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We are responsible for our own solitude. Precisely because our secular milieu offers us so few spiritual disciplines, we have to develop our own.
—Henri Nouwen

Solitude is a human need, a need for everyone. Never mind about who is an extrovert or an introvert. Solitude offers an opportunity for reflection, for sorting things out. There are days when I feel driven out of the workplace (simply because it is the workplace) into another place: a coffeehouse, a bench outdoors, a porch swing, a chair in the library. Such places, as much as a church pew, provide openings to grace.

How do we use this solitude? For me, at first, this time is no more than a straightening up process. I open my briefcase to find countless jumbled papers: receipts, odd assortments of cash and coin, appointment slips, ticket stubs, a worn calendar, a half-filled notebook, a pen and pencil case, a cell phone. The state of the briefcase reveals the chaos of my life, my state of mind. I'd better turn the cell phone off, for now. It is time, in the middle of everything, to come into quiet as best I can.

Sometimes in workshops on prayer I hear questions (often from those who are just beginning) about how to design a structure for spiritual life. Obviously, there are many ways to answer them. When talking to a group of young mothers not long ago, I did not mention solitude as primary, lest that sound too monastic, too far out of reach. Instead, I emphasized keeping a journal. By this I meant a dedicated journal, reserved for reporting on our spiritual encounters. "How do you go about this? Well, you make a trip to the drug store, you choose an inexpensive composition book, a pen that you like. …" By the ordinariness of my response, I wanted to make the spiritual life practical and accessible. "It's not so hard; just try it."

But a journal only appears to be ordinary. In fact, it may open an extraordinary path. The journal's empty pages become a way into solitude. They invite recollection, or centering. We stare at the blank pages, trying to bring ourselves into stillness. We empty our hearts and minds of the trivial, the distracting, the annoying details. After clearing a space for God we may begin our conversation with God. This is an act of the religious imagination, but it is also part of the sorting-out process. In front of the Lord, we pull out our unfinished agendas, our unfulfilled desires, our unrequited loves. What is to be done about this? We want to know. Depending on the level of our need, we may find ourselves shouting out our complaints to God. We tell him what is lacking. We point out what injustices are making us angry. We tell God what is wrong and ask him to award us damages.

Once we have done this — voiced our complaints to God — something vital has happened. We are occupying a new sort of space, a space in the presence of God. That in itself is prayer. Even if our end of the conversation is wailing, whining, and negative, still, we have opened a door into prayer. This is the actual entrance into prayer, following a time-honored dictum: Put yourself into the presence of God. When we have made space, done our sorting, and voiced even our smallest questions, we are praying. Interrogation is prayer. Negotiation is prayer. In the same way, stillness in the presence of God, a listening attitude, is also prayer.

Henri Nouwen writes, "We are responsible for our own solitude." Solitude is one way we imitate Jesus, who went apart for times of solitude even though his life was already filled with prayer. Early in the morning, while it was still dark, he went outside into a solitary place for prayer. Besides that, Jesus spent forty days fasting in the desert as a preparation for his ministry.

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February (Web-only) 2008, Vol. 52