparkles with reflection of late afternoon sunlight.

It’s a rich and beautiful environment, but something – maybe everything important – is missing. I sometimes force myself to spend more time with friends and family and also find the anonymity of the crowd is one way to feel alive without feeling self conscious. This is why I can boldly claim to be an “extroverted introvert.” But it takes a burst of energy to leave this cloistered existence, and no matter how spectacular or exhilerating the temporary escape, I always long to return. The return is richer for the going away. But being here, alone, for too long is also a problem. And so tonight, despite the quietude and solitude and embrace of nature and exactly the life I envisioned for so many years, I’ll head down to the tavern for a burger and beer I don’t need, a game of pool against myself, the company of familiar strangers, maybe more, but for certain, the pleasure of returning to this place I call home.