Solitude is a practice, and like The Lemon of Pink, it’s a discipline that does not immediately yield tangible results. Emily Dickinson, the patron saint of I’m just gonna stay in tonight, used solitude as a means of survival, where the “soul admitted to itself” would allow for a “finite infinity.” Modern-day dispatches from our moments of solitude are usually not stanzas of Dickinson or Whitman or Rilke, rather they are appeals to whoever will listen. The urge to tweet about how my yoga teacher played like three Smiths songs during Shavasana is staggering. The rush of likes on a selfie from my hike makes the tick bite almost seem worth it. Our effort then is not to be alone but to let others know we were alone. This breaks the character of solitude. To transmit a moment of solitude is to tarnish the ascetic soul. But to let it burrow in and remain private can allow you to learn and unlearn the lessons as dictated only by the self.