I am watching the blue sky appear through the trees; the river shimmers in the early light. A heron or egret stands sentinel on the island, like a little old lady waiting for a bus, her brown overcoat a kind of shroud. It is hard to believe I am here alone. I keep expecting to hear a child, or husband, but no, I am alone. What is it I like about this?

I can remember being in Paris, as a teen expatriate, and sometimes going for days without saying more than "cafe creme, s'il vous plait." I wrote then, too; volumes of letters to my boyfriend back home. And little scrawled notes on the backs of receipts, like the time I saw a Renoir hanging in the Jeu de Paume and it occurred to me he had once seen the beauty of a rose and now it infused all of his work. I spent months exploring that city on foot, rarely speaking, mostly alone. I missed my boyfriend plenty, but when he finally arrived, I missed my solitary time more. That was when I wrote, on an empty envelope, "I'd rather be alone with no one here, than be alone with someone near." Wise words for a 17 year old.

As a latch-key kid in New York City, I spent long days alone in the apartment, feigning illness, or walking down Bleecker Street, one foot in front of the other, waiting for the Cafe Figaro to open, thoughts running through my head, going nowhere. It was an escape from the intensity of my family life. Though I felt guilty for it then, I know now my mind was telling me to take a break and watch my footfalls.

Being alone in this culture has mostly negative connotations. It is supposedly for people who have lost what they had, or don't deserve what they never achieved. We think it is a kind of punishment or sin. Given a choice, we think, who would choose to be alone? And, to be sure, I would not want to be without my family, my raucous, demanding, persistent family. They are my life's joy. But, oh, I do like being alone today.

We sometimes yearn for solitude to accomplish something. Those curtains need to be hung, or the pantry organized. Being alone means no interruptions. It means not getting sidetracked by familial disputes, or enticed into a game of one-on-one in the driveway. But this is not the time to sew the blinds or even write the column. This is time to relish my aloneness and sink into my thoughts. Time to just be here, eyeing the heron.

I have friends who fairly drool when I tell them I'm getting a day off to spend by myself. They plan their own escape and draw elaborate plans for what to do. But when the time comes, the wise ones stay at home, turning their family to the streets, and just hang out in their thoughts. It is when the great ideas happen. When fragments of thought sift into larger ones and gather into a plan. Inaction breeding action.

But being alone is not always a privilege; it is sometimes a burden. When the memory of a loved one lost too soon becomes your constant companion, just having people around can numb the pain. It is why we gather in times of crisis. Feeling lonely, even in the midst of friends and family, is not the joyous state I celebrate today. I remember my mother, who was widowed early but rarely alone, complaining of feeling isolated in this town or that. She moved often, looking for a comfortable place to be alone. Of course, she never found that place. I suspect it didn't exist, for her.

Other people seem to get on fine, living alone all the time. I have a friend, an only child, who lives happily alone, has many friends and colleagues, and retires to her solitary space each day, with no regrets.

This day has passed; tomorrow will come and bring my raucous family with it. The egret has moved back into the reeds. It stretched its long neck briefly, confirming its specie. It seems to have missed the bus, and will nap until the next one is due.