There is a phenomenon of focus that affects our ability to perceive in counter-intuitive ways. The light emanated from a star is just as bright and just as present at noon as it is at midnight, but the greater light of the sun alters the behavior of our eyes, and thus inhibits our ability to discern the lesser light of the star. The streetlights of the city have the same effect, although that light is not so much "greater" as it is closer, more brilliant by proximity alone (which may also be true of the sun and the star). The light of the star does not change; our capacity to perceive it does.
So it is with friendship. A dear and trusted friend walking up your driveway twenty yards away will be easily spotted and warmly greeted, while that same friend seated twenty yards away in a crowed arena may not be noticed at all. The friend is just as present (and just as much a friend) in either case, but the sense of crowdedness alters our capacity to perceive -- not just by obstructing our view, but even more by diluting our focus, altering our capacity to perceive what is there.
Intimacy decreases as crowdedness increases. Perhaps it is more true for introverts than for extroverts, but even in a broader sociological sense, interpersonal connectedness seems inversely proportional to population density. Country living, from my own experience confirmed by many others, indeed offers greater opportunity for friendship and strong social networks than "cramped up city life." Not just the capacity but also the desire to form relationships is inversely altered by the number of people in proximity.
By logical extension, the trajectory of this thinking leads me to posit that one may find the greatest desire and capacity for connectedness with others (as well as the greatest ability to perceive the connectedness already there) when one is most solitary, most alone. Sitting alone in my living room this Saturday morning, experiencing my connectedness to others only through my thoughts and the posting of this blog (which may or may not ever be read by anyone, and thus may represent no connectedness at all), I sense a resonating truth to this proposition, for which my words will doubtless prove inadequate.
At the same time, I am aware of an contrary current, a fearful force warning me of the dangers of excessive isolation. Lacking the clarity to pinpoint the source of this fear, I can only describe it, and that only in imprecise impressions. It is as if I were being threatened by the possibility that the aloneness I enjoy might become permanent and irreversible, that somehow by choosing to cherish my solitude, I might also be choosing to destroy my relationships -- and not just those relationships I currently hold dear, but all others as well -- past, present, and future. More than that, the fear of disconnectedness extends inward, portending the fragmentation of my personality -- of my soul -- into dissimilar and disintegrated parts and functions, lacking organization or coordination of any kind. As Snoopy's head converses with his feet while jogging, my head grows anxious that my feet will no longer respond to -- nor care -- what my head desires. Loss of social connectedness empties into loss of identity, loss of meaning, and loss of self, as a mountain stream empties into a river, a lake, an ocean.
I do not consider that fear to be decisive, nor that anxiety authoritative. As a statement of faith more than a demonstrated conclusion, I do not believe that I shall fall apart. But that conviction is conditioned on a significant presupposition: I believe that the physical and social world that I live in, as well as the integrated mind-body-spirit which I refer to as myself, is held together by something other than the force of my own will. I believe that the organizational integrity of persons and things is rooted in a much more powerful and enduring being than the duct tape which is my own capacity to "keep it together". I believe in God, the Creator, Redeemer, Sustainer, and Strength of all that is. Almighty Adhesive.
When I trust my own faith (a twisted phrase perhaps worthy of independent consideration), I find that I can enjoy the benefits of solitude (increased space and clarity, heightened perception and appreciation of others) without the anxiety of dissolution. Indeed, a firm and faithful awareness of the constant Presence of God transforms my solitude into a singular and supremely focused connection with the One -- The One Who Is. Emptied of all competing and diluting other connections, the One Solitary Connection becomes the creative, redemptive, sustaining, and strengthening Communion which fills the deepest emptiness of my heart.
It is good to be alone, when the One becomes the All.
E Pluribus Unum.
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