Solitude on Holidays

There’s a difference between being alone and being in solitude.
Loneliness waits. Solitude chooses.

Today, I chose.

A low table. A green velvet stool. A plate of fresh things—fig, pear, mint, a bite of cheese. Candles lit not for prayer but presence. A film plays from the floor, not because I haven’t set up the television, but because the angle is just right for reclining and remembering.

This is not a performance of stillness. It’s what’s left after noise is cleared.

Sometimes I think: if no one comes, I’ll still light the candle. I’ll still set the table. I’ll still make something beautiful.

Not because I’m waiting.
Because I’m here.

And there is something holy in claiming this space—not as exile, but as altar.
Not as lack, but as preparation.
Not as loneliness, but as a holiday of one.