On Sunday afternoon, solitude in the shade. Curtains drawn, legs stretched onto a table, book unfolded. No talking, only words as companion. Pages are allowed to rustle, phones have no permission to ring.
This solitary life is a calming place, a contented space that lies somewhere between the hectic hordes and loneliness. It's a retreat and yet it's not isolation. My tribe is not reclusive like J.D. Salinger, of whom it was once written in The New York Times, "For years it was a sort of journalistic sport for newspapers and magazines to send reporters to New Hampshire in hopes of a sighting."