Better Descriptors

"Hand me that book," Vivian says. She takes the hardbound green volume, with gold lettering and a line drawing of a girl with abundant red hair in a chignon on the front, and opens it. "Ah, yes, I remember," she says. "I was almost exactly the heroine's age when I read this for the first time. A teacher gave it to me -- my favorite teacher. You know, Miss Larsen." She leafs through the book slowly, stopping at a page here and there. "Anne talks so much, doesn't she? I was much shyer than that." She looks up. "What about you?"

"Sorry, I haven't read it," Molly says.

"No, no. I mean, were you shy as a girl? What am I saying, you're still a girl. But I mean when you were young?"

"Not exactly shy. I was -- quiet."

"Circumspect," Vivian says. "Watchful."

Molly turns these words over in her mind. Circumspect? Watchful? Is she? There was a time after her father died and after she was taken away, or her mother was taken away -- it's hard to know which came first, or if they happened at the same time -- that she stopped talking altogether. Everyone was talking at and about her, but nobody asked her opinion, or listened when she gave it. So she stopped trying. It was during this period that she would wake in the night and get out of bed to go to her parents' room, only to realize, standing in the hall, that she had no parents.

"Well, you're not exactly effervescent now, are you?" Vivian says. "But I saw you outside earlier when Jack dropped you off, and your face was" -- Vivian lifts her knobby hands, splaying her fingers -- "all lit up. You were talking up a storm."

"Were you spying on me?"

"Of course! How else am I going to find out anything about you?"

Excerpt from Orphan Train
by Christina Baker Kline

---

What I like about this passage, among other things, is that the word "shy" is replaced with two others: "circumspect" and "watchful" -- two words that are immeasurably more appropriate for introverts than "shy". One of these days, I'm going to compile a list of words that are more accurate in their descriptiveness. Maybe none of them alone will fit perfectly, but perhaps a combination would do nicely.

 

Ingoing: Redux

Within the pages of a book I recently read, being used in complete sentences, I was excited to find a term that I imagined I had coined: ingoing. Damn. I knew I should have registered a trademark for the word. I could at least be receiving royalties for its usage.

Regardless, I'm glad to see the term taking root.

The passage, without further ado:

---

"I have nothing at all against George."

"But?"

"But?"

"But there's a 'but' coming here, isn't there? It feels like there's a 'but' coming," mumbles Elsa.

Dad sighs.

"...But I suppose George and I are quite different in terms of our... personalities, perhaps. He's very..."

"Fun?"

Dad looks stressed again.

"I was going to say he seems very outgoing."

"And you're very... in-going?"

Dad fingers the steering wheel nervously.

"Why can't it be your mother's fault? Perhaps we don't visit you at Christmas because Mum doesn't like Lisette."

"Is that it?"

Dad looks uncomfortable. He's a rubbish liar. "No. Everyone likes Lisette, I'm well aware of it." He says it as people do when considering an extremely irritating character trait in the person they live with.

Elsa looks at him for a long time before she asks:

"Is that why Lisette loves you? Because you are very in-going?"

Dad smiles.

"I don't know why she loves me, if I'm to be quite honest."

"Do you love her?"

"Incredibly," he says, without any hesitation.

But then he immediately looks quite hesitant again.

"Are you going to ask why Mom and I stopped loving each other?"

"I was going to ask why you started."

"Was our marriage so terrible, in your view?"

Elsa shrugs, "I mean, you're very different, that's all. She doesn't like Apple, that sort of thing. And you kind of don't like Star Wars."

Excerpt from My Grandmother Asked Me to Tell You She's Sorry
by Fredrik Backman

 

Sometimes Opposites...

She liked talking and Ove liked keeping quiet. Retrospectively, Ove assumed that was what people meant when they said that people were compatible.

Excerpt from A Man Called Ove
by Fredrik Backman

 

Deflection: A Strategy For The Quiet

Because this was what Ove had learned: if one didn't have anything to say, one had to find something to ask. If there was one thing that made people forget to dislike one, it was when they were given the opportunity to talk about themselves.

Excerpt from A Man Called Ove
by Fredrik Backman

---

It took a long time for me to learn to talk with others competently, and I can't deny that one of the first and best strategies I learned was to ask questions; in other words, I learned how to deflect. At first, I didn't even know how to do that well. I didn't know what types of questions to ask, or how best to phrase them. Some of the hardest situations were ones in which -- not only did I not have anything to say -- I couldn't think of anything to ask in response to what others had said.

I eventually learned, partly by listening in on other conversations, but also by paying better attention and being prepared. What's more, I found that I enjoyed asking questions. It's a strategy worth learning if you're planning to be in the company of others, but it's also a useful skill all on its own. Understanding others was a great way to begin understanding myself -- both what I am and what I'm not.

Nowadays, having little to say is less of an issue for me than having too many questions to ask. I guess anything can be overdone. Still, even if I don't care as much about whether others are comfortable with my silence, I find it invaluable to be able to join in when I want. And in those cases, being able to deflect will always be handy.

 

Being Seen

Was this it? All I had needed the past few months? The perfect stillness? Or did I just need to be seen? Seen right through without fear? I walked over to the edge of her pinions and a jackrabbit shot from under a saltbush and zagged off into the false twilight. Most of us are never seen, not clearly, and when we are we likely jump and run. Because being seen can be followed by the crack of a shot or the twang of an arrow.

Excerpt from The Painter
by Peter Heller

 

On Invisibility And Preferring Not To Speak

The first thing people tended to notice about Phillips was that they hadn't noticed him earlier. He was so recessive that he could be in a room for a long time before anyone realized that he was there... He had a tidy, pleasant, boyish face that tended to blend with the scenery. This probably contributed to his invisibility, but what really did it was his silence. Phillips was an amiable man and was, judging by his letters, highly articulate, but he preferred not to speak. You could park him in a crowd of chattering partygoers and he'd emerge at evening's end having never said a word. People had long conversations with him, only to realize later that he hadn't spoken.

Excerpt from Unbroken: A World War II Story of Survival, Resilience, and Redemption
by Laura Hillenbrand

 

On Being Beneath Notice

Man is by nature a social animal; an individual who is unsocial naturally and not accidentally is either beneath our notice or more than human. Society is something that precedes the individual. Anyone who either cannot lead the common life or is so self-sufficient as not to need to, and therefore does not partake of society, is either a beast or a god.

Excerpt from Politics
by Aristotle

 

More Walls, Please

The best time of year to work at the office (as opposed to someplace else) is now, the holiday season. Just about everyone is away on vacation; unlike most other days, the place is nearly empty and wonderfully peaceful.

My office, you see, has an extremely open layout (i.e., where the walls between desks are low or non-existent), and it can feel quite overwhelming. Look up from your computer, and you find yourself staring into your neighbor's eyes. Extend your legs too far and you're playing footsie with him or her. Coworkers gather behind your chair to chat; in fact, conversations are never-ending all around you. Read an email, or look at your bank account balance at your own risk; when you do, everyone will know about it.

I've always been surprised that others don't seem to mind open offices. According to an article I saw yesterday on the Washington Post, though, people mind more than I knew. The lack of privacy, and the distractions, appear to affect most people. Not only does it diminish productivity, but it makes people feel "frustrated" and "helpless". I believe it. If only I could convince my boss to believe it.

Apparently, the main selling point for the open office idea is that it "enhances interaction" between coworkers. That, I'm guessing, is an idea originating from an extrovert. For me, less interaction would be ideal. And more walls.

It's an amusing article, and I like how the author ended it by promoting the work-at-home solution. "At home," she writes, "my greatest distraction is the refrigerator." Well put.

 

Attendance Is Tentative

During the last several years at work, I've gradually developed a nifty habit. When I receive meeting requests via email, those Microsoft Outlook invitations that list me as a required attendee and ask me to accept, I always -- always -- respond with a "Tentative", even when the person organizing the meeting could fire me himself or have any number of others fire me.

Most people have shrugged it off, though, dismissing my responses as quirks of mine, or at least they did so at first. I'd still go to most of the meetings for those first couple of years, despite my tentativeness. But slowly I began missing meetings, or calling into them. Or finding reasons to work from home. And nowadays I rarely attend meetings at all, except for the ones that I've organized myself or that I know I'll get something out of.

I treasure this habit, and I've even been asked how I'm able to get away with it.

I know this is terrible by most standards and that I've probably ticked off many coworkers. On the other hand, I've become much more productive and incalculably happier at work. It's a relief to skip meetings, especially since they end up being filled with small talk and repetitive discussions that won't contribute to my productivity at all. Wasting my time just so that I can be seen as a participant is irksome. I'd rather not be seen at all. Just let me get my job done!

I worry that I may be missing too many meetings lately, though. My habit might be getting dangerously out of hand.

Today, for instance, I received an email saying:

"Hey Zeri,

Hope you are enjoying the alone time ;)

Could you please join the [very important company] call next week? They were all wondering today what we are up to..."

Sigh. I guess I'm in trouble. But if people want answers from me, I don't understand why they don't simply ask. Conference calls and meetings seem entirely unnecessary.

In any case, I'm thinking of attending the meeting next week. Tentatively, at least.

 

A Developed Feeling Of Apartness

The feeling of apartness from others comes to most with puberty, but it is not always developed to such a degree as to make the difference between the individual and his fellows noticeable to the individual. It is such as he, as little conscious of himself as the bee in a hive, who are the lucky in life, for they have the best chance of happiness: their activities are shared by all, and their pleasures are only pleasures because they are enjoyed in common; you will see them on Whit-Monday dancing on Hampstead Heath, shouting at a football match, or from club windows in Pall Mall cheering a royal procession. It is because of them that man has been called a social animal.

Excerpt from Of Human Bondage
by Somerset Maugham

 

When Looks Say Enough

He found that silence helped him much more than words. He could look inexpressible things.

Excerpt from Of Human Bondage
by Somerset Maugham

 

On Getting Fined For Wordiness

In my last annual review at work, my team leader said that if there was an area where I was lacking, it was that I could be taking more ownership in my projects. I didn't agree, but what could I say? I sometimes feel that I'm the only one taking ownership, and other times I feel like I'm begging for the opportunity.

Lately, though, I've been taking so much ownership that my days have been filled with the kind of electricity that accompanies those on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I still avoid meetings when I can, quite intentionally, but nowadays it seems like I talk with everyone. I talked with my team leader today, and it was one talk out of far-too-many. I was asking him to help out on an upcoming project, and in that moment I realized that I was taking ownership, possibly more so than he was comfortable with. I was enlisting my team leader to work for me, and while I was chatting with him, I remembered his comments from my last annual review; and then my jaw started to lock up.

I was suddenly overwhelmed. I felt like I'd exceeded my annual limit for spoken words, and like I was starting to get charged extra; in fact, I was getting fined for going overboard with my wordiness. I was finding it hard to breathe.

In moments like these, I continue as best as I can. I tell myself to focus, to relax. I do what I need to do, say what I need to say, and accept that I can get back to the frills later. Once I'm away and my head isn't vibrating so intensely, I find a way to recharge: I do a tiny task, one that involves no communication, and another, and another. Soon enough, the emergency subsides.

Although I love taking ownership, does it need to involve so many people? Can't I just get things done?

 

Illuminated

While sitting with relatives at the back of the house one night in a suburb of Chicago, I found my attention drifting from the conversation. I was mesmerized by the brief flashes of light around the yard.

"Lightning bugs," I said, smiling. "It's been so long since I've seen them!"

"You don't have them in Seattle?" my aunt asked.

I shook my head, and continued watching the fireflies dance.

After a while, one of my nieces came up to me and opened her hands. She held out a lightning bug for me, and I thanked her. I reached out and let the bug crawl onto my finger. Soon, my hand was glowing.

Later, I thought about that kind gesture, and about how -- while I'd been focused on keeping up my part of the conversation with my relatives, and probably struggling to deal with all of the attention -- they'd simply been conspiring to see that I was happy.

Sometimes, I guess having the light shone on you isn't so bad.

 

On Being Family

I'm in Chicago, at a hotel, and I'm having trouble winding down for the night. When I get back to Seattle, I foresee quite a bit of downtime for recovery.

I'm here visiting family. It's been good to see them, but it's also been overwhelming. Seeing family is normally tiring after a few days, but my family in Chicago is a special case. Imagine twenty or more of the most extreme extroverts unintentionally ganging up on you, all of them coming and going, or sitting and chatting, speaking words faster than your brain can process them, all at the same time and not necessarily in English, most of them taking turns talking with you, each of them deserving the title of "Comedian" -- if you could only focus hard enough or listen at supersonic speeds (they always laugh at the jokes thirty seconds before you even realize a joke is being told) -- and that's not counting their kids who are running back and forth and screaming funny nonsense, arms flailing, the oddballs half naked; and you're giving hugs hello as some relatives arrive and hugs goodbye as some leave, many whom you've never met before, and if you're not paying attention, you might get knocked over by a little one planting her arms around one of your legs. Then, as you take your leave for the night, your grandmother -- standing up to hug you even though she struggles to stand at all -- tells you that she loves you, that she's glad that you came, and glad that she could see you again before she dies.

I'm not good enough family for any one of them, but I am glad to have them, nonetheless.

Tomorrow night, my aunt is having everyone over. I'm not optimistic about my ability to participate in two-way conversations. I harbored a small amount of optimism before I came to Chicago; I was sure there were meaningful questions to ask, things to learn about my family, etc., but now I can barely secure a steady train of thought. Writing these paragraphs was like trying to get a frightened, panicked crowd organized into a single-file line. My brain is fried.

I'll probably stutter and blabber tomorrow (unless there are drinks, of course -- in which case I'll probably stutter in the most eloquent of ways). Regardless, I'll be myself, and it'll be no surprise to anyone; they are family, after all. Earlier, my mom was telling a story to my aunt about how, on occasion, she accidentally calls one of my nephews by my name because he reminds her of me. My aunt asked, "Why? Because he's so quiet?"

Yes: they know me a little, at least.

I don't need to be the best uncle, or the best cousin, or the best nephew, or the best grandson, or the best brother, or the best son. But I wouldn't mind letting my family know that I care. I hope they can tell, even if I'm showing them in my own limited way.

 

On Shells And Happiness

Auberon put down the glass, slowly, thinking. "Do you think," he said, "that people are happier when they're alone, or with other people?"

She carried his glass and plate to the sink. "I don't know," she said. "I guess... Well, what do you think?"

"I don't know," he said. "I just wondered if... " What he wondered was whether it was a fact everyone knew, every grown-up anyway: that everyone is of course happiest alone, or the reverse, whichever it was. "I guess I'm happier with other people," he said.

"Oh yes?" She smiled; since she faced the sink, he couldn't see her. "That's nice," she said. "An extrovert."

"I guess."

"Well," Alice said softly, "I just hope you don't creep back in your shell again."

He was already on his way out, stuffing extra cookies in his pockets, and didn't stop, but a strange window had suddenly been flung open within him. Shell? Had he been in a shell? And -- odder still -- had he been seen to be in one, was it common knowledge? He looked through this window and saw himself for a moment, for the first time, as others saw him. Meanwhile his feet had taken him out the broad swinging doors of the kitchen, which grump-grumped behind him in their way, and through the raisin-odorous pantry, and out through the stillness of the long dining room, going toward his imaginary ball-game.

Excerpt from Little, Big: or, The Fairies' Parliament
by John Crowley

Related: The Shell

 

All I Need

"All I need is room enough to lay a hat and a few friends."

by Dorothy Parker

 

On Being Puzzling

"Most people spend little time inside their heads. They don't understand how you live. They're like medieval peasants looking in puzzlement at the troubadour."

Excerpt from Accelerando
by Charles Stross

 

An Introvert Fortune

"A person is not wise simply because one talks a lot."

Photo courtesy of a kind reader.

 

The "Extreme" In Extreme Introversion

Most of us are wary of the extremes. Extreme extroverts are as questionable as extreme introverts. In either case, we might ask, "What kind of drugs are you on?" For extreme athletes, we might attribute a death wish. Look up the word "extreme" on Google, and one of the related searches you'll see is "extreme couponing". Enough said.

It's easier to understand the common ground than it is to venture towards the edge.

Last year, I was asked how I know that I'm an "extreme introvert". I thought it was an interesting question. What makes my introversion extreme? And how do I know that's what I am? These are two very philosophical questions, but I'll try not to get too deep while answering them.

Part of the reason that I use the phrase is because more and more literature is finally being published about introversion, and the topic is described in an overly generic way. It's written about in such a manner as to include most of the world. Evidently, up to fifty percent of the population falls somewhere on the introversion spectrum, meaning half of us have at least some introverted tendencies. When you consider this, you can see why I -- among others -- would try to make a distinction. I classify myself as an "extreme" introvert because my introversion seems to be amplified. It's the difference between having mild tendencies versus being very clearly introverted. Simply put, the word introvert is overused; so I've added a modifier -- if introversion means "turning inwards", then extreme introversion means "turning inwards with gusto".

But how do I know that I'm on the deep end of the introversion spectrum? There's no exact formula for measuring these things -- it's guesswork, at best. There are tests online (e.g., the Meyers-Briggs test) that tell us how introverted we are, as a rough percentage, but the best test is experience. I know how I am in comparison to others because I spend time with people. I put myself in situations that allow me to make comparisons. I socialize now and then. You might say that I experiment.

How do I know? I know because I've tried being like everyone else, and I've also allowed myself to stop trying and to just be me. The difference is huge; in fact, the difference is extreme.

 

So Many Words

Today, we'll send over 300 billion emails, 19 billion text messages, yet we'll still feel alone. The average person will say 2,250 words to 7.4 other individuals. Will these words be used to hurt or to heal?

Touch, Pilot episode

 

Cooperating In Silence

Like the hours on horseback, Royce and Hadrian remained quiet. Hadrian unsaddled the horses and gave them a light brushing while Royce set up a small cook fire. It was entertaining to watch. Without a word, they would toss tools and bags back and forth. Hadrian blindly threw a hatchet over his shoulder and Royce caught it just in time to begin breaking up the branches for the fire. Just as Royce finished the fire, Hadrian had a pot of water ready to place on it. For Arista, who lived her life in public among squabbling nobles and chattering staffs, such silence was strange.

Excerpt from Nyphron Rising
by Michael J. Sullivan

 

Toasted

Although I tend to avoid work outings as much as I avoid mosquitoes, I do find myself attending now and then. The most recent outing was a going-away lunch for a coworker who'd found a better job. There were a lot of us at that outing, and our table stretched beyond the capacity of my eyesight; I couldn't see the other end.

The guest of honor gave a speech at some point. He paid homage to our boss, he reminisced about the good and the bad times, and he poked fun at the lot of us -- including me. That part, of course, went like this:

"...and I'll always remember my attempts to get Zeri to say more than thirty words."

Normally, I might take issue with such nonsense. But on this occasion, I could only nod and acknowledge my coworker's sense of humor; afterall, it was a little bit flattering to be mentioned in a toast.

A glass should always be raised for the introvert.

 

The Triumph In Walking Lightly

Hazel is different. She walks lightly, old man. She walks lightly upon the earth. Hazel knows the truth: We're as likely to hurt the universe as we are to help it, and we're not likely to do either. People will say it's sad that she leaves a lesser scar, that fewer remember her, that she was loved deeply but not widely. But it's not sad, Van Houten. It's triumphant. It's heroic. Isn't that the real heroism? Like the doctors say: First, do no harm. The real heroes anyway aren't the people doing things; the real heroes are the people NOTICING things, paying attention.

Excerpt from The Fault in Our Stars
by John Green

I guess I'd say that introverts tend to walk lightly, too. We tend to make fewer connections, but deeper ones. Often, we go unnoticed. Perhaps we leave fewer scars. I don't know.

 

Dear Zeri: On Getting Others To Understand

Thursday, July 25, 2013

I just found your blog about being an extreme introvert and wanted to say thanks for sharing. I'm feeling particularly misunderstood these days.

One thing I'm constantly trying to figure out is how to get people to understand and respect me being an introvert... I've realized that's never going to happen except for people I'm very close with. So I need to learn more coping mechanisms. I wonder if you'd consider writing something about coping in uncomfortable environments (I didn't see if you've already written about that). For example, I just returned from a 10 day vacation with my in-laws (9 people total). I pretty much had a meltdown by the second day because I was getting basically no alone time and everyone was talking all the time at the same time. I even got a really bad cold which I'm sure was related to the stress. I started hiding out as much as possible and I'm sure everyone thinks I hate them... which almost seems true because I find it so stressful to be around them. I'm not sure how to appropriately deal with that situation. I need to get better at being able to deal with these situations I can't control. Any tips?

Thanks again,

L

---

Sunday, July 28, 2013

Hi, L --

Thanks for writing, and my apologies for the late reply. I only check in sporadically, but I suppose it's nearly time for another entry. I have to confess, though, that I try not to give out too much advice on my own blog. I try to keep it more personal. I do know of several forums that have great advice for introverts, though. I'll forward some if you're interested.

That said, I can very much relate to the situations you've described; while I don't have any standard tips to offer, I can tell you what my own experience has been.

First, about the vacation-related stress: that sort of thing happens to me, too. During situations like those, it feels like every muscle is tense, and like I'm ready to pounce on anyone who comes near. Being stuck like that for too long can definitely take its toll on your health. I've found only two ways to cope in those scenarios. If at all possible, the easiest thing to do is to get away. Make time for yourself, even if it seems odd to others. Step out to the bathroom, but go for a walk, instead. The other thing that helps is if you can be honest with others. I know I've struggled with that in the past; it's hard to be honest without being cruel, and so I often avoid saying anything. But if you can calm yourself enough to say what you're feeling in a reasonable manner, others will often understand. Even if they don't make less noise all of the time, they'll at least understand if you need to get away from them. And they'll understand that you aren't really hating them -- that you're just having a hard time dealing with so much stimulation.

There is a third thing that helps in those situations, but it's the one that takes the most time: it's practice. It may never become entirely easy, but I think we eventually find ways to zone it all out. Ways to calm or distract ourselves. It still takes a toll, in the meantime, but it gets easier not to burst while we're in the midst of it all.

As for respect and understanding, those things are fleeting. Not even fellow introverts will always understand you. We don't come across introverts as often, and so we act towards the rest of the world just like anyone else does; thus, we often treat each other, including our fellow introverts, in the ways that give us such a hard time. Friends will falter sometimes, but at least they're friends. All you can expect is that they'll try to be as understanding towards you as you'll be towards them.

Hopefully some of this helps.

Thanks again for writing. Good or bad, it always helps a little to know that others deal with the same things as me.

Be well,

... Zeri

---

Friday, August 2, 2013

Zeri,

Thanks for your response. I really appreciate it. It's nice to feel understood. Sometimes I feel like such a freak when it seems everyone else can cope with "normal" situations so much better than I can.

I understand not wanting to give advice but I appreciate your personal experiences. I often do the thing where I pretend I'm just going to the bathroom or something and then disappear for long periods of time... I think that gives a bad impression, although often I think people don't even notice I'm gone since I'm sort of invisible even when I'm there.

The thing I really want to work on is being more honest and straightforward with people. I've tried this with my mother-in-law. I will say to her, "I'm just feeling really overwhelmed by all the noise and stimulation and I require a lot of quiet, alone time." Her response is always, "Me too! It's driving me crazy... blah, blah, blah!!!" To which I always want to respond, "No I don't think you do get it because YOU are the one I find the most overwhelming to be around!!!" But I don't say that because I think it will hurt her feelings. It's interesting to me that she claims to feel overwhelmed by the chaos and yet she's the biggest contributor to that chaos. At that point I know she thinks she understands how I feel but clearly doesn't because I'm trying to ask her to not talk to me, that I need to be left alone to recover, but she takes it as an opportunity to talk to me even more. Clearly my passive requests are not accomplishing what I want them to. I'm not sure if I need to be even more direct and say, "YOU are talking to me too much and I can't deal with it anymore." If someone said that to me it would really hurt my feelings. But maybe sometimes I need to just stand up for myself and my needs even if it does hurt other people's feelings.

Happy Friday,

L

---

Wednesday, August 7, 2013

Hi L --

Yes, it might help to try asserting yourself more. Like I wrote last time, it can be challenging to figure out how to do so without being cruel, but it's important to try, I think, especially if you're becoming stressed out on a regular basis. Friends of mine (and probably many others) use a method of 1) saying something kind first, then 2) describing the problem or stating what is needed, and 3) finishing up with another nice statement. Here's an article that describes something similar as a way of being assertive and nice at the same time:

http://www.positivityblog.com/index.php/2008/05/05/six-steps-to-become-assertive-and-nice/

Personally, I find such steps to be a bit disingenuous; on the other hand, they seem to work well in many cases. You could start by telling your mother-in-law that you like talking with her, and hearing her stories, and getting to know her, etc.; then tell her that, while all that is true, you need a break from it occasionally, and that it's overwhelming; and then, perhaps, finish up by saying that you appreciate her understanding.

That said, she may not ever really get how overwhelmed you become. She may not understand how you are, but it's worth getting her to understand what you need.

In any case, I wish you luck. Situations like that can be tricky to negotiate.

Be well,

... Zeri

 

On Things That Make You Go Quiet

The definition for the word "sardonic" at Merriam-Webster provides an example of its usage:

a sardonic little jab that made her visitor quiet and subdued for the rest of the night

I'm not sure what made the visitor quiet, in this case, whether it was the sardonicism or the jab, but it makes me wonder what would do the same to me. In general, either of these things are likely candidates.

 

How Wonderful To Not Talk

A conversation between CJ and Danny in the show West Wing:

"You know when I came over Wednesday night and it was late and we didn't really talk? We just--"

"I have a vague recollection."

"Did that make you feel bad?

"Bad in a-- in a what?"

"You know-- used."

"For my body?"

"Something like that."

"I'll work through it."

"You sure?"

"It happens. Women want me."

"It's just, I know we have a lot to talk about and I don't want to leapfrog any of it but it was kind of wonderful to just--"

"Not talk."

"Not even a little."

They laugh.

"You want to do it again tonight, don't you."

"I really do."

"I'll leave the door open."

From West Wing
"Requiem", Season 7, Episode 18

 

Silence As Truth

Silences can wound as surely as the twisting lash, the poet Sadiq Khan once wrote. But sometimes, being silent is the only way to tell the truth.

Excerpt from Shantaram
by Gregory David Roberts

 

Unconnected

My father recently replied to an email I'd written weeks before; as to the late reply, he said that he was confused about the issue of "family connectedness" I'd mentioned. He didn't explain his confusion, but I suspect that he wonders whether I've inherited from him a tendency to be less connected.

This is a subject I've pondered in various ways throughout the years. A movie I watched a few months ago caused me to revisit the subject in a new light. The movie, "Giant Mechanical Man", depicts a culture in which people, in general, are difficult to connect with. Everyone wears earbuds; they listen to material on electronic gadgets rather than to anyone else, and no one is available for others.

What I realized while watching is: that's me. I listen to audiobooks every day. I walk to work with earbuds nestled in, and I regularly go out to restaurants while listening to stories, too. I even listen to stories while grocery shopping, and while I'm out running. I'm not doing it to avoid others, yet I wonder whether it's a habit that aids in my tendency to be less connected. Technology is the new evil because it separates us; on the other hand, it's nothing new that being separate is "worrisome."

Maybe I should make myself available to friends and family more often than I do, but I don't think I have a responsibility to make myself available to the entire world. If someone wants to talk with me, I'm not going to avoid them. I welcome it. I'm not trying to ignore people, nor am I callous. While I'm not motivated to create or maintain as many as others might like, I do desire meaningful connections. I may want fewer, but the deeper they are the better.

In a way, I find that it helps that I listen to stories. It helps me to understand myself and the world. It gives me a way to connect with others -- with something that I care about: good stories. And what's the point in sharing stuff unless I care about it?

What's the point in being connected unless I mean it?

 

The Danger In Shielding Oneself

In a story I recently read, Pandora's Star, the human race becomes concerned about a shield -- an apparent force field -- that envelopes another solar system. Why would anyone need to be shielded unless they were a threat? If the shield is a defense, then -- so the reasoning goes -- they're likely to go on the offense.

Although it's only a story, this sort of reasoning is applied to people like me on a fairly regular basis. I've tried to understand it over the years. If I spend too much time alone, or if I don't spill my guts to everyone who wants them spilt, it tends to make people uncomfortable. Liking my privacy has never been an acceptable answer. I think the reasoning goes like this:

I can be private as long as I'm not noticed. If I choose to be in the company of others, or to make myself noticed, then I'm asking to be questioned. If I choose to remain quiet in company, or to remain apart, shielding myself from others, so to speak, then I must be hiding something. And if I'm hiding something, then there must be something troubling me; anything troubling me is likely to become dangerous for others later on.

Or, at least, that's how I imagine the onset of fear progresses.

Not everyone minds having a quiet person around. But it's a rare find. It's a kind and accepting nature that allow others to just be -- to join when we want, to talk when we have something to say, to stick around even when we're not entirely involved.

A shield isn't necessarily a danger. Sometimes it's just a way of life.

 

In Order To Evolve, Like Bread

Making bread is an athletic event. Not only does it require dashing around to several stations of the bakery as you check rising loaves or mix ingredients or haul the mixing bowl out of its cradle -- but it also takes muscle power to activate the gluten in the dough. Even people who wouldn't be able to tell a poolish from a biga know that to make bread, you have to knead it. Push and roll, push and fold, a rhythmic workout on your floured countertop. Do it right, and you'll release a protein called gluten -- strands that let uneven pockets of carbon dioxide form in the loaves. After seven or eight minutes -- long enough for your mind to have made a to-do list of chores around the house, or for you to replay the last conversation you had with your significant other and what he really meant -- the consistency of the dough will transform. Smooth, supple, cohesive.

That's the point where you have to leave the dough alone. It's silly to anthropomorphize bread, but I love the fact that it needs to sit quietly, to retreat from touch and noise and drama, in order to evolve.

I have to admit, I often feel that way myself.

Excerpt from The Storyteller
by Jodi Picoult