Hiding Out

I sit on the floor at Hildegard's, my back against the couch and my laptop on the glass coffee table. I feel young, giggling at the unfortunate noise my laptop makes as it scrapes against the glass. I sip coffee, wondering if it will age me. Nope, still stuck in eighth-grade mentality, snickering as I remember the noise.

Lindsi and I talked about the hideout created at Hildegard's. We're below window level, hidden from onlookers. My nephew lounges behind me on the couch; technically, he could read anything I type, but his game intrigues him more than my words do. The door opens, and I glance that way, expecting Diana or Kimberly but seeing a man instead, a stranger. Two more women enter, more strangers. Another woman, another stranger.

I crave hideouts, needing more solitude than normal people. I've never been normal, but I'm okay with that. I looked normal in high school: cheerleader, student government, drama club, beauty queen (think really small high school to explain that role), tennis player, batgirl (I've retired my black cape). Even then, I hid in books, losing time as I solved crimes and recoiled in horror.

Maybe I'm forgetting some times, but I don't think I've been lonely often. I long for alone time, for solitary time, for time spent with a book or with chocolate or with coffee or (better yet) with all three. I need quiet time, unplugged time, no television, no radio, no computer. I don't mind long drives without company.

Solitude distances me from my students, who often study and write with television and radio blasting. A friend of mine grades with the television on, needing something to focus against as she grades. Not me. I want silence. I need silence. (I also need chocolate, but that's another story, one that Writing Project people completely understand.)

I bite into the chocolate chocolate mousse pie at Hildegard's and sigh, completely happy, experiencing a perfect balance of solitude and connection, connected to other Writing Project teachers here at Hildegard's and through the blog, but also alone with my own words, searching to find meaning right now with this keyboard.

Soon, I'll hide out at the motorcycle rally, hiding from my life in Valdosta, spending time with Wes and our Harley friends. But I'll also hide out from the motorcycle rally, secluding myself in our RV (yes, I'm embarrassed; it doesn't fit my idea of myself) with a book and with piles of workshop drafts to grade. The RV allows me to join and separate at will, a lovely concept.

I notice myself looking toward the door, wondering if anyone else is coming. I watch Lindsi's and Vicki's fingers, wondering if they're still typing easily or slowing down. I want to read their words instead of create my own. I think I will, looking to see if anyone else had added words to the blog.