Dad went home yesterday, and the house has been feeling pretty empty without him here. Since he was visiting for six weeks, I got used to him behind around the house even if we weren’t talking. It was a nice feeling.

Today has been a day of solitude, focused on the work that had magically queued up practically overnight. I’ve also been reflecting on yesterday’s insight about how things I’ve tagged “important” but left undefined were causing some of the anxiety that I associate with procrastination. The little trick of defining something on the spot has been very helpful today; I think it’s the key to something bigger that will probably come to me next time I’m in the shower.

At the moment, though, I’m struck by the need to write. I hadn’t been feeling it so much when Dad was visiting. Yesterday, after Dad had left, I was feeling a little antsy so I called up a friend to see what was going on. Though we couldn’t synch up our schedules, even that brief interaction was enough to lift my spirits. The simple act of sharing what I was thinking in the context of someone nearby, though inconsequential in its scope and detail, was itself an outlet. As a result I felt a little more connected with the world. While I talk to at least 3 or 4 people every day via the phone, IM, or email, it’s just not the same. There’s something about trying to arrange to meet at the same restaurant at the same time to share the same air that’s much more interesting. I’m not sure what it is. Since I’ve been living the hermit lifestyle for quite some time, I didn’t really notice the difference until Dad left for Taiwan, and I felt the emptiness in the space that had been pushed back by his noises and expressions. They’d added a subtle background track to the house that is vast in its silence.

It’s good to have people you’re comfortable with nearby; without this people would probably go insane. Continuity of contact may be its own reward, which is something I had never considered.