THE NEW HERMITS: Into Deserts of Their Own Making
Author: Lionel L. Fisher

In the spring of 1996, Sarah Holbrook moved to a place as basic as the life she wants to live.

A forty-four-year-old entrepreneur who had parlayed her intelligence, charm and wit into an annual income approaching six figures, she sold her house and flourishing business in a major city to purchase six acres and a 15' x 30' cabin in a remote valley of Washington’s rugged Cascade Mountains.

Here the middle child of an English family of three boys and two girls, all born in the same house on Trollope Street in a working-class neighborhood of London, went to ground, so to speak.

Her new home is thick with maple and soaring fir—though the previous owners had logged some of the timber, leaving shorn roots and torn branches bulldozed into muddy piles. A recent windstorm brought down eight more trees, which she will have to clear as well.

“The place is a mess,?she observes ruefully. “But I loved it the moment I saw it.?

The cabin has a loft across its midriff, says the twice-divorced mother of a grown son, now on his own and living across the country. The roof was built with a steep pitch to handle the winter snows; she’s able to stand upright only in the center of the lone, sprawling room.

The structure has no foundation; it was erected on concrete posts that are sinking into the earth, and she’ll have to jack up the cabin to lay in a foundation. There is no kitchen; she draws cold water from a well tapped by a pressure tank. There is no bathroom; she’s installed a composting toilet shipped to her from a manufacturer in Maine.

“But there is electricity,?she says with a grin.

An emerald forest embracing a bountiful garden beside a snug cottage garlanded with bright shutters and, inside, yards of white lace and flowery fabrics. This is what Holbrook envisions when the monumental work is done.

“I will take care of this place,?she vows softly. “And it will take care of me.?

I ask the inevitable question, one she’s obviously heard endlessly from family and friends: “Why??In the prime of her life, why has she come to this reclusive place, alone?

Holbrook is silent for a while, choosing the exact words to articulate reasons she’s probably given many times before—to convince herself, I sense, more than others.

“My dream is to live in peace and dignity,?she says finally.

“To respect nature and explore the creative side of my humanness. Here I can make my own mistakes. I won’t mind making them because they’ll be my mistakes. And I’ll learn from them.?

Another pause, then, “I don’t even mind the work, which is pretty daunting, but I’ll handle it.?

Will she get someone to help her? The answer is curt. “Someone else would just take over.?I picture John Wayne striding up, the distinctive list to starboard, standing there, arms akimbo, competent, assured: “Move over, little lady, I’ll handle this.?

I know exactly what she means, but Holbrook drives home her point anyway: “Whatever I built here wouldn’t be mine anymore.?

She shrugs, grimaces, runs quick fingers through black hair besieged by gray. When she speaks again her voice is gentle, the hazel eyes have softened. “Most of my life has been spent trying to earn other people’s esteem, their approval, starting with my mother. Now this place is mine. This place and this life. I own them completely. I’ve come to realize no man is going to rescue me, that I need to make my own future secure. No one is going to do it for me. I’ve decided I need to be self-sustaining, that I can’t rely on anyone but myself, and this is a good way to be.?

“I’ll live in harmony with the seasons, be kind to my environment, be energy-efficient, try not to waste, not to pollute. I’ll live simply, have less stuff, do what I love—sew, tend my garden, learn, build things, be quiet, maybe even become serene one day.?

She lapses into silence once more. Then says softly, “I can grow old here without feeling the need to be young and beautiful.?

What about physical intimacy? The question brings a chuckle. “I miss it, of course,?Holbrook replies.

“I still wonder if I’ll meet a man someday who’ll be the one, as they say. There’s a sadness I sometimes feel—that I won’t have another romantic love. But I’m not really hopeful.?

Holbrook laughs. “It’s just as well since I’m not very good at picking mates. In the past I’ve chosen men with addictive problems and huge attitudes. And I’ve always had trouble with people telling me what to do.?

She laughs again. “Sure, I miss the sex. Growing up in the sixties I was openly sexual. I’m a highly sexual person, always have been. Now, nearing menopause, I’m losing out on the best sex of my life.?

And that’s all right with her? “Sure,?she snaps the word back. “If it means taking care of my other priorities right now.?

Is she afraid of being lonely?

“I was at first,?Holbrook replies. “But once you accept your aloneness, once you face it and quit being scared, it becomes like a wonderful secret you learn. Then you know it can’t hurt you. Then it becomes precious.?

Call them the new hermits.

In greater and greater numbers, they are going against the grain of society, deliberately out of step with the march of life around them, consciously out of sync with the ordained way of doing things.

Like the desert fathers of old, who were the rebels of their time, they are foregoing common ground for individual paths in search of their own destinies.

They were the early ones, notes Benedicta Ward, who broke the rules of the world. “Their name itself, anchorite, means rule-breaker, the one who does not fulfill his public duties.?

The new hermits are modern men and women of all ages, in all walks of life, driven by a fierce need for self-actualization, daring to venture into deserts of their own making.

Having pursued the American Dream, they have come closer than any previous generation to being perfect parents, perfect coworkers, perfect neighbors, perfect friends. Some achieved wealth, status, even fame in the process, only to find that it wasn’t enough because they’d lost sight of who they were and the preciousness of the ordinary.

Having kept faith with conventional wisdom, they found it wanting. No longer consumed by practical considerations and manifestations of success, they are attempting to bring real meaning and passion back into their lives.

For them, time spent alone, away from the soul-robbing demands of everyday living, has become crucial to understanding their true selves, their reasons for being, and their pertinence to God, themselves, and the world.

And they are found everywhere, in all walks of life. Rock stars, certainly, aren’t noted for making inward journeys, but John Frusciante is grateful for his. “I spent six years going inside myself in a way that people who are stuck with the idea that they have to accomplish something with their lives never got a chance to do,?said the guitarist for the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

“The scariest thing,?notes Kansas writer Laura Wexler, “is that for the first time I know no one can decide anything for me but me. Because no one knows what I know about myself.?








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This article is excerpted from Lionel Fisher’s new book, "Celebrating Time Alone: Stories of Splendid Solitude" (Beyond Words Publishing, Spring 2001). He also writes a self-syndicated column, "SINGLES SCENE: The Art of Being Alone." Send him your thoughts on magnificent aloneness at beachauthor@hotmail.com

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