There’s a wind blowing through the countryside here in southern Mexico. Red, orange, yellow, blue, white, purple and pink tissue paper flags flutter from the overhang that covers the patio of the casita where I live.  Patterns of doves, flower baskets, sun, moon, stars, and hearts repeat in positive-negative space. The flags are vestiges of New Year’s celebration. I am alone.

It’s been this way for quite some time, even when I shared the space with him.  But now, no one else lives here.  Only me. Usually the quiet is a blessing. It reminds me of absence, emptiness, that something is missing, that I am once more finding my way. I hear the echo of roosters and church bells, the wings of red-breasted birds, my footsteps on the earth-red concrete floor, the hum of the refrigerator. Each sound is amplified, emphasizing the singularity of my existence.

This is not a bad thing, I am learning. I have read that Buddhist traditions encourage one to be empty.  Emptiness is a requisite to becoming full, they say.  I think about what it will take to accept just the very act of being, without the need to accomplish or do much more during the day than rise, eat, sweep the floor, practice my balance by standing on one foot, my hands in prayerful meditation. But I am inclined by nature to make or do something like bake a cheesecake, knit a hat, plant a cactus, plan a workshop. For how long am I able to gaze at the ring of nine thousand foot mountains beyond my gate that cradle the sun’s reflection in the outstretched palms of her shadows?

Sometimes I falter, steal the chocolate bark from the freezer where I have hidden it from temptation, picking out the smallest bits as if no one else would notice. But who would?  There is only me. This is when I am most lonely, like now at night when the wind whips, rustles the dried corn stalks, rattles chairs on the rooftop terrace, when the dogs and coyotes howl, when the sky is moonless and leads to infinity. When I moved into the casita last year and every sound startled me, my neighbor Federico said, Light a candle to settle the spirits. Do it once a month, once a week is better.

I know I have always been afraid, but I make myself pretend otherwise, urge myself forward. Each time what I leave behind is familiar, predictable, and comfortable. I know what I don’t want to be: stuck, bored, controlled, settling for the mundane. I want to know the full reach of my capabilities, to allow myself to experiment. Once, I wanted to be the perfect child believing that if I were so, my parents would love me, really love me.  Now, the messiness of unpredictability is a blessing.

The Mickey Mouse Club and American Bandstand taught me to be coyly sweet, dance well, and flutter my eyelashes. And every Saturday night date and life-long marriage to the man of my dreams would be my reward. Then, Gloria Steinem and Jane Fonda said protest, go bra-less, call myself Ms., strive for an independent career. I straddle these two existences.

My mother, shackled by her own fears, taught me the importance of making and keeping my own money. Don’t depend on a man to provide, she said. Never demean yourself by having to ask. I learned from what she did not do herself. Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose, cried Janis Joplin.

For me, freedom’s just another word for being released from fear to live life differently, larger, more purposefully. To be released from fear is to acknowledge it exists within me. I get to be afraid of all the same feelings that tormented my mother -–  not being good or smart or strong enough, not having enough resources to sustain me, not being able to make it in the world without a man. Believing otherwise is a lifetime practice.

The cost of being alone is dear. My family and closest friends live in cities far away.   In the lexicon of two failed marriages, I could call my relationship experiences limited successes.  Would that be an honest assessment? I struggle to balance my need for autonomy with being partnered to husband. I have heard other women say about themselves, I am not good marriage material. I wonder about that for me.

What I miss is the companionship of my husband/friend, the warmth and comfort of his body next to mine on a cold winter night, his wit and charm, the fire in his sky blue yes that speak to me of passion, the sharing. These are idealized dreams and imaginings mixed with a certain reality. Instead, I wrap myself in fleece. My companions are audio stories by Doris Lessing and Wallace Stegner, the poems of Sylvia Plath, and the few expats who live nearby and gather occasionally over a glass of red wine, an acceptable substitute.

The slogans I live with salve me: one day at a time, live and let live, go for it anyway, breathe and let go. I am of the age to know that each moment matters more than ever. In this moment of being alone, let me be filled with the joy of solitude and gift of creativity. Who knows what will happen next.

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Norma Hawthorne writes and photographs from a small indigenous Oaxaca, Mexico village where she lives part of the year.  Her blog, Oaxaca Cultural Navigator LLC (http://oaxacaculture.com), features arts. Photography and textile workshops including a women’s creative writing and yoga retreat, and commentary about Oaxaca life and culture.  Her home base in the U.S.A. is Pittsboro, North Carolina.