The pleasures of eating alone (and growing older)
Some questions to discuss (and I’ll offer my own thoughts, in the comments):
Do you love this poem as much as I do,
and:
Is there anything sacred about this scene to you? If so, what? Is it the man himself? Or the man’s attention to his moment-by-moment experience? Or is it something else?
What ordinary rituals in your own life do you treasure?
What small moments in your own life feel more meaningful than they probably appear to random passers-by?
I love this poem so much, and am struck by many things including: (a) how Billy Collins often looks back, comparing what he understands today with how little he understood in youth - eg his poem "The Lanyard" - in which he ruefully recalls how he thought, as a boy, that the lanyard he made for his mother in summer camp was gesture enough to make them "even" for all she had given him ...and (b) how, when struck by a gleaming sentence, the man in this poem would look up from his book. I believe the looking up is caused by that amazing sensation, when confronted by something exquisite, to find another soul to see and appreciate the exquisite thing too. It's interesting to me how it never feels enough to look at it solo - how the true pleasure comes in sharing the wonder. And that then is a counterpoint to the contentment the man in the poem finds in being alone. (In fact, one of the many things I love about The Quiet Life is being able to share amazing things (like this poem) with you all.
When I was in high school and college, I had a deep friendship with a wonderful woman in her 70s named Isabel Patricelli, who lived in a giant white house on the Sound in our small Connecticut town. I would clean her house, help her with the gardening, ironing, laundry, and any other odd jobs she required. I loved her.
She was the epitome of elegance, grace, and dignity. She helped me overcome near-debilitating awkwardness and nurtured a self-confidence I didn't know I had.
We shared much together over the seven years I knew her, and she became the most important mentor of my life.
One summer, when I was 20, she asked me to drive her to and from an important appointment in a large city nearby. Before she went inside the office, she pressed a generous amount of cash into my hand, and said, "While you wait for me, I want you to take yourself out to lunch downtown here, to the nicest place you can find. It's important that you learn to be comfortable eating alone, and see for yourself just how delightful it can be. You can bring your journal and book with you if you want - they are always good company. You can do it. Go on." I was puzzled and nervous, but I trusted her, as she was never wrong.
That was only the first of many delightful solitary meals that I have enjoyed in the 35 years since.
That lesson has served me in countless ways, and this poem brought the memory of my beloved mentor and that revelatory lunch alive again today. Thank you.