Earlier this autumn, I was fortunate enough to experience Luke Jerram’s Gaia. Beneath the glow of the globe, every breath was a testament to both actuality and resistance. In that moment, loneliness was not just a feeling, but a palpable presence, a silent companion as we hurtle through the cosmos. Gaia’s presence served as a gentle nudge from the universe; a hint of our fleeting existence amidst the infinite expanse of space, urging us to embrace self-care and a reverence for our planet. Our existence simultaneously seemed both insignificant and consequential.
Lately, I’ve experienced a shortness of breath that defies easy explanation. My lungs fill with mucus plugs, making the air feel as thick as syrup. Every fibre of my being aches and my heart races faster than the pounding beat at a rave. It leaves me exhausted and despondent. Living with cystic fibrosis isn’t just a physical challenge; it’s an emotional odyssey. I find myself in a constant dialogue with my body as I contemplate Martin Buber’s ideas on the nature of human connection (always Buber—something I blame my mum for, as his ghost was ever-present at our dinner table growing up). His philosophy of the ‘I-Thou’ relationship becomes a reality as I navigate this intricate dance between my self and my illness, as if the two could ever be divorced. In the isolation illness forces upon me, I am confronted with the limitations of my physical self while yearning for genuine connection – an understanding that transcends words.
This journey, deeply personal yet perhaps also universally resonant, now steers me towards Rebecca Solnit’s exploration of the human experience amidst isolation. Her vast landscapes of solitude mirror the internal terrains of my life. She invites me to view isolation not merely as a physical state, but as a rich emotional and existential realm. I find myself asking: How can I touch the world? How can I allow myself to be touched by it? Or more fundamentally, how can I live as if I truly understood that these two aspects cannot be separated?
As my disease progresses, I grapple with more than just the limitations of breath; I face the gradual erosion of my social world. The vibrant threads of friendship and connection slowly fray, leaving behind a poignant void of both physical and emotional isolation. With diminishing physical capabilities, I find myself retreating further, fostering a sense of detachment not only from others but also from fragments of my own identity. I am losing who I am. Remember, everything external can be stripped away. If you base your self-worth on your achievements, thoughts, or actions, you’re treading on precarious ground. Don’t justify your existence in that way. Find something within you that is unassailable and enduring, or you risk unravelling, just as I am now.
In this, fears of becoming a burden gnaw at the edges of my consciousness. This perceived burden, real or imagined, erects walls around me, hindering me from reaching out for support or showing my vulnerability. Thus, in the quiet corners of my home, transformed into a sanctuary of sorts, I breathe in the echoes of loneliness. It is here that the intersection of Buber’s philosophy and Solnit’s reflections becomes tangible. The I-Thou relationship transcends the personal experience, encapsulating the ongoing dialogue between self and the fragility of existence. It reminds me that our truest connections are those that go beyond the superficial, reaching into the heart of our shared humanity.
As I embark on this exploration of loneliness within the context of my life, Gaia’s silent presence serves as a cosmic backdrop, a reminder of our shared vulnerability and the interconnectedness of all life. In trying to navigate the interplay of philosophy and lived experience, I seek not only to understand but to illuminate the profound connections that endure – even in the isolating shadows of failing lungs.