"Echoes of Loneliness" by Johanna Jaffa Snellman
Earlier this autumn, I was fortunate enough to experience Luke Jerram’s Gaia. Underneath the glow of the globe (as well as in the quiet chambers of my disease), every breath is a testament to both actuality and resistance. Here, loneliness is not just a feeling, but a palpable presence, a silent companion as we speed through universe. Gaia’s being there is a nudge from the cosmos; a hint of our fleeting existence amidst the infinite expanse of space, urging self-care and a reverence for our planet. Our existence simultaneously becomes both insignificant and consequential.
Lately I’ve experienced a breathlessness that can’t easily be explained. My lungs fill up with mucus plugs making the air feel thick as syrup, every fiber of my being hurts, and my heart is racing faster than the beat at a rave party. It leaves me exhausted and despondent. My life with CF isn’t just a physical challenge; it’s an emotional odyssey. So, I find myself engaged in a dialogue with my body as I contemplate Martin Buber’s ideas of 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 reality as I navigate this intricate dance between my self and my illness, as if the two can be divorced. In the isolation illness forces upon me, I am confronted with the limitations of my physical self, while yearning for genuine connection – for 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 end up asking myself: 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. Reminding 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 a way to illuminate the profound connections that endure. Even in the isolating shadows of failing lungs.