Katya Barton

Aloneness

I start to clean the kitchen.
Put some music on in the background.
Light the fire.

I look over at my dog while washing a mug and splashing soapy water onto my jumper. She looks so tender in her resting. One eye opens as she notices me watching her. I return to the dishes.

Aloneness.

Here, I finally hear myself speaking. Not aloud, that inside voice that comes when I am truly intimate with myself. When my only responsibility is to really listen. When I’m not afraid to let it enter me.

There’s a stable fragility to being with myself in this kind of space. The kind that sometimes catches itself thinking, is anyone watching me? I look around the corner and see a shadow that doesn’t feel like my own, it disappears, and then swiftly return to the task at hand.

Wash the dishes.
Make the space clean.
Make it clean for yourself.

I wipe my hands on my wet jumper and look at the dog again. I wonder if she watches me differently in this aloneness too. Or if something changes in her demeanour. There’s a sensitivity, we are attuned. Is it me, or her? Perhaps she’s always in that space, and I only seem to find it in the aloneness.

How precious, to not fear this darkening place.
But to find myself return.

📷 @belbluebel in Iceland