Journal Writing Winter 1977 "Solitude"

January, 1977.  Journal entry:

It's Friday night.  The kids are noisy.  They don't 'unnerve' me somehow but I worry about tomorrow night when Alb has friends in for a sleep over.  I tune in differently when others are here.  It makes me nervous!

Also, I'm not feeling well.  I slip into a warm tub, and I'm beginning to feel better.  The kids are quieting.  It's about 10˚F outside and blizzard conditions.  Somehow this makes me feel secure and comfortable.

My husband is going to Germany for IBM next week.  I'd probably panic on Sunday (getting him packed, etc.).

Now the water in the tub is off.  It was a soothing sound.  The mumble now of the TV is more disconcerting than soothing.  It's just loud enough to almost make out what it's saying, so I find myself straining without quite hearing.

I know I would not like a life of complete solitude, yet I wonder what would happen.  It may be like being in complete darkness---you wonder if the world is still there until you reach out and touch it.

If I had complete solitude, it would mean no phones, no cats stroking my legs for food--scratching the rug to signal, "time to go out!"  (It's not the master that trains the cat, it's the cat that trains the master.)

It would mean no dogs to walk, to wonder what they're barking at, no dogs to pick chicken off the bones for their scraps.  And no children, husband, friends or social life at all.  But, then, it would almost be like I never existed in the first place.  I'd just be taking up room.