Throughout my life I’ve asked myself if I would be content dying alone.

You can call my revelation many things. I never thought I could learn anything from observing a flock of geese flying south, God speaking to me through Nature. It was one of those moments when a person feels that tangible surge of life—that fantastic moment of clarity. It was a peak of emotion: the kind of spiritual emotion people see in the movies and empathize with because it once happened to them. A God-sent wave rushed throughout my body, spilling mirth toward the simple joy of observing the natural beauty of migration. I realized that this was my moment, my miracle-mile, my opportunity to take hold of an ideal and do something, learn something. I seized that moment the way heroes do when their time of truth comes during the pivotal climax. Magic came from this moment—my wand relearned how to twirl its splendor.

Everyone needs reflective time alone, be it a day or a month or a year. I decided that I needed to spend time each week to reflect on my life, my spirituality. My life was stagnant. Christmas would be here soon and I wanted to prepare myself for the coming of Christ. This is what autumn is for—spiritual growth and reflection. I promised myself that I would spend this new time seriously thinking about my salvation. It was my goal. Often people never make time for such reflection, the rat race of everyday life keeping us from doing things we need to be doing. This is how I came to my state of elation, my moment of clarity.

It was late afternoon—a brisk Thursday—when I realized the esoteric happiness in my life. The wind caroused and played with my hair as the sound of dry leaves gently broke under my melodious steps. I was strolling along the contorted path of a forlorn park three blocks from my duplex. Clear visions of myself as a child wandering aimlessly throughout this park came to me. I would drift along the crooked path on my bike and talk to myself aloud. I remembered the sound the dried leaves made as I rode over them. It had been too long since then.

That late afternoon, up above and deep in shadows, tiny little gnats zigzagged above me, playing among the weary branches that housed decaying plums. Staring in quiet awe, I watched those gnats organize town meetings, book clubs and seminars on how to be a better gnat. Then the autumn wind came slowly, reminding me to zip my jacket up. And that honest wind came the same way it did when I used to ride my bike against it, shouting challenges at my entertaining friend ancient people used to call Zephyr. Back then I rarely played with anyone but that wind.

Growing up, I felt that being without friends or a real family meant that I was cursed, lacking certain social skills, God forgetting to mention my purpose. In high school, my personality was there, but it was unfitting of making any connections. I had people attempt to become my friends, but I wasn’t too receptive. I found more entertainment in myself: I’ve struggled with this. Am I so different that it is harmful to my life?

It wasn’t until that late afternoon that I became content and remarkably satisfied with my isolation from the social world. I continued to walk amongst the wind and productive gnats, observing the ever-changing surroundings of the park—the withered trees, tiny squirrels dancing from branch to branch, collecting acorns that appeared too big for them to carry. I saw the wind push litter toward a garbage can. I helped the wind and tossed the litter inside the trash—the wind could only do so much. It was there within that neglected park that I saw the geese flying above me, God smiling within Nature.

It was strange because one of the geese flew down to the open grass of the park. Two other geese followed the first, displaying their majestic colors of dark brown and egg-white feathers, squawking their queries toward the first goose. And that first goose, the lone one with unkempt feathers and wandering eyes, didn’t squawk back. It remained quiet and dug for worms in the grass, listening to the sound of the autumn wind. The two geese continued their cries and often leaped ten feet into the air—trying to persuade the first goose to continue its migration south. But the goose merely ignored the two. I watched this for quite a while, thinking back to all the people who may have tried to befriend me. Eventually, the two geese left the first goose alone. And it was there in late afternoon that the first goose played. It was by itself and it stayed alone. Like Saint Hilarion of Cyprus, I now understood my spiritual isolation.

Spending time alone is essential for growth, and I’ll continue to grow. I may not be like others, but there are others like me.