From Aloneness To All Oneness
In February and March I drafted a 5,700-word narrative essay about death. In April, during a performance showcase, I told the story of my decision to leave Qualtrics, a tech company I used to work for. I was generating creative momentum, which I channeled into this website, publishing a series of posts that led me into a larger project—a novella, perhaps—about one of my ancestors. But I’ve not been writing as regularly as of late, and I only recently realized why.
The term “dating” hasn’t resonated with me for a few years. Dating, as it’s typically understood, is a means to an end, usually marriage and children. I, on the other hand, thrive when I’m curious about, open to, and present with the other person, sensing into our distinct connection and discovering together a shared intention for being in relationship. This includes being okay with any interaction being our last. Nevertheless, as I establish myself in Oregon, I’ve had a desire to build a life with others, including an intimate partner, at least for this next chapter. So after a long hiatus, I started “dating” again in April.
I downloaded an app and took a break from improv and acting classes to make space in my schedule. I swiped, got matches, went on dates. The time, attention, and clear communication I brought to the process reflected my strong intention. But my experience heightened a sense of isolation and alienation. As I filtered through my options, I touched an unsettling truth: no relationship can satisfy my longing for intimacy.
I’d bumped into, or been graced by, existential aloneness.
Beneath my smile and playfulness hides a part of me that believes it’s fundamentally alone in the world. With the dismantling of many protective mechanisms, this part has surfaced into conscious awareness, a guest I’ve been hosting for over a month, an exile according to Internal Family Systems, the popular psychotherapeutic framework.
In the past I probably pushed this part away and stayed busy to buffer myself from the discomfort. Recently, though, I’ve been feeling it, and reacting as if it’s something to fix, doubling down on the search for a solution—professional, romantic, spiritual, or otherwise. In my attempt to correct a perceived problem, interactions turn into transactions, and activities that were once full of ease and delight become burdensome and obligatory, including those like dating and creative writing, which suddenly come under pressure to make the pain go away.
What’s so startling is that I’m not alone. I’m in loving romantic relationships, have meaningful friendships, and belong to a caring family. I’m blessed with financial stability, access to healthcare, opportunities to explore my interests, time to volunteer, etc.—a foundation on which to forge more connection. This part of me appears, clamoring for attention, despite the abundance I enjoy. That’s why I haven’t been writing as consistently as before: I couldn’t focus on it while part of me, tired of being ignored, gets louder and more insistent. This post is my way of doing both, of writing and attending to this part of me.
A few weeks ago I told myself to be stuck, to welcome the feelings and allow myself to be as alone as I feel (but not believe the negative stories that come up). I’ve learned through my experience how I can be conscious, better my circumstances, improve and heal myself, and still be faced with this basic sense of being cut off from Spirit.
The retired spiritual teacher Adyashanti says that we need to be willing to be alone. “Only when you move in completely, unreservedly, without hesitation, does the sense of aloneness broaden,” he says. “When you can come to grips in yourself psychologically with being totally alone, completely, forever… when you come to grips with that and you’re willing to become that space, only then does it open up even more.”
And to what does it open?
“When you go through that,” Adya says, “it comes out into all one.”
By letting go into the existential aloneness, we have the deepest experience of all one. On the other side of the fear of being alone lies true intimacy.
At least that’s the promise of one spiritual teacher, speaking in accordance with the ancient wisdom traditions. So far I can report that the medicine for me has indeed been facing the feeling with an unequivocal “yes.”
I often sense myself as a system of parts—sometimes fractured, at other times mended—but increasingly I know myself as Wholeness, that which has no parts, for it is indivisible. Each part of the psyche is invited to not only reconnect with Self, another term for Wholeness, or True Nature, but to dissolve into this recognition: if there is no outside to what I am, then nothing is ever cut off.