Sunday, November 22, 1998

Loneliness is a mystery, hard to define

By Sharon Randall

Loneliness is a mystery, hard to define, harder yet to fix. It means different things to different people. And as for cures, what eases it for one can worsen it for another. More than a condition, it's a question that asks, "Who are you?" And no one can answer it but the lonely.

My favorite description for loneliness is one I ran across years ago at a time in my life when I was never lonely, nor even dreamed I could be again. It was when my children were small and I, as their mother, was the most sought after, best loved and exhausted woman on Earth. Or so I often felt.

I would read to them often, partly for their edification, and partly to get off my feet. One of our favorite reads was Maurice Sendak's "Where the Wild Things Are." Do you know the story? Can you recite it from memory? I wonder how many of us can? It's about a boy named Max, who puts on his wolf suit and makes so much mischief his mother, God bless her, sends him to bed without his supper.

So Max sails off across space and time to a place every child loves and fears, the land where the wild things are. He tames the whole bunch, they crown him king and together they make all the mischief they please.

Then comes my favorite part: "And Max the king of all wild things was lonely and wanted to be where someone loved him best of all." I would read that line and my children would nod, as if to say, "precisely." Then Max would go home to find his supper waiting. And always, it was still hot.

Children know

Children know a lot about loneliness. They make better use of it than their elders seem to do. My firstborn, for example, while yet an only child, conjured up a buddy he called Benji the Blue Spider.

I worried about the boy. Not only did he insist the spider was real, he made it crawl around in my hair.

We cope with loneliness in various ways. Children imagine playmates. Teen-agers pierce body parts. Mid-lifers have affairs or buy funny-looking cars. Old people get a cat.

My dad's mother spent most of her life on a farm in the Blue Ridge mountains, alone usually, except when I was sent to visit her. I doubt she was ever lonely. She read, painted, cooked, sewed, walked the mountain everyday, and while she'd never admit it, watched her share of soaps. She always seemed glad for my company, and yet she always seemed content to be alone.

My mother's mother spent most of her life at a window looking out on the main street of town. She knew everybody, what they did and how much they paid for it. She refused to be alone even for a minute and always begged my mother to let me stay the night.

I get my nature from both my grandmothers, combine those two women like flip sides of one coin. I'm content to be alone, without being lonely; but I still want to know everybody, what they did and how much they paid for it.

Like Max, the only real loneliness I ever feel -- the question I can't answer -- is a longing to be where someone loves me best of all.

Especially if that someone would cook my supper.

Sharon Randall is a winner of the American Association of Sunday and Feature Editors and the Best of the West commentary awards. Her column regularly runs on Sunday.

Scripps Howard News Service