.table for one.

There is a supreme beauty in dining alone.
If you're aware of yourself.

As an adolescent I distinctly recall refusing to enter my junior-high cafeteria alone. I had to be flocked by my friends, and should they break for the restroom mid-meal I would go with them, unable to sit abandoned at a table for even two minutes. I reasoned that in such event I would immediately be noticed by all other attendants in said cafeteria as the girl who eats alone or as the fat kid who eats even when she's alone. Illogical? Or culturally instilled in my brain?

What is it about our culture's concept of food that does not permit single-dining habits to be "normal"? Why is it so rare for a person to take themselves out for a fine meal…alone?
What is the paranoia that sits hand-in-hand with entering a restaurant in search of a table for one?
Why does it make us SO uncomfortable?
I reason this: perhaps it's jealousy…or intimidation…or in essence- fear.

To confidently enter a restaurant alone and enjoy a meal solo is to have a solid understanding of yourself. You must be unwavering before stares of curiosity, judgment, and pity.
You must be alright with knowing that some people are thinking you have been stood up.
You could not find a date.
You have no friends.
You are weird.
you are an other.

You must wear high, stylish boots, strut with your head held high, order a beer, and smile sweetly when the hostess asks hopefully, "Two tonight?" and you answer, "No, just one."

This kind of picture (: the girl dressed nicely, no visible major social short comings, enjoying her meal in the corner, unaccompanied) exudes a radiance of self assurance and pleasure in life. I believe this is something so far off target for the majority of people in our culture.
We use our relationship statuses as accessories to portray our hold of power, our social place, our inherent personal image in a crowd.
To dine alone is to use your own developed resources to paint your face with independence- to break the mold of social co-dependence as means of definition.
It is, in essence, to be undefined.
To be other.
And we fear the other.
And we admire the other.
Simultaneously.

To face the girl with the dinner alone is to see ourselves as wondering, "What would people think if I were eating alone? What would they think of me? How would I look to them?"
It is to challenge your own strength and, in refusal to be found wanting, decide that she is the weaker, that she is the other.
To see this is to be threatened by the challenge of independence, of self assurance.

Other socially deviant gestures may be a slap in the face what is "normal" but involve action on a belief outside of oneself. Wearing a t-shirt about abortion, boasting an opinion, for example- all marks your group orientation with a community holding a united opinion. But to eat alone in a crowd of groups is to stand defiant in yourself, to not NEED the social support systems to identify yourself. To be an unidentified character with such complexity behind you as to have risen above circumstances which usually exceed personal victory.
To delight in being set apart.
To enjoy and appreciate your own company.

To listen to your own heart, as The Alchemist said.
To hear the gentle voice that instructs you to sit still amidst social orders that try to improve your image, change this, believe in this…think what we tell you to think.


There is a supreme beauty and calm in obeying your heart's desire to accept yourself, love your own strength, and enjoy an occasional table for one.

Swedish Tea Sets

remembered from January...


“…Sweden is incredible. All is white and old, European looking and stylish. It’s maddeningly spectacular…”
Beatrice took me, our second night in Sweden together, to the family home of her dear friend Carl Hugo. Carl Hugo had just returned home from a stay in the emergency room due to a sudden heart attack which had sprung forth of his chest during a spritely game of squash. His parents thus invited some of his friends over for a heartfelt gathering of condolences and support immediately post New Years, post-hospital release. Among the attendants was myself, and Bea, her friend who is a dentist, a marvelously beautiful blonde Swedish woman and her adoring African boyfriend- Inya.
It was Inya who captivated my attention.
I can still play the scene back in my mind step by step- I was smiling politely through the rather dull conversation which, naturally- as it was primarily among rather conservative friends excluded me- was occurring on the couches of Carl Hugo’s posh living room. The doorbell set forth such a magnificent motion of events. In came Inya and the Lady- elegant, unknowingly gorgeous, and they seated themselves across the carpet from my perch.
Inya was black.
In a wintered country of white snow, white skin, white hair- it was a thrill to my heart to see a Nigerian within my scope of vision. It was a mere few seconds until we established our African connection and then we both were lost in the merriment of our own conversation.
Carl Hugo’s mother provided white linens on the dining table, delicate china, typical Swedish holiday desserts and the most robust coffee for her guests as we sat discussing miracles, the establishment of Dutch churches and dentistry.
Throughout the entirety of th evening- my eyes kept darting the smoothly polished upright piano in the corner. At this point, I had not been able to touch a piano in months, and now here one stood, keys exposed, and the only thing between the keys and my desperate fingers was a rather formal tea party of Swedes.
By the end of tea-time, I had shamelessly offered that I had played piano for years and “My! What a lovely piano you have!” to such welcomed demographic that I was asked- nay, begged to grace the company with my notes.
I sat shaking with overwhelming happiness on the bench and delicately, timidly, danced my fingers through a melodic step through the key of D, nearly bringing myself to tears.
My heart has never felt so at home- so rescued. So clearly elevated above its abyss of deprivation, I could feel it rising in my chest with each treble trill. Then, beauty of all beauties- my eyes fell to the hymn book propped on the piano and I cracked it to Silent Night and let the haunting melody drip from page to resounding chords as Inya quietly, worshipfully sang along behind me. I heard the gratitude in his voice recognizing the unanticipated holiness of the moment and I only pray he felt my consumed, wrecked companionship seeping from my heart to the notes in that silent night, that holy night.

10.07.2011 atomic.

There’s a woman sitting outside the window, crying. Her lips are shaking, her shoulders and convulsing and her bottom lip seems to be quivering three times faster than her speech appears to be coming out. Behind her oversized aviator sunglasses I imagine her eyes are overflowing with whatever sadness she has brought to the glimmering silver café table she sits at with her friends. The one woman with a low cut tank top contradicts her choice of shirt with a home-knit scarf and a white man with pointedly tattered clothing is also donning a Muslim-like head scarf. Furthermore boggling than the attire of this strange company is the very obvious fact that only a small pane of glass separates my world from theirs. It is only this window between my quiet afternoon of motivated work on my thesis over an oversized mug of apple cider and their moment of smoking, wild hand gestures, and spilling emotion on the sidewalk. The glass allows sunshine to pass through, allows gazes to penetrate- but conversation and understanding are unable to pass.