Thriving in the White Space

The little redheaded girl next to me, probably about six or seven, had been watching me.  I knew this because I could sense her bright blue eyes, full of questions, and the gentle puff of air generated against my skin by her long, straight hair when she swished it back and forth.

“You didn’t color in all the spaces,” she said finally, breaking her silence.

It was my turn to stare.  Then I noticed that her sheet of paper with its abstract peacock (drawn with black lines, ready for coloring), had been filled in every space with shocking shades of pink and green and yellow.  I compared our two masterpieces.  Mine had white space – parts without color – hers did not.

“No, I did not, because I think it looks good this way.  But yours is beautiful.”

“Yours could be beautiful too if you colored it all in like it’s supposed to be.”

“Did you make up this rule?  Because I didn’t know there was such a rule.”

She fidgeted for a few seconds and then hesitantly said, “Yes.  I made it up.”

We parted ways when her mother called her, and she skipped away to join her family for their next cruise adventure.

My next cruise adventure was a trivia contest involving the sitcom, “The Big Bang Theory.”  I got five right out of twenty, so basically, I flunked.  I did even worse with the Harry Potter trivia, which was shocking – only four out of twenty.  So much for trivia.  So much for thinking I knew just about everything about Harry Potter.

At dinner that night, and at dinner every night that I dined in the main restaurant on the ship, my waiter for the evening would ask me one version or another of: “Are you … alone?” 

After a few nights, I started telling my latest waitperson outright, before he or she could ask, because the act of asking me the question seemed to cause such anguish for them – I suppose because they felt embarrassed or concerned or sorry for me.

            “Is someone else joining you?”

            “Will the other party be joining you soon?”

            “Who are you cruising with?”

            “Where is your family?” 

No, I didn’t misplace or forget anyone, trust me.  It’s just me, and me alone.  I know four people are crammed into the stateroom next to me, but in mine, there are no relatives stowed away.  I am cruising alone.  I know it’s hard for you to understand, but I am just fine with the arrangement.

What was meant to be a family Christmas cruise – me with my niece and her family – didn’t turn out that way.  So, I decided to travel solo, on my first cruise ever.  And I was most definitely not alone. 

If you’ve ever been on a cruise, you know exactly what I mean.  Even with COVID-19 restrictions and a ship that was intentionally not at full capacity, there were (mostly) masked people literally everywhere.  How could anyone ever feel alone on a cruise?

I had plenty of time, however, to think about this idea of being alone amid throngs of fellow humans, and what it means to truly be – and feel – alone.

I suppose in a situation where people are expected to gather to share a common experience, it is odd to encounter someone who has chosen to share that experience only with herself.  But first and foremost – as a massive introvert – I relished the idea of my own time, my own way, in a place where food, fun and frivolity were within easy reach. 

Second, I had been through a challenging year, accentuated by the loss of my best friend one year prior and retirement from my 40-year public relations career, and I needed an escape, anywhere, anyhow.  I needed to get out of the house, out of Houston, out of the sameness of every single day that had imprisoned me and stalled my life.  I needed to shake things up, and as it turned out (while having my family with me would have been ideal), being alone and savoring my aloneness was exactly what I needed.

As I expected, I did meet a few other women – single or not – who were traveling alone. And each in her own specific, tailored manner, was having a blast.  Gambling, drinking, dancing, belting out songs in the karaoke bar, dressing up for dinner, laughing at the comedians, lying on lounge chairs on the lido deck with their Walmart bikinis and extra flesh spreading out, not a care in the world.  God bless them all.

Why is the idea of joyful or at least comfortable or successful aloneness not acceptable, not considered normal, not celebrated?  Many people choose to live alone when there are other choices.  Many people travel alone, cruising or otherwise, often paying higher prices for their choice of single occupancy, of wanting to be with their own person, of desiring to soak in new experiences without interpretation or compromise or judgement.

During the last year I have wrangled with the concept of aloneness versus loneliness, but it’s clear to me now that I have allowed others to define my aloneness for me.  And I have allowed myself to insert anxiety where it does not belong.  Aloneness does not create anxiety.  Aloneness does not create loneliness.  There is absolutely no reason for me to feel anxious or lonely.  I am surrounded by friends and neighbors and family who include me in their inner circles.  I have activities – more than I could possibly do in one week – and I am okay with where I am at this moment in time, as my journey to reinvent myself continues.

We all need white space in our lives.  Emptiness that does not require filling, openness that should never be closed.  Not everything is bright red or sky blue or sunshine yellow, nor should it be.

Coloring is something I have always enjoyed; in fact, one of my aspirations as a retiree is to restart my attempts at artistic endeavors that I naively began as a teenager, when I had tons of white space, before life began filling it up with college and work and others’ expectations, and I forgot what it felt like to thrive in emptiness, in self-managed isolation.  I forgot what it meant to float blissfully alone in the white space.

One of the best times I had on the cruise involved a clamshell chair, facing the beautiful deep blue Caribbean water, glorious clear blue sky, and my newly pedicured baby-blue toes.  Floating, mesmerized by the sound of the ship’s surge through the soothing water, swaying gently in pure abandonment.  I was suspended, just me, with nothing required or scheduled or expected.  I had found my bliss … The White Space.