Eating Dessert Alone
Last month I wrote about drinking champagne alone. And the piece wasn’t really about that. It was about hiking alone. Afterward, friends kept asking me if I did have a glass of champagne alone after the hike I described, I didn’t. I don’t drink alone. Consuming alcohol alone is one of my personal taboos. I thought my full-body-no was about a fear related to the slippery-slope-ness of drinking by myself. Instead, what began to surface as the question was asked was a deeper fear related to a generational history around drinking and the consequences. What if I fell and hit my head and no one found me until morning, too late?
So champagne is not a solo activity for me. And I’m discovering other new solo activities. I’m currently on a steep learning of how to do all sorts of other things alone, after a lifetime of sharing almost every experience with someone else.
I was just in Amsterdam on my own for a few days, before facilitating a retreat. A city I don’t know. Not meeting up with a partner or friends or colleagues. No agenda. I rented a bike and wheeled around the city. Twice, I went to the most beautiful yoga studio I’ve ever been to (Die Nieuwe Yoga).
Connecting to my body on the bike and in the studio recharged my feeling of self-sufficiency (as with the hiking), calling me home to my strength and freedom. Not just my physical strength, of course, but also, as a friend said, the strength of recognizing that I am a vessel big enough to contain the awe and terror of my experience without needing to share it with another person. A person who is present, I mean. Since yes, I did share with friends via text. Though much less than I normally would have. Most often I found myself just wanting to savor the pleasure of the moment, a breathtaking view, a charming sight, an oddity, without any documentation. I exist and my experience is. Beautiful. Devastating. Banal.
Other things I did alone: I lay around (a lot) on the grass in Vondelpark and alternately read a novel and people watched. I ate all my meals alone. In other parks and at lovely and delicious restaurants. I ran. Of course.
And on my last night I broke my own rule. I drank a glass of wine alone. As if the recognition of the source of my taboo in this past month released its hold on me. That wasn’t all. I don’t eat dessert alone either. For no generational reason. Unless you count the careless things that mothers can say to daughters about their bodies. Until now. On the same night I drank that risqué glass of wine, I was sitting at the chef’s counter and the dessert chef insisted I try her tahini ice cream with shredded halva and other delights. If you’re ever in Amsterdam, go to Neni for deliciousness. I ate the whole dessert. With pleasure. As another friend said, when I texted her a photo of the wine glass and dessert, you are pushing the boat out to sea now. Indeed. The boat of my being.
Yes, I know that many of you reading, and my fellow bloggers here are much more intrepid women than I am. You are wondering what the big deal is in any of this. It’s freedom. No big deal. Enjoy it. For those of you who, like me, have spent less time alone, I’m guessing you understand how overwhelming that freedom can be. How daunting the spaciousness can be, when we are used to a cozier (or more restrictive) environment. What do we do with the space? Are we allowed to be happy without others? Is our experience real, if there’s no one to share it with?
Explore it. Yes. And more yes. Words that are easy to say from the outside, less evident from the inside. Being at ease with being alone is a work in progress in my life and it’s good to know that, for me, one of the surest portals to that permission is through moving my body. When I’m truly in my body, I can find my way to the ease I seek.
