Conjure up a parliament in old England: a stately room of soaring ceilings, carved wooden chairs and podiums, colorful flags and the smell of lemon furniture polish and Old Spice wafting through the air, except in this room the scents change to freshly fallen leaves, a forest of pine trees, sweet hay, and perhaps a few feathers float through the air. Why? Because this isn’t a human parliament–it’s a parliament of owls. They wear little round glasses, coattails and maybe even powdered wigs… at least they do in my fantasy.
Some call it a guilty pleasure, I call it what delights me, and what delights me right now is looking up the names for groups of animals.
From a rhumba of rattlesnakes to a crash of rhinos, I adore the names humans create to describe group of animals. Who wouldn’t want to see a confusion of wildebeests, a thunder of hippos, or a shiver of sharks?
What could be a more perfect name for a group of animals than a cauldron of bats?
But these days, I’ve become especially fascinated by the ones who travel alone, solitary animals, like me.
When I was on safari in Africa, seeing an animal alone meant it wasn’t long for this world. It can be tough to survive the dangers on all sides by yourself with no dazzle of zebras to act as layers of protection.
But for me, what I find truly dazzling right now is solitude. After my two decade marriage imploded, it took a long time to learn to be alone again. I tried to summon 20-year-old me, the fearless version that never thought twice about being alone. I went to school in Paris on my own, planned a backpacking trip on my own, moved around the country on my own… But being married for a long time changed me. Even though I was often alone in my marriage, I was used to being hooked to another person somewhere in the world. Being alone while married and being alone while not married are two very different feelings.
It took a long time to extricate myself from the hooks, and a lot of strength I wasn’t sure I had, but over time, something shifted. And now being alone doesn’t feel lonely–it feels liberating.
I had always been thrilled to jump into the unknown on my own. My marriage made me forget, but now I remembered. I started to research independent animals, like bears.
Koala bears live solitary lives, sleeping in eucalyptus trees and only waking up to gorge on food before going back to sleep. I decided I would be like the Koala bear, except as much as I love sleeping and eating, I love adventures more. So maybe I’m more like a Snow Leopard. They are solitary animals, have a gorgeous coat (like me–which you would know if you saw my coat closets), and they are a symbol of strength and power in many cultures. That’s perfect! I could be a Snow Leopard.
So this all became illuminated for me a few weeks ago when I told my daughter I would drop her off at her dorm in NYC, a 4-hour drive each way without traffic. She protested, not wanting me to be in the car all day, but I said road trips with her are my favorite. We talk, listen to our favorite true crime podcast–Crime Junkies, and work on solving the murders ourselves… we’d make great detectives.
I also love the solo road trip home, where I listen to my favorite music: Patsy Cline to sing at the top of my lungs, “Gasolina” if I want to dance in my seat, Tom Waits when my soul feels achy, or Kenny Rogers when I’m missing my Dad. I bounce around my favorite podcasts, from terrifying crime stories to the hilarious Smartless to the annoying but addicting self-help-positive thinking podcasts. I talk on the phone, stop for snacks as many times as I please, and arrive home refreshed from dunking myself into the grand pageant of life: murder, art, joy, laughter.
As Garbo said so eloquently, “I love to be alone.” Actually she didn’t say that. She said “I want to be alone.” I said, “I love to be alone.”
So, after I dropped my college girl off and sauntered to the nearest 7-11 for my first snack stop, I hopped in my car, turned on Bobby Short’s “I Happen to Like New York,” and happily drove back up FDR, admiring the glory of NYC at night: the lights of the bridges reflecting in the water, the lights of the windows in all the skyscrapers, the lights everywhere… as I reached 42nd street, traffic slowed down, and I decided to take a last-minute detour to see the Rockefeller tree.
I love driving around NYC on Sundays–I can park anywhere for free! Want a Magnolia cupcake? I’ll pull right up to the door! Brunch at Balthazar? Park right in front. This night was the same, and I pulled across the street and hopped out.
People stood in front of the Saks Fifth Avenue windows, like a tittering of magpies, pointing out the ice skaters smaller than my thumbs to their friends, marveling at the details. Each window told a different story, each an exquisite work of art. The more I stared at details, the more I was transported into another realm, like a smack of jellyfish who suddenly find themselves undulating on a cloud. The theme was Carousel of Dreams combined with Christian Dior with a focus on the drive to create and stay true to your own vision, even when you don’t know where it’s going. This I understand. This I love.
Some people filmed with their phones, some laughed and pointed like a cackle of hyenas, some just stood staring, floating about the sidewalk like a wonder-struck tower of giraffes.
Some sort of enchanting music played as I walked from window to window, taking in the miniature art. I walked around the block, marveling at everything–the shop windows, the twinkle lights, the architecture of St. Patrick’s Cathedral across the street. I glanced towards Rockefeller and saw people staring at Saks, their mouths open, their eyes wide, like a clowder of cats who have just spotted a bouquet of pheasants. I wasn’t sure what they were looking at, but then I skipped across the street and stopped in wonder, staring at the front of Saks while the entire 10 story building was taken over by light. A giant moon glittered, the signs of the zodiac lit up, light rippled like flying water across the centuries-old building, then light-made-snow. With each change, the spectators around me oooh and aahed, like a charm of goldfinches who have just been startled awake. Stars appeared, moved into a spiral and started to swirl and twirl, then erupt into sparkles. It was spectacular and I was right there, alone, and thrilled.
I was thrilled, like a koala bear who has just stumbled upon a eucalyptus forest.
I crossed the street back to Snazzberry, (the name of my car,) and took a moment to admire its adorable purple color and the pink hearts I had stuck to the side on a Valentine’s Day whim. I glanced at the groups of people still staring at the windows like an exaltation of larks, and wondered why a clever name for a group of humans doesn’t exist.
I’ll come up with a name for them right now. Maybe a sparkle of humans? A prickle of humans? A swirly twirly gumdrop forest of humans?
I don’t know, but what I do know, is that as I climbed into my car and drove home, my heart was full of wonder, and being alone felt just right.
