When from our better selves we have too long been parted by the

Host: The forest was silent, except for the soft murmur of a distant stream and the rustle of leaves that caught the wind like whispers of an ancient tongue. The sky was bruised with the last light of evening, turning the world to a wash of gold, blue, and fading fire. A narrow path led to a forgotten clearing, where an old wooden cabin sat under a canopy of pines, its chimney breathing thin smoke into the cool air.

Jack sat on the worn steps, his elbows resting on his knees, eyes fixed on nothing. Jeeny stood near the tree line, her fingers tracing the bark of an old oak, as if it might answer the quiet ache in her chest.

For the first time in months, they had no phones, no schedules, no deadlines. Only the breath of the forest — deep, slow, and indifferent to human hurry.

Jeeny: “Wordsworth said it best, didn’t he? ‘When from our better selves we have too long been parted by the hurrying world, and droop. Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, how gracious, how benign is solitude.’”

Jack: He let out a low laugh. “He must’ve written that before email was invented.”

Host: A soft smile brushed her face, but it was tinged with melancholy. The fireflies began to appear — small lanterns floating in the deepening twilight.

Jeeny: “He was talking about the same thing we’re all starving for, Jack — quiet. The kind that reminds us who we are beneath all the noise.”
Jack: “Maybe. But most people can’t afford to vanish into the woods every time life gets loud.”

Jeeny: “That’s not what solitude means. It’s not escape — it’s return. To your own thoughts. Your own heartbeat. Your own self.”
Jack: “Sounds romantic. But reality doesn’t leave room for that. You stop to breathe too long, and the world runs over you.”

Host: The wind moved through the trees like a sigh — long, tired, familiar.

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s why everyone’s exhausted. We’ve mistaken movement for meaning.”
Jack: “And you think sitting in the dark fixes that?”
Jeeny: “Not sitting. Listening. Letting the world fall quiet enough that you can hear what’s still alive inside you.”

Host: Jack picked up a small stone and tossed it into the fire pit, the sound sharp against the calm.

Jack: “You make it sound holy. But solitude can turn on you too, Jeeny. I’ve seen people drown in it — lose themselves in the silence. There’s peace, sure, but there’s danger too.”
Jeeny: “Because they confuse solitude with loneliness. They’re not the same. Loneliness is a hunger; solitude is a feast — but only if you bring yourself to the table.”

Host: Her words hung in the air like embers — bright, weightless, but burning deep. Jack rubbed his temple, his voice quieter now.

Jack: “You always make it sound so easy. Like all we need to do is turn off the world and everything will heal itself.”
Jeeny: “No. But we can’t heal at all while we’re still racing. Look at us — plugged in, tuned out, scrolling our lives away. Even joy has become something we perform instead of feel.”

Host: The fireflies pulsed brighter now, tiny heartbeats in the dark. Somewhere beyond the clearing, an owl called — slow, deliberate, echoing through the stillness.

Jack: “You sound like one of those retreat brochures.”
Jeeny: laughing softly “Maybe they’re right for once. Don’t you remember what it felt like when life used to move slower? When we had time to watch the sky change color, to just... be?”

Host: Jack didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on the horizon — a narrow band of light melting into shadow. His jaw tightened; a memory flickered.

Jack: “I used to fish with my dad at dawn. Just the two of us. We didn’t talk much — just sat there. The lake would be still, like the world was holding its breath. Sometimes I think that was the last time I ever felt... whole.”
Jeeny: “Then maybe this place is your lake again.”

Host: The words struck him softly, like the gentle touch of rain on old scars.

Jack: “But it’s not the same, is it? Back then, I wasn’t running. Now everything’s about catching up. The world doesn’t stop for anyone.”
Jeeny: “No. But you can stop for yourself.”

Host: The fire crackled to life — a small flame rising from the wood they’d gathered earlier. The light danced on their faces, painting their expressions in gold and shadow.

Jeeny: “Solitude isn’t the world’s absence, Jack. It’s your presence.”
Jack: “And what if I don’t like the company I find?”
Jeeny: “Then that’s what solitude is for — to meet yourself again, until you can.”

Host: The flame flickered, the sound of the forest folding around them like a living heartbeat.

Jack: “You ever think maybe we’re not meant for this kind of quiet anymore? We’ve built cities, screens, noise — maybe we evolved past silence.”
Jeeny: “Or maybe we’ve devolved into distraction.”
Jack: half-smiling “Always the poet.”
Jeeny: “Always the realist pretending not to care.”

Host: They both laughed, soft but sincere. It was the kind of laughter that comes not from humor, but from recognition. The kind that mends without asking permission.

Jeeny: “You know, solitude isn’t always peaceful. Sometimes it breaks you. But it’s honest about it. The world lies — it tells you you’re fine as long as you’re busy. Solitude tells you the truth, even when it hurts.”
Jack: “Truth doesn’t pay rent.”
Jeeny: “Neither does burnout.”

Host: The silence that followed was deep — not empty, but full, like a pause in a song that knows where it’s going.

Jack: “Maybe I am tired. Tired of running, tired of pretending to like the noise.”
Jeeny: “Then rest. Don’t call it quitting — call it remembering.”

Host: The firelight softened. His face loosened, his shoulders finally lowering as if he had been carrying the world’s pulse inside his chest.

Jack: “You ever wonder why people are afraid of solitude?”
Jeeny: “Because it’s the one place they can’t lie to themselves.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying the smell of pine, smoke, and something faintly sweet — the scent of freedom too fragile to name.

Jack: “You really believe it’s benign — solitude?”
Jeeny: “Yes. Gracious, even. Like a friend who waits patiently until you’re ready to come home.”

Host: The fire crackled again, sending sparks into the dark, like fleeting thoughts returning to heaven.

Jack: “Then maybe Wordsworth was right. Maybe the world hurries us away from who we are, and solitude — it’s just the way back.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s not running from the world; it’s walking toward your soul.”

Host: They sat there until the fire burned low, the stars breaking open above them in slow, silent waves. Neither spoke. Neither needed to.

The forest listened — vast, forgiving, eternal.

When the final ember faded, Jeeny whispered, barely audible:
Jeeny: “How gracious... how benign indeed.”

Host: And in that moment, under the quiet cathedral of the night, the hurrying world was gone. Only solitude remained — ancient, tender, and profoundly human — reminding them both that silence, too, can be love.