I work (officially) one day a week. I’m at the age when I can work when I want, and I’m supremely blessed to say that.

On Tuesday, I spend part of the day with one of my grandsons, and that is always a day of love and fun.

Sunday’s I go to church – small group and church service.

Friday I teach a small group for 90 minutes.

Those few hours a week comprise my interaction with people.

Every day, I wake up and do my devotions. Feed the dogs. Do some kind of exercising.

For 10-12 hours a day, I am alone.

There is no going to coffee with friends.

I’m not shopping with the girls.

I go to the gym three times a week for yoga – alone.

I train for my races by running in the neighborhood – alone.

I don’t go to parties. I’ve had no birthday gatherings for my birthday since I was 13. No gang of friends to celebrate with me.

Which came first – the introvert, or the great aloneness?

I’m really not sure.

When my kids were home, that kept me busy – I was working, caring for them, repeat.

Now that the nest is empty, I wait for my husband to come home. It’s the only consistency I have for not sitting in a silent house.

This really bothered me a few years back. I guess I’m resigned to it now.

I’ve spoken of this on many occasions- personally, in groups, and privately to my counselor.

Here I am still, sitting in the quiet house, with my dogs and cat to keep me company.

Now I scroll past the dozens of happy posts of coffee clubs, birthday celebrations, gal groups running together.

I put down the phone, grab my dog, and go run. Alone. As I have done for several years.

I walk through a neighborhood and smile and wave at people I don’t know…despite the fact I’ve lived here over 12 years.

Every few weeks I get my hair done, and get some girl talk.

So many years of this have gone by, I figure it must be meant to be.

I live my life of quiet solitude, where the phone only rings if it’s my kids or spouse. I call my parents regularly.

And I still sit here.

Alone.