Here in the mountains, I pull solitude close to me like an old, estranged friend. The only sounds I hear on the side porch are the hum of the air conditioner, the breeze rustling the green leaves, and the whir of the old ceiling fan above me. I watch the bright yellow and black striped wings of the Eastern Tiger Swallowtail butterfly flit around the butterfly bush. I see the blue haze rest in the heat of the mountain ridges on this July day.

I crave solitude and always have. I don’t mean the kind where one wants to live alone and isolated on some cold, rainy island in Scotland in a musty 900-year-old castle with only one friend, a butler named Duncan, who’s main goal is to provide for your every want. Not that, no. Of course not. No.

I crave the kind of solitude that can only be found in the quiet that invites my thoughts to marinate and my nervous system to ratchet down a few notches. No input, and only output that is slow and deliberate. Less of everything. Intentional connection. Close observation and attention. And when I am ready, I return. The long hug of solitude is over, and I am ready to live in community again.

My resources are replenished and I am ready to go. My bulb has warmed from dim to bright, like the yellow side of this butterfly. Butterflies are masters in the art of camouflage, and this one has markings that break up its overall form, like modern soldiers. I’m fond of this notion in general, the ability to be seen when you choose to be, complimented by the ability to hide when necessary. Preferably, in the woods. Although, that drafty castle holds some allure.