The local Whole Foods is abuzz with activity at 9:15 on this Friday evening.

A woman in stretch yoga pants is milling in front of the salad bar, speaking in a presentational tone on her cell phone. Nearby, a young couple is inquiring about the availability of some pumpernickel bread at the bakery. The security guard stands watch at the door, eying an older gentleman in tattered trousers who has wandered into the produce section, caressing a mound of organic cantaloupe.

This is my default post-workout dining option on a weekend night. More often than not lately, I have chosen to go it alone. Most of my close friends have moved away from Los Angeles–I lose them at a rate of about one every ten weeks; I’ve kept track–which means I either have to effort to make new friends or blaze my own solo path. True to form, I default to the latter again tonight, avoiding what for me is the astronomical mystery of starting a meaningful conversation with strangers, especially doing so in a town that’s perfected the cold shoulder. So instead I hang back and act as the bystander. The observer. I may not work very hard at conquering my loneliness, but hey, I’m pretty good at embracing it.

Contrary to popular belief, I don’t believe loneliness is not something to fear. Everyone suffers from it at some point in his or her life, some perpetually. It is as ordinary as the common cold, yet the term carries with it a colossal taboo, this footnote of weighty import that seems to say, “If you’re lonely, you’re a failure.” Admitting to loneliness is akin to a guilty plea of loserdom, as if it’s an ailment which needs treating by some over-the-counter salve to numb the symptoms. A condition that requires, for lack of a better phrase, immediate attention.

But I disagree. I say if you’re lonely, own it. Revel in the symptoms. Use your yearning for connection and slow down to observe, to study your own actions and the actions of others. Watch how the awkward impulse for avoidance drives the eyes to look down, or the hand to reach for the phone, or the pitch of the vocals to slip ever so slightly, retreating into an airy bass murmur. The opposite is true, too. The outgoing lonely human, showing his eagerness to engage in small talk despite evident resistance, or her kind smile after a moment-too-long sharing of a gaze. There is the universal, lingered gait of early arrival, pausing to browse merchandise, free of the intent to purchase. These are all mannerisms of the lonely. And they are all too common.

Tonight, in the absence of companionship, I sit outside the grocery store with my meal and become a student of loneliness.

It is an unintentional perk of my home-free experiment, this routine of spending more time in public. Yet despite being around people more, I find myself more aware of my own loneliness. It’s a funny contradiction, this solitary existence in a sea of strangers. The “urban alone”.

I feel alien to Los Angeles in a way that I’ve never felt before. Alien to the isolated nature of the local car culture. Alien to the urges of conspicuous consumption. Alien to obsession with status, with love as its casualty. These are harsh criticisms, I understand. But they are criticisms that accompany my loneliness, following me through the city on a daily basis, trailing my otherwise chipper demeanor like a sunset shadow. Lately I’ve learned to accept those criticisms as deed, as fact, bartering the weight of their consequences for the freedom to create art without the burden of hope. The hope in sharing love any time soon.

In shedding that hope, I’ve emerged a freer person. One without expectations, for myself or from others.

I am lonely, yes, but I am far from sad. These lonely moments only serve to strengthen the heart, through observations of details that result in me empathizing with people I may not have otherwise noticed during the speed of my routine. I study people longer, attend to the root of their needs more thoroughly, and apply what I see to my own self and actions. Because of this, my heart is able to rebound more quickly from a lonely moment because I am more willing to slow down and share positive moments with others. I stop to smile at the cashier. I ask how she is doing, then I stop, look her in the eye, and listen. I want to know, because regardless of her reaction, what she says and how she moves teaches me a little more about how to attend to details. And with that information, I can better tailor my response to foster a positive interaction.

This, I believe, is a form of love. And so through the insight of observance, one’s love gains wisdom.

Tonight, as I sit, enjoying my evening meal, I seek that very wisdom. And I am soon rewarded.

Walking out to the parking lot are two young lovers, wheeling their groceries towards their car. They are walking, at first, in silence, their legs moving together in perfect synchronicity. They are unconcerned with their surroundings. Their gate is only broken when they redirect their walk around a moving car. Their direction moves directly downhill, and without a word they simultaneously pace to a jog, seizing the opportunity, turning to each other and counting to three before mounting their cart. The couple embarks on a wind-in-the-hair grocery cart sprint across the parking lot pavement, the passionate tension of their grips highlighted under the streetlamp’s jaundiced glow.

How beautiful, their smiles! How charming their whimsy, their coordinated understanding of one another’s intentions! How delightful the glimmer of light that accents the swell of hair buoyed by the breeze of animation, by the ventilation of their will. This is their love, revealed in this moment, the only moment. And this love is advancing forward. Literally and figuratively.

It is their investment in one another, and the payoff they receive from that investment, which has me admiring from afar. Here I sit, fixed on my stool. Alone. Very much lonely, but not without a smile, for I have fallen momentarily in love via proxy thrill, a vicarious affair with this idea of what I believe this couple must be feeling. Perhaps I haven’t lost this hope after all.

This is what I learn after stopping to observe. I find beauty in others.

It is no small task. It is often easier to point out life’s difficulties than to mine out the wonder in details. A past me might have been depressed that I was not riding grocery-cart shotgun with a vaulted eyebrow vixen of my own. Woe is he who is not at every given moment experiencing the ultimate that life has to offer. But the delight of others should inspire us, not bring us down. The value of a smile exceeds pleasantry, and the lesson of love observed sees the heart flourish, not fade.

Perhaps my tandem grocery cart ride will come soon.

Until then, sitting alone on a stool is just fine.