Alone but not Lonely

Secrets of a Potato Peeler

My late husband was a true SoCal guy. Born and raised in San Diego, the dreary Oregon winters always depressed him. Every February, he’d stand in the kitchen as rain pelted the window. “I guess it’s going to rain forever,” he’d say with a loud sigh.

I love Oregon, but my desert upbringing does long for sunshine—especially by February. The constant gray cloud cover makes every silver-colored car blend into the landscape. If Mr. Sun happens to break through, I celebrate with everyone else. And now I celebrate a sunny day alone.

I’ve been thinking a lot about being alone and being lonely. They’re not the same thing.

Since Brad’s death in December, I keep finding little things he had or did that I was totally unaware of. Online accounts that were news to me. Stuff my sons tell me about him—fishing stories, tales about his penchant for buying tools, a couple other things I won’t mention. Each uncovered secret forces me to ask myself how well I really knew him.

And I wonder how many things I’ve hidden from others to protect myself. Brad never told me he found some of my compensating skills odd or ridiculous, even though I’m sure they are. He stayed loyal to keeping his own secrets and mine too.

My secrets: oh boy. Few people know how difficult it is for me to live in a two-handed world. Many of my secrets are really little tricks to get through my day. I thank God profusely and often for things such as computers, automatic transmissions and power steering. But as I’ve said more than once, I can drive a car (thanks, God!) but I go absolutely crazy trying to peel a potato.

When Brad was around, my simple hack was to put Brad or one of our kids on KP. Today, though, I keep reliving memories of my Marine sitting with a peeler and a bowlful of spuds while trying to watch the big game. I peel the potatoes alone now, unless I can rope a son into it. The alone-ness becomes loneliness when I wish Brad was still here for potato duty.

Anyone whose loved one is gone understands this liminal land of memory. The temptation is always to pick up and move permanently into that past, to stop seeing the world around you and lock yourself in a place that may never really have existed. Don’t we all embellish and polish memory to suit ourselves? And don’t we all protect our own secrets—even around those we trust the most?

The first time I ever told anyone about my teenage hair adventures, people were incredulous. OK, so I had to get on my knees and prop my bum arm on a flat surface to get curlers pinned in place. I always made sure my bedroom door was shut—I couldn’t allow even my own family to see what I did to maintain my appearance.

I thought my hacks were never noticed until a long-time friend remarked, “Oh if you couldn’t get something done (like put on a jacket), you’d just use your teeth.” I think I actually blushed right then, worried that the whole entire world might find out that little tidbit. Because everyone knows (and my grandmother always reminded) you never use your teeth to do stuff. Busted.

But whether I’m on my knees for a hairstyle or tying my shoes in my unorthodox way, secrets separate us from others. Deep down, I know it doesn’t matter how I accomplish tasks, just that they get done. I keep secrets to appear as normal as possible, but secrets always lead to alone-ness.

With my husband gone, it feels even riskier to keep secrets. The alone-ness spills over into loneliness as I shield myself from possible stares or pointed fingers. Loneliness feels like I’m forever on the far side of a river, with no way to get across to where love stands waiting. Loneliness makes me think God is far away too. I become an astronaut whose tether has broken, and I’m floating off to distant stars.

All the while, I wonder if the cure for alone-ness and loneliness is seeing the holy in other people. In the creatures and the trees and the river rocks. Maybe the Big Guy is even in the gray Oregon skies that dump rain in buckets, calling, waiting, beckoning. Maybe everyone has a few secrets that make them feel alone or lonely. Maybe, with a little courage, I can love someone into feeling safe enough to divulge a thing or two. And then bond in love.

I’ll always miss my husband’s February lamentations. But I’ll also walk toward the cure for secrets, by daring to trust other people with a secret or two. I’ll look outward toward your sorrows and your problems and see if I can help. If you find me peeling confounded potatoes, go ahead and offer to peel them with me. Don’t walk away, though, because I’ll be on my knees—but this time it’ll be as I pray for you too.