Summer, for most of us, means vacations, travel, seaside and mountain retreats, new encounters and discoveries. But for many others, it is a season of profound loneliness—the loneliness of those left behind.
There are those who cannot leave because of illness or the need to care for a homebound relative. Those who cannot afford the coast or the mountains because money is scarce, because the husband is out of work. Those too old, with no one to help them step outside their safe four walls. Those who are alone. Too alone.
People tell you to unplug, to take your mind off things, to grab a few days of rest. You can't go on like this, they say. Ask someone for help.
But that is precisely the hard part.
How? And whom do you ask?
When you are drowning in loneliness—that antechamber to depression—you are so drained of strength, so discouraged at your core, so unable to see any way out that you cannot imagine a solution. Pessimism takes hold. It swallows everything and everyone. And alone, you only sink deeper into the gray monotony of just getting by. What's the point anymore?
We have grown so used to living each for ourselves that we no longer notice what happens in the apartment next door.
We return from vacation refreshed and happy, conveniently forgetting those who lack the courage to ask us for help.
Then comes the moment when someone in despair does something irreversible. And we turn to each other, lost and bewildered: "We had no idea."
Let's be honest. We have drifted far from an older way of life—the villages and small towns where everyone knew everything about everyone. Where every child belonged to everyone. Where even the oldest grandparents served as guides, listeners, counselors. In those days, people were far less lonely and far more bound to one another by solidarity. Doors and windows stood open, not barricaded behind locks and alarm systems.
With the air came words, conversation, the sound of human connection. And when the church bell tolled for the dead, the whole village fell silent because everyone knew who was leaving this earth.
We cannot go back. I know that as well as anyone. But I also know this: if we turn our thoughts to those times with a touch of longing, we might look into our own hearts and ask ourselves what we can do. How might we share the peace and rest of our vacation with all those who have had none at all?
Open our arms, O Lord. Soften our hardened hearts. Shake us free from our hesitation, our excessive deference. Make us run toward those who cannot ask for help, toward those who have stopped crying out because no one listens, toward all our brothers and sisters who no longer believe our Christian words—precisely because so often they remain only words.
Mariangela Bertolini, 2010