Passions: Monk Mode and finding joy in solitude

A period of reflection has brought a greater sense of clarity to my life

I’ve often been described as a social butterfly but sometimes those little wings need to come to rest.

It’s not that I don’t like my own company but I’ve always found being with others so much more fun. And fun is what it was all about for a very long time.

I live alone and work broadly alone, apart from the cat who is like my little shadow. We have our routine, we look out for each other and, actually, her chat is coming on great.

A little solitude is a valuable thing, finds Alison Campsie. PIC: Thok/CC

I am, at heart, a content person but when the end of the working week approaches I can almost hear those Friday night bells ringing. Ding, dong get me to the bus stop on time so I can see my friends at the greatest haste. It is time to speak rubbish for Scotland and decompress from another week in the office in the house. Cheerio cat! Hello humans!

But recently, instead of looking outward for enjoyment, I have found myself turning in. Instead of an urge for stimulation, for laughter, for chat and abandon, I have found a new need for a little isolation to be at my best.

Monk mode I believe is what they call it.

The word monk comes from monus, the greek for alone, with the idea of isolating oneself, embracing solitude and exercising some self-discipline a well worn road to self-improvement.

Now, I don’t have a monk’s habit, but I do find myself looking at dressing gowns with interest for the first time in my life.

I first experienced flickers of this new mode during one Christmas over pandemic lockdown, when a brush with a Covid-carrying friend meant that the holidays were marked with some deep alone time. Bubbles were burst and I entered an unexpectedly delightful spell of uninterrupted reading, back-to-back movie watching and eating and sleeping at strange hours of the day as my time became solely my own. It felt refreshingly rare to be suspended in a routine devoid of work, deadlines and, well, anything looking like a commitment to something or someone else.

The monk emerged again this January, when I went dry for the month to reset, to break the social circuit and heal myself after horrible bout of flu. Those Friday night bells were replaced with decluttering, sketching, writing poems and resting. Crucially, I needed to focus on all things that had gone on the slide as I sought out my social joys. Big things, like making sure my house didn’t fall down around me. I suddenly started writing lists, something I have held a deep aversion for, and sorting finances. Time alone in the quiet brought focus and a powerful clarity that was so big it was sometimes uncomfortable. But within that space I could see clearly – and see what I needed to become a better me. The monk is not there all the time, but when it calls, I know it is ok to miss the bus.

Alison Campsie is a Specialist writer at The Scotsman