Solitude vs loneliness

Last year, as an experiment, I chose Playa Negra in Costa Rica to spend my first solo Christmas. At a time when families gather, I aimed to experience a minimalist Noel.

"Better alone under a palm tree than in the cold," I'd tell my loved ones.

Awakening at 5:30 am to the symphony of roaring surf, howler monkeys and tropical birds, I was drawn to the emerging dawn. The air's warmth, akin to a comforting hug from nature, welcomed me.

On that beach, with the sun rising above the trees, I reflected on solitude versus loneliness. My thoughts drifted back to the Swiss Alps, where memories of my father's tragic death in an avalanche weighed heavily.

Falling crystals amplified my loneliness, mirroring the depth of emotions, much like the accumulating snow. Unmet expectations from those around me, and beliefs of how they "should" act, further heightened my sense of rejection.

But here, amidst the tranquility, I was free from triggers and expectations. The clarity was profound: the difference lay in choice and autonomy.

Now, no matter where I am, I affirm my preference for solitude and discover peace within. Of course, it's still easier under a palm tree.

'No' can be a complete sentence

Nine years ago, a member of my self-help group commented, "If you're not meditating at least 45 minutes, it's not benefitting you," just as I had shared that I'd achieved a 30-minute daily meditation routine.

His words deeply affected me, leading me to a pause in my meditation for several months.

This wasn’t the only time he provided unsolicited advice. When I mentioned considering plastic surgery for an abdominal scar and hernia removal, he again eagerly voiced his opinion. I decided to confront him.

"I feel upset when you offer unsolicited advice. Please stop,” I told him.

His puzzled expression prompted me to add that such frequent advice could hint at controlling behavior patterns, often seen in codependent relationships.

This experience underscored the importance of setting boundaries without over-explaining or justifying them. By feeling obligated to provide reasons, we can unintentionally grant others undue influence over our decisions. Boundaries are there to protect and empower us, and sometimes a simple "no" suffices.

Interestingly, I didn't feel the need to attach a consequence to my boundary, and as anticipated he refrained from offering unsolicited advice thereafter.  

Reflecting on that interaction, it marked a significant evolution in my self-awareness and self-respect. Through a Freudian lens, my boundary-setting challenges may have stemmed from unresolved subconscious conflicts or defense mechanisms that once served to protect me—perhaps giving rise to behaviors like denial, projection, or repression. These group meetings and therapy sessions were instrumental in fortifying my sense of self.

Today, as a coach, I champion the importance of boundaries. They're tools for safeguarding our autonomy and needs, not instruments of control or manipulation.

I wanted to tell him...

I’m torn. I'm grappling with a sense of disloyalty.

Here’s this guy—warm, affable, giving, and receptive—giving me a tour of the construction site for his Costa Rican dream house, perched above the Pacific Ocean. Yet, within me, a surge of indignation tightens in my chest.

“This is our daughter’s room,” he says. “She’s the surfer, so she gets this incredible view of the break.”

With a sweeping gesture of his arms, he directs my attention to a peerless panorama framed by the gap in the concrete wall. This is where the glass windows will go. He’s right. It’s an incredible sight, an unobstructed view of the waves crashing on the rocky shore 100 yards away.

“Truly an extraordinary view,” I say.

I don’t have the heart to tell him that I would never build a house in Costa Rica with glass windows. The whole point of living here is to coexist harmoniously with nature. You don’t need air conditioning if you live in a well-designed house that breathes and there are trees around.

We’re in an American-style development that was planned before Costa Rican zoning laws curbed shoreline construction. There’s no shade, as they’ve felled every tree. Large concrete houses, like this one, line the coast on half-acre lots.

Then, like a blow to the gut, he says the following:  

“I’ve bought 75 acres of forest a few miles inland, where we're planning to build 50 houses. It's a sizable undertaking.”

Not long before, he had said: “The rat race in the USA is so unhealthy.”

I want to tell him: You're bringing the American rat race down here.

Instead, I ask: “But is it necessary to develop that forest?”

“I need to in order to pay for this house," he says.

I want to tell him: You’re not rich enough to build your McMansion.

Instead, I restrain myself and retreat home.

It astounds me how that I can still like this guy and hold him in high regard despite finding myself at odds with his actions. I suppose his attributes of kindness, friendliness, generosity, and openness, are enough to harmonize my sentiments concerning him. I wonder if any of this could be applied to the current political division in our country…

Visiting, once again

The train pulls into the Swiss alpine village station. I lift my suitcase onto the railcar and plop down onto a seat by a large, clean window. I take a deep breath and enjoy the moment.

It’s great to be unhurried. Age has mellowed me. There was a time when I’d rush for trains and planes.

I have a flashback.

I’m 15, summer break is ending, and I’m leaving Switzerland to return to boarding school near Boston. My grandparents have brought me to the station, as they did each visit. 

After boarding, I look out the window. They stand, waiting on the platform.

When the train I’m on starts to move, we wave to each other. Grossmouti wipes a tear from her eye, and Grosspapa takes out his handkerchief and wipes his nose. We won’t see each other for many months; and I’m the only family they have left.

This time, when the train starts to move, I look out the window and see no one waiting on the platform. I take another deep breath and acknowledge the sadness in my chest.

The train bends, creaks, and winds its way through verdant meadows. We pass by the level crossing in my old neighborhood. Two cars and a tractor are waiting to pass. I vaguely recognize the drivers’ faces. For 13 years, my children and I were a part of this farming community, but now, I’m a visitor once again.