mourning maturity
As I sat alone at football practice last night, I had a few quiet moments to myself. For an introvert, that is energy; that is air; that is food. Why on earth an introvert would decide to have more than a few children is a mystery I have yet to solve. They are the anti-alone, but I wouldn't trade them for the world.
That said, there are still times when I am alone in which I mourn parts of who I used to be. I am glad that I am nowhere near as self-conscious as I was (though the nasty plague is still with me in strong measure), but I miss some aspects of me.
Taking the time to people watch - to simply appreciate the variety of God's creation. As a child, riding in the car, I would look at the other cars and make up stories about their occupants. I would spin elaborate tales of who they were and where they were going based on the body language of the riders and the cargo they were carrying.
As I grew older, I would watch people walking by me or intersecting my life in some way, and I would wonder about their story. What was on the inside that I couldn't see? We all have so much more to us than shows on the outside. Were there secret pains and insecurities spawning the scowling face of the girl on the other side of the counter? What was causing the tears just behind the eyes of that young man?
Most of the time, I didn't find out the stories. However, I seem to be a person others can talk to when I have the time to just sit and "be." My eyes always sought deep into the soul of other eyes. I wanted to know, understand, and comfort. As a result, I did hear some.
I miss having the energy to let myself care deeply for others. I still do care like that about the people I know, but I have to limit my scope so much more, or I am emotionally exhausted.
I miss having intensely deep discussions about trivialities that encompassed so much more than the mere words would suggest - reading into the layers behind each other's words.
I miss simply sitting and breathing as the surroundings of bush, tree and stream brought me into their natural rhythm.
There are new rhythms. There are new souls to delve - those of my own children. And yet, there is a sacrifice in reciprocity. No one delves back. Does it make me selfish to miss that?
This may never make it to the blog. I sit here with so much on my mind, and yet each word is an effort to type. Nothing comes smoothly from me. Usually when my words are stilted, they are not worth writing. Still, a blog is theraputic. Composing it can ease the aching beast. Yet, I know I will feel guilty for posting something which is a chore to read.
That said, there are still times when I am alone in which I mourn parts of who I used to be. I am glad that I am nowhere near as self-conscious as I was (though the nasty plague is still with me in strong measure), but I miss some aspects of me.
Taking the time to people watch - to simply appreciate the variety of God's creation. As a child, riding in the car, I would look at the other cars and make up stories about their occupants. I would spin elaborate tales of who they were and where they were going based on the body language of the riders and the cargo they were carrying.
As I grew older, I would watch people walking by me or intersecting my life in some way, and I would wonder about their story. What was on the inside that I couldn't see? We all have so much more to us than shows on the outside. Were there secret pains and insecurities spawning the scowling face of the girl on the other side of the counter? What was causing the tears just behind the eyes of that young man?
Most of the time, I didn't find out the stories. However, I seem to be a person others can talk to when I have the time to just sit and "be." My eyes always sought deep into the soul of other eyes. I wanted to know, understand, and comfort. As a result, I did hear some.
I miss having the energy to let myself care deeply for others. I still do care like that about the people I know, but I have to limit my scope so much more, or I am emotionally exhausted.
I miss having intensely deep discussions about trivialities that encompassed so much more than the mere words would suggest - reading into the layers behind each other's words.
I miss simply sitting and breathing as the surroundings of bush, tree and stream brought me into their natural rhythm.
There are new rhythms. There are new souls to delve - those of my own children. And yet, there is a sacrifice in reciprocity. No one delves back. Does it make me selfish to miss that?
This may never make it to the blog. I sit here with so much on my mind, and yet each word is an effort to type. Nothing comes smoothly from me. Usually when my words are stilted, they are not worth writing. Still, a blog is theraputic. Composing it can ease the aching beast. Yet, I know I will feel guilty for posting something which is a chore to read.
Labels: thoughts
posted by atypical at
10:06 AM
3 Comments:
I can't remember how I found your blog but I've been reading it the last few days.
This wasn't a chore to read. At all.
Even though I am an extrovert, I recognize alot of what you are thinking and feeling in myself.
And I agree with you, a blog is a good place to get it out.
By
Unknown, at 11:05 AM
Thanks for stopping by.
I went and had a look at all three of yours, and sense some kindred spiritedness (esp. Myers-Briggs, Douglas Adams, and God, not necessarily in that order).
By
atypical, at 1:57 PM
This was not a chore to read. I absolutely resonate with the idea of needing to imagine or explore the layers of other people's lives. I wrote about this a bit in a post (Seeing Only One Ninth) but did not explore the idea more than to mention it.
I am an avid people watcher too. I do not have any children living in the home, so have the luxury of indulging my introvertedness.
By
Terri B., at 12:35 PM
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