Gregarious Loner

I caught this self-description by a commenter on Friko's blog the other day and I thought: that's me.

This wonderful world of blogging gathers us kindred spirits from around the globe and pulls us all together in virtual conversations and we click with each other, no matter the age, no matter the gender. And blog meets, (though I have an affinity for the term Blog Meats, ha-ha, get it?) where one meets another blogger in the flesh so to speak, prove just as interesting as the virtual connection and are even more enhanced by the fresh non-blogged information exchanged.

Maybe the virtual circle of friends I connect with fairly regularly are all gregarious loners whether in partnered relationships or not.

I love my solitude, cherish it, defend it, embrace it.

And I'm one of the most gregarious people you'll ever meet!

And on that note, I am so looking forward to my Blog Meat with Conor. Soon. Yes, he of the recent trip around the world fame. And when I do, ye all can be assured I will shut up and be quiet.

Did You Ever Lose a Day?

.

Penne with pancetta, pesto, sultanas and cauliflower. Made in a fog.

I just did. I can't find it anywhere. I was out on the roads today, doing a bit of training, avoiding the phone, I knew it was full of demands on my time. You know how that is? It was Gregarious Loner time, emphasis on the loner part. I had upped my mileage and as is my wont I make of these long treks a kind of meditation. I hear the brooks, the soft lap of the ocean, the birds, oh the myriads of sounds from the birds!, I feel the slight fog on my face as I listen to the far off foghorns warning the ships at sea, count the wild flowers which are consuming the roadsides, wafting a heavenly scent which mingles with the pinewood.

I thought to myself: I can do the phone catch-up thing tomorrow, I'll be up to advancing out, being entertained and entertaining for some visiting guests of friends. Sunday is like a vast beautiful blanket in front of me. I'll finish the short story, I'll respond to some emails, hey, I might even go and whale-spot too. "Good times" as Daughter is fond of saying.

But something wasn't right. You know how that is. I'd called my old friend in Dublin this morning as it was her birthday. But surely her birthday was Sunday not Saturday? June 30th. That is Sunday. Today. OMG! I stopped in my tracks. What happened to Saturday? Think.

I'll tell you what happened to Saturday. Saturday I had an 8k race scheduled at just about dawn. But back up to Friday night. Friday night from hell. When I'm sick it's like the end of the world. And Friday night? My stomach was in such spasms that there wasn't a wink of sleep to be had and I searched the entire house for it. Could. Not. Be. Found. Around 4 a.m. I gave up and took an ibuprofen. I rarely take meds of any kind. At 6 a.m. I finally fell asleep. At 10 a.m. I woke up again. Death warmed up doesn't even begin to describe the pitiful face I saw in the bathroom mirror. I crawled back to bed. And missed the race.

Saturday must have happened without my participation. I do remember cooking a lovely Italian dish from memory which involved penne and pesto and sultanas and pancetta and cheese. But I was like a bystander. The pain finally left me sometime in the afternoon but me and the jam-jams never parted company all day.

I'm prone to these occasional debilitating bouts now and again. But I've never lost a day to it before.

And I'll never get it back. And that makes me sad.

Suspension Bridge

On one side of the bridge is the solitude, the reclusiveness, the state of aloneness.

On the other is the support, the friendship, the love from others.

Sometimes I have to force myself to cross that bridge and interact with my own species. I've talked about being a gregarious loner, well sometimes the "lone" part has a very slender thread to the "gregarious".

I ignored a call to attend a turkey dinner yesterday with people I very much care about. The idea of being alone had far more appeal. And I find it does for the most part lately and I am more than a little wary of it.

The darker internal machinations start to assemble in a corner of my brain and begin to sharpen their weapons. I ask myself, are others like me? I do believe they are. Well, some are.

Old thoughts surface. Memories of my missing daughter for one. That never leaves, it just goes into a somnolent state and then the darker forces get noisy and wake her up. A few of the "might-have-beens" join her and then a cluster of long lost relatives and friends. I have to force myself to pick up the phone, rejoin community, make arrangements for a chat, share feelings with the few trusted others I have in my life.

So today, I move along that suspension bridge to the other side and rejoin society. If I hang in the middle too long, the wind picks up and it starts to sway rather dangerously.

I do not ponder on what would happen with an extended stay on the solitary side of it. I have seen those darker forces win the day, slashing the slender wires to sanity and allowing the madness to take over. Completely.

Hospitality

hos·pi·tal·i·ty


/ˌhäspəˈtalədē/


noun

noun: hospitality

1.
the friendly and generous reception and entertainment of guests, visitors, or strangers.

synonyms: friendliness, hospitableness, warm reception, welcome, helpfulness, neighborliness, warmth, kindness, congeniality, geniality, cordiality, courtesy, amenability, generosity, entertainment, catering, food
"we found nothing but hospitality among the local inhabitants"

adjective

modifier noun: hospitality

1.
relating to or denoting the business of housing or entertaining visitors.
"the hospitality industry"

I just hosted a young teacher from Boston. She booked for one night and then booked another. We talked solid for both nights. She was in her early thirties and had travelled the world. It is extraordinary in this hospitality industry the deep connections that are possible. I think it's the opportunity to reinvent oneself. To present this temporary self: a shiny version of what one would like to project all the time to the world. Fresh, clean, no hang-ups, positive, tidy, organized and optimistic. A scintillating raconteur. A story teller par excellence. A few days of mutual discovery are just about right. Though I have hosted singles for nearly 2 weeks. Twice.

It shows me also I am not too reclusive, I love good conversation but not all the time. These interactions sharpen my skills and also extend me a little as I include breakfast so thus have to be a little creative in the culinary arts. But not too much.

The gregarious part of my "gregarious loner" status comes out to play and interact. And that is all good. And to get paid for what I love to do is pretty damn amazing.

Blurt on Old Age and Community

What I didn't expect when I took on the position of Chair of our Tenants' Committee was the level of enthusiasm and engagement at our first couple of meetings.

There was no problem with securing a secretary and a treasurer and a vice chair and a liaison person with the social committee. A speedy agreement on our mission was established. 

Frankly, I was surprised at the different life stories and backgrounds that bring so many to the table of mutual benefit and co-operation. 

There are 5 women and 3 men on the board. All in the same age bracket. 70 and upwards. I expected some misogyny from the men, being of the age of more patriarchal dominance, but so far I've seen none exhibited which heartens me completely. None over-talking the women, everyone listening and respectful.

I am not a social butterfly in the building for I am a gregarious loner as long time readers of my blog know. I do not participate in all the social activities here apart from the odd BBQ or Seasonal Communal Dinners. The fact that I was voted into this position continues to astonish me. I have only a select few co-residents in the building that I would call friends. I have very strong boundaries on those with whom I engage on a familiar level and discourage doorbell ringing and unexpected "drop-ins." 

But it really struck me after the last meeting a few days ago that elders have so much to contribute on a communal level when given the opportunity.  

We have a seniors environment that often resembles a boarding school with cliques and infights over the tiniest things. As I've mentioned before, I have the kind of face that everyone tells their secrets to. So yes, I hear about the spats and romances (you'd be shocked!).

But with expanding their worlds into the bigger picture, kindness and working, even a little, for the benefit to all, these elders show a different, side, a better side.

I'm hoping my perception doesn't change. 

And if it does, only for the better.

Well, blow me down!

Darby and Joan from an old English painting, artist unknown.

At my stage in life it's really, really hard to surprise me with how people behave and act.

We are veering into normalcy here with regard to Covid. Most are lined up for our second jab if we don't already have it and visits and drop-ins by friends are re-starting. 

A friend dropped in yesterday for coffee. She followed me into the building about a year after I moved in.

She's more social than I am, much to her grief now, as she has been taken advantage of and is really angry with herself. I had said to her to be careful when she moved in. A dear friend of mine who had lived in the building for yonks and who had introduced me to the possibility of my getting  on the waiting list here had put a word in my ear about getting close to anyone here when I eventually moved in. 

I don't need much warning of such things as I am a gregarious loner by nature and have different criteria for selecting friends which usually don't involve the coincidence of geographical proximity. I am useless at small talk and it abounds in this building. So I have kept my polite distance.

So I mentioned to Terry (not her real name) that I had noticed a remarkable thinning of the ranks when I traversed the community rooms and the halls with some apartments absent their usual festoons of art and décor around their entrances.

"Oh, there's quite a few have moved out," she said, "I suppose you don't know."

"Know what?" I responded, concerned as to possible infestations of rats or plumbing outbursts.

"Silver Seniors."

"Holy Mother of God, what?"

"Covid has sent so many here on the online hunt for a partner - and many have been successful, they're leaving in hordes with the new fellahs!"

I'm still flabbergasted, still laughing. Still amazed at all these white haired older women suddenly partnering up and leaving their independence. 

Carpe diem indeed.

30 Days - Day 2

Parties. There's one on tonight. A lovely lady who turns 88. Big hall rented. Loads of food, booze and live music. About 50km from here.

Invitations like this have two responses in me. Initially I agree to go, especially when the lady herself phones me and tells me I HAVE to be there. I always agree. Initially.

Second response is today. Reality: going there will destroy my Saturday. I despise participating in such events. Mainly because I'm not very social. Small talk evades me completely. Being around relentless conviviality leaves me exhausted.

My week's quota of rhubarb-rhubarb was used up at a dinner party yesterday and the host, a dear friend, was in bed with the flu and all the out-of-town guests milled around to lay out the food, etc., and I dredged my brain coming up with topics when called upon and responding with interest to those brought up. There was a toddler and lots of baby talk and the teevee on all the time even during dinner. I made it through for about 2 hours but I always leave such events thinking to myself: what the hell is the matter with you? I'm definitely and positively missing some kind of social gene.

See, I'm basically a gregarious loner and the prospect of two nights in a row making nice is frightening to me. Don't get me wrong, a gathering of likeminded spirits really turns my crank and one-on-ones are fantastic, I've had a few throughout this week.

So my strategy now is: an "oops, not feeling well" at the last minute. Which seems to work best though I need to brace myself for onslaughts of tubs of chicken/turkey soups which has happened before for this socially inept liar. Which makes me feel worse, i.e. sickened.

And I deserve to feel that way. Right?

30 Days - Day 9

The man in front is 95 YO next birthday.

I'm boring myself. These slices of life aren't too interesting are they?

Today. Well, today I made a huge stockpot of soup. I start off with my batches of stock from the freezer, every time I cook veggies or fish or meat, I save the water and freeze it. So the soup? I've been making this "recipe" for yonks, it's a pumpkin based effort with aforesaid stock. I fry up lots of onions and garlic first in a good oil, I then add my own pungent spices, coat masses of any on-hand veggies (I counted 11 different ones today) in this, golden them all up and add the pumpkin, the veg stock and about 16 cups of water and sprinkle about 1/4 cup of coconut flour on top. Adds a lovely smooth sweetness to it. After mixing everything thoroughly I simmer it all for 2-3 hours.

Then I take the immersible blender and have at it for a couple of minutes until it's smooth. This freezes beautifully in small containers. Yield today: 16 servings. Daughter dropped off all her fridge contents here before going to Ontario for a few weeks so soup was the solution to these masses of veggies.

But the big question remains: what do I do with the 3 dozen of her eggs. I already have 2 dozen of my own.

This afternoon I went to a party, see picture above. And enjoyed myself. Great live music and I entertained myself with taking pictures and smiling a lot. The gregarious loner emerged briefly from her cave.

And tonight the fire is beautifully warm as there is a distinct chill in the air.

And in the idle hands department: I started another afghan for a special person.

Being Present

Fogo Island at yesternight taken by Paddy Barry, enbiggen to take your breath away

Sometimes I am overwhelmed with people's kindness. Today, and I hope all days, I will notice and be grateful.

In the last few minutes, an acquaintance, a boat captain, dropped off a passel of freshly caught cod.

After lunch at a friend's today, she gifted me with fresh limes, more cod, moose and my dinner for later.

Then my cousin called from Ireland, it was "free calls to Canada" day on her service.

And it looks like my two person play is going to fly with wings now and play here and maybe Ireland in the fall of next year.

I feel like I'm coming out of an awful, stumbling, numbing fog. I haven't shared a lot of it here as, seriously, I thought I was losing my mind along with my health. I can't thank my grief therapist enough. My treatment is ongoing and his assistance in my process is invaluable. It's far from over. It's almost like I have to reinvent myself and focus more, much more, on my existing support network and forcibly interact at a level I'm comfortable with, with those who care for my wellbeing. For a gregarious loner like me that can be a bit of a mountain but I'll put on the climbing boots. I was making streams of excuses about old friends being far better than new friends, why invest time in new friends when they could drop off the face of the earth too, blah-blah. And no joint history doncha know. I'm awfully good at shopping from the excuses wagon.

As the man said, I had lost all trust in myself and now it's filtering through.

Being present. Meditating. Suiting up and showing up. All is beginning to feel well.

Swimming in the Sea of Me

~~Photo of sunset, from my front deck, a couple of nights ago.

~~Facts about me:

Even if I lived in just one room, I could not live without a cleaning person. I can make an instant slum of any room, anywhere, in about 2 minutes. I scatter into peripheral bits: books, pots, hair bling, PJs, favourite pillow, shoes, towels, journal, meditation assists, clothes sorting, laptop, cords, printer, coffee mug. You get the picture.

I still get totally insecure around a male who takes an interest in me.

I would be considered a 'best friend' by at least four men and five women.

I've never been bored in my life.

I could talk the hind leg off a donkey.
BUT
I am a very good listener.

I am a foodie who can't keep cookies, candies, sweets, chocolate, biscuits, icecream, cakes or pastries in the house as I don't have an OFF switch. Sorry, drop-in guests.

I was a two pack (50) a day smoker and quit cold turkey over 23 years ago. I would have a carton in my car, in my office and in my house. I never ran out of ciggies.

I am a news junkie.

I take on too many things at once. See NOW.

I am one of those rare birds who knows she is happiest living alone. Well, okay, with Ansa.

I would be considered an eccentric oddball by my siblings.

Best description of me would be a "Gregarious Loner".

Peopled Out, Iceberged In

Because I'm a gregarious loner, I like a lot of downtime, away from the maddings. This week was a rough one, an ongoing intense quality and quantity to human exposure for me. Drop ins. Don't like them. But I foolishly hung out the tax services shingle and I figure all told, with the drops and convos about life stories and Uncle Ned, great fellah you should have met him, I'm making about $5.00 an hour if I factor in the social aspect. Big Mistake.

I'm very fussy as to friends. Loads of acquaintances but friends I can count on one hand. So I have to wear my nice for these tax clients and engage with them reluctantly but smilily. I am sensitive to social cues but most people are not, I find. I say I'm sorry but I'm busy but I imagine they think that applies to others and not them as they ramble on about Auntie Mildred and Grandfather Jack and just who are in these photos around my living room.

Meanwhile some ancient ice has been hanging around outside my front door. Pictures, yes. And this is after a couple of weeks as the weather has been glorious and most of the ice has melted, it covered the bay at one point and there were mini-mountains bobbing along.

I can't imagine what this gigantic ice melt has done to the glaciers of Greenland and to the planet's health. And they are here far too soon this year. And apparently are only the precursors of more yet to come.

My World of PGs*

*Paying guests

It's busy out here in my little corner of the Edge of the Atlantic. Tourism season chugs along. I run out of Nice after a few days of it. Hospitality means I have to share my home with strangers. And ensure the rooms look decent and breakfast is palatable and I'm interesting. My reviews are such that I think my PGs walk through my door expecting a performance. OK. I'll give you an example:

We had a most wonderful night with WWW. We talked and laughed like old friends. She gave us a great dinner recommendation and we had a wonderful sleep. Breakfast was lovely with homemade yogurt and partridgeberry jam as well as eggs ham oatmeal and toast and more great conversation. We really wished we had longer to stay and know we will be back next time we are on the island. WWW is the most wonderful Airbnb host we have met.

WWW made us feel right at home and this was my favorite place to stay in Newfoundland. It was like stepping back in time but with a host who was a literary genius. WWW knows so much about the area and Newfoundland that it was a real education. It was also the best breakfast of our entire trip. I would love to stay there again.

And many in this vein. Which is wonderful for business but if you're like me, a gregarious loner, it can be a little wearying. Reading the reviews I fall in love with myself a bit and want to visit me but then I gladly welcome back my inner Cranky Crone and joked around with Daughter the other day asking her should I present CC to the guests, a la The Soup Nazi and bark orders at them to go to their rooms and not disturb me and if they don't wash the dishes tonight they won't get any breakfast in the morning, and only use one tiny towel as the others are just for show, and if they want sheets it'll be $100 extra, etc.

All in good fun and a stress buster. My guests are quite lovely. I just hosted an opera singer and his dancer girlfriend who were cycling around the Avalon. He and I bonded over Gilbert & Sullivan, he is set to play the lead in the Pirates of Penzance in January in Toronto.

And then there was the doctor and her wife who were so incredibly well-travelled and interesting and invited me to stay in Vancouver with them anytime I wanted.

And the French couple who were working in Guadaloupe who were on their way to St. Pierre and Miguelon to visit friends. There are many such French outposts on our globe.

Then there was elder-biker, a seasoned road warrior, and I can't forget the Quebec father and daughter couple and.......

And yeah, I get paid for this.

Which is the icing on le gateau.

As you can see, the francais is rubbing off on me.

Time for the Cranky Crone to emerge.

The Gift of Wisdom

Age presents wisdom (acceptance, too) if we let it. For instance, happenings that would have devastated me years ago no longer do.

For the first time ever in my life I awoke this past Christmas morning with nothing to open. In past years the pickings were getting slimmer but there was always something. It was a strange feeling, this absence of even a token, but also exhilarating in that our worst fears are often nothing to be afraid of. I don't really celebrate Christmas anymore. I find it so far removed from peace and goodwill as to be oxymoronic. A friend worked on the distress lines in Toronto and told me this is the peak season for violence, mayhem and murders and both attempted and real suicides and alcohol poisonings.

So I batten down the hatches, light a candle or two, remember my loved ones, both past and present and cook myself a turkey with all the trimmings. I also carefully select those I visit. I am partial to the families that still believe in magic. And there are a few. And I visited these and shed some tears in private afterwards. Missing my own. Intensely.

But also appreciative of my life, alone or with others. It is always my choice and how wonderful is that for a gregarious loner?

So no, this is not a pity pot post. Just a reflection on my life and the wee bits of growth and evolution I have had on my journey. A wise shaman said to me one time: Happiness is a direct result of the subtraction of stuff.

So I was alone. But not lonely.

Old Non-Stories and the Lady Writer

(Old village school that my subject attended}

I'm in one of those moods. You know, the kind where there's very little you, I or the fairy godmother can do for me. Not that I need anything done. Just leave me be.

Grandgirl has gone back to Toronto, but that's not it. I'm a gregarious loner by nature. Others are visiting in the next wee while. Long term friends at different times. I'll have to fire up for them. I don't feel like firing up. Daughter understands this, we had a chat today. She's built of the same flying-solo-is-best gene pool. We understand each other. Don't do dumbos on each other like: "Ah, snap out of it," "Look at all you've got to be grateful for" and other depressing phrases of that ilk. Just leave us alone with our books.

Currently mine is: Broken Harbour, Tana French's latest. I'm nearly at the end of it. A massive 536 pages. But gripping. Tana can do it. Writing of the devastated building boom with its detritus of a half-finished and abandoned housing estate in Ireland and making it the bleak setting for the gripping drama.

Then, in the afternoon, I toddled over to a pre-arranged interview with one of the last of a dying breed of old timer inhabitants of my outport. One, I was assured, who would fill me in with the history of the place.

He was from the "life was wonderful in the old days" school of thought. We bonded over the Clancy Brothers and nights of song and dance in the houses of our childhood. But not much else. My inquiries about his school life and original work career were met with fairly monosyllabic responses. Ditto for arrival of radio and electricity and roads to his neck of the woods. And his lifelong bachelor status (he and a bachelor brother, the mayor here for over twenty years, lived together in happy siblingdom) caused no ripple of a sweet dead love to emerge. He was an extraordinarily good looking man, well into his eighties. I had the thought he would have been beating off the ladies with a stick in his time. I dug gently and persistently but no story to be found.

He wanted to talk about my hometown of Cork and asked when I was coming back. He may be of the mind to entertain himself with the lady writer for as many sessions as he can squeeze out of me as he gets far too few visitors.

And who's to blame him?

New Circles

When I moved to Newfoundland I left old circles of friendship behind. Most of those loving links survived my move, we are in weekly telephone conversations supplemented by emails, FB exchanges and little gifts and cards sent through old fashioned postal services.

My new circle really came to focus when I was planning my annual Nollaig na Mban which will fortuitously fall on the actual date next year, January 6th. I was overwhelmed a little when I realized that I would have to prune the list of everyone I wished to include. Prune. So in my short time out here I've made that many friends? Yes. I had to do the same thing in Toronto, prune the list. That sure brings gratitude to the forefront of my mind. My house can only take so many guests in comfort, though it has crossed my mind to have it in the community hall.

I was at my Book Club's annual pot luck yesterday. This book club has been running for 35 years. For this event we each bring a dish - I  was specifically requested to bring the same as last year which is a cheese ball - a great recipe of mine if anyone wants, just let me know. We exchange wrapped books anonymously - usually the best one we read in the past year outside of the book club choices. Some of our members are part of the St. John's Choir so they prepare and rehearse some harmonized musical pieces which are absolutely incredible. I look around the room and feel so very fortunate that I found this group of intelligent and welcoming book lovers.

The rest of my friends out here I met through my closest Newfoundland friend and her vast circle which I think encompasses all of this island. Seriously. And through my play, of course, and a few through my bill-paying work and the kindness of some of my fellow villagers who worry about my living alone.

All in all I feel very, very grateful that these new circles have included me in their midst. A later in life move could have turned out way, way differently than it has.

And for a gregarious loner such as myself, faced with pruning a list, remarkable.

Newfoundland People, salt sea.