Existential Loneliness

This past Shabbas my rabbi shared about his experiences at a conference, and this sparked a memory of mine, one which might be worth sharing here.

To contextualize, said rabbi of mine met with fellow clergy and leaders of like-minded philosophies and practices, and the hot topic which seemed to be on everyone’s lips was this new concept of “existential loneliness.”

What is this existential loneliness?

Well for starters, they used it in the context of clerical service. It wasn’t some new psychological theory or anything. In fact, it kind of opposes the actual psychological term which does exist, but we’re not going to compare apples and oranges today. Second, it was the idea that some are called to lead a life of religious servitude to Hashem—i.e. becoming a rabbi or cantor—one which is usually misunderstood by the greater populace, and even one’s congregants and family. That is the extremely truncated definition because if I shared everything my rabbi did, we’d be here all day. (We almost didn’t make it to kiddush.)

This “existential loneliness” could be because of the nature of your calling, certain convictions you hold, the lifestyle you adopt, or [mostly] your vision, one only you can see.

When he opened it up for discussion, I commented how I had heard of this before, but called instead spiritual aloneness. Where I initially learned or heard of this first, I don’t recall. The details are a bit fuzzy. What I do remember is the poignant sense of recognition, of how my life possibly mirrored what this supposed “spiritual aloneness,” or maybe now “existential loneliness,” was. As such, it has been an intrinsic part of my journey for, I daresay, over a decade now. *shudders* (I can’t believe I’m getting to be that old.)

Anyway—as this is something I’ve studied for years, especially within religious contexts, it has often been in my purview. One thing I have often wondered, though, which would contradict what my rabbi introduced, is if such aloneness belongs solely to those of religious fervour, or if it could also bleed over into any context, any calling or destiny an individual might have?

Take, for example, those men and women of science who some thought mad for their theories until they made a great discovery which changed the course of our future; Curie, Einstein, Galileo, or Darwin to name a few. There are also those of government or politics such as Napoleon, Wilberforce, or MLK. Whether for good or evil, they changed our world. Then, of course, there are the men of music and art and literature: Beethoven and his ninth symphony, da Vinci and his Mona Lisa or Michelangelo and his chapel ceiling, or Tolkien and his Middle Earth.

There’s also the spiritual fanatics I’m sure we could consider, too. Think briefly of Joan of Arc. Put aside whether or not she was insane, whether or not her supposed visions made her dangerous, a witch, what have you. Though, yes, her visions of heaven and saints are the subject of criticism and scholarship, was she not one who lived her life in devotion to her heavenly voices even to the burning stake?

Was she not one who lived alone?

How many of these examples and more lived a life of existential loneliness because they saw the world differently and sought to change it, or at least share their ideas, to bring about their vision from mere inkling into a reality? How many of them were thought crazy by their contemporaries and peers?

And what sets these, who would choose a life of existential loneliness, apart from the average, normal, life of the everyday man? Is it their devotion to their convictions? Their grit? Both?

What makes them different?

What makes one live a life of existential loneliness? Or…does one choose it?

I often wonder such things when I lie awake in bed at night, staring up into the darkness, pondering where my path has taken me along this journey of life, wondering if I’m counted amongst those who would choose or endure a life of existential loneliness.

For me, if I have chosen such a life, it is only because of the example Solomon wrote in his Song of Songs, of the woman who searches for her lover by night. Though she is seemingly abandoned by him, left to be beaten and raped by those who would serve her lover, and should thusly serve her—her love for him does not waver in the face of persecution.

This is why Rashi, and others, compared the Song of Songs to the relationship of Israel with Hashem. This specific passage I’m referring to, by their interpretation, is an allegory of the destruction of Jerusalem, the Temple, and Israel’s subsequent exile, but most importantly, Israel’s enduring faithfulness to Hashem despite her suffering.

It is this concept, this idea, which has shaped the very core of who I am and set me on a path to pursue the life I lead, to become the woman I am today, to write what I write.

No, I’m not a member of any clergy, but I have devoted my life to the service of Hashem through my craft, my art. I wish to take this spark He has placed in me and bring it to light, to let it shine, to help other sparks come to life. This is my way of tikkun olam, of repairing the world, so that when Moshiach comes, the world is a better place for him to enter.

I don’t know why I share this, why I am choosing to publish one of the most personal, vulnerable, posts I think I’ve ever written, but I felt compelled to put thought to paper, or at least typeface.

If you, like me, often wonder if you’re living a life of existential loneliness/spiritual aloneness, I hope you find peace in the midst of your trials, and that you find and unleash your spark, which is uniquely yours, that it may shine before all.

Shalom