We are made for solitude. Our lives may be rich in relationships, but the human self remains a mystery of enfolded inwardness that no other person can possibly enter and know. If we fail to embrace our ultimate aloneness and seek meaning only in communion with others, we wither and die. The farther we travel toward the great mystery, the more at home we must be with our essential aloneness in order to stay healthy and whole. Our equal and opposite needs for solitude and community constitute a great paradox.
Dozens of starfishes
Were creeping. It was
As though the mud were a sky
And enormous, imperfect stars
Moved across it as slowly
As the actual stars cross heaven.
All at once, they stopped,
And as if they had simply
Increased their receptivity
To gravity they sank down
Into the mud; they faded down
Into it and lay still; and by the time
Pink of sunset broke across them
They were as invisible
As the true stars at daybreak.