Balancing in an extroverted world

There are stories swapped easily and smiles tucked between glances; layers erasing distance and an ease of side by side silence.  We are strangers, children of friends, dock neighbors extending our own line of connection.  It’s rare to meet a friend where the initial meeting is absent of small talk.  I tend to shun cocktail party shallowness and mark escape routes during aimless chatter.  I often reach my human interaction limit long before those whose genes I share.  And yet, always a good student, I can hold my own, having been well schooled in the art of extroversion from a magnetic father who reigns at the hub of the party.  

We operate on different gears, he and I.  He happily stacks plans upon activities, is calm with a full table, and has the energy of a five year old.  I come via a solo train, introverted by default, preferring groups to dot the day rather than be the norm.  Still, I laugh at the jokes and join the debates, surprising myself at times with my enjoyment of the crowd.  But after an hour or two, I’m done; finding the extra bodies more draining than energizing, I long to retreat to recharge in the stillness.  It’s a balancing game – avoiding the gentle slope into isolation, integrating friendship with mindfulness and connections with calm.  It’s a learning process as I examine my comfort zone and learn where I need to step away in favor of shared laughter and fun.

I will never be the party girl with an overflowing date book and more friends that I can count.  I can happily spent a Sunday writing, reading, going to the park, calling friends, and never getting out of my pajamas. And yet, I still fight against the extroverted judgments, the labels: not normal, nerd, loser, boring, pathetic.  I practice allowing myself to have my own rules for living and standards of joy, struggling against the childish biases that no longer apply. 

So when I find a kindred spirit whose smile also turns stale upon the bell of midnight, I link arms with relief that there are others just like me.  However, even as I learn who I am and create my own grown up life, I watch my dad in his splendor, a table full of friends, and I take notes.  I watch, simply grateful to have been taught the tools of connection by a master.  I slip in and out of his overflowing calendar, but am always welcomed with a genuine smile and an outstretched hand as he pulls me by his side.  And just as I stretch myself to dance in his world, his shining compliment is when he shrinks to intimacy, carving shared moments of just the two of us sitting on the dock, trading thoughts upon the wind.  He glows in a bustle, but gives a gift to my introverted soul, as he makes clear that our family of four is all the party he needs. 

I continue to learn.  I learn what I need, want, and wish for.  I learn how to slip into family without unleashing old shadows but rather filling my shoes with a love that cushions until the next time.  I learn how to appreciate the din of the crowd along with the stillness, loud laughter along with deep talks over coffee.  I learn when to stretch and when to swing in quiet peace.  I learn to appreciate the differences, to cherish family, and to keep close friends who also understand interaction limits and grown up time outs. 

And so I made a new friend on the dock this summer, and for a few days, we swapped book lists and laughter, pages of history shared under the sun.  Despite the distance between us, I look forward to seeing her next summer, and I remember the ease of her company as a fellow introvert lost in a community of extroverts. 

Dirt-filled Bliss

I never knew that bliss was covered with dirt.  In all the corners I’ve searched for balance, in the teachers I’ve sought for peace or the books I’ve read hoping for calmness, I didn’t expect to find it on my patio.  And yet, for someone who vacuums obsessively and runs late to do last minute dusting, I’m reveling in a love of soil. 

I’ve always wanted a garden with plants to sprinkle with hope and whisper sweet dreams.  I’ve always envisioned fresh herbs and green shoots tended by my hand.  I linger upon lush yards during my walks with my puppy, drooling over tomato plants and gardenia bushes that seem to never fall out of season.  And yet, I haven’t had a backyard, or a patio, or even a ledge to plant my seeds.  And I haven’t had the best luck with indoor plants – usually my downfall is overwatering, anxiously peering in soil and determining that more is better until they drown with my protection.  I’ve been limiting myself to cacti, which you actually have to have murderous intentions in order to spur their demise. 

With all of that, I am a gardener at heart. I just know it.  I love the pruning and the mothering. I love the morning checks for new leaves and glimpse of a miracle as seeds sprout into splashes of color.  So the clincher on my new apartment was the patio with a small bed of soil and ample ledges for things of green.  I wandered up aisles in the nursery, swirling with possibilities and unlimited by any knowledge of practicalities, seasons, or space requirements.  Admittedly, I missed a few items: planters, topsoil, and a watering can... But I was too distracted by the basil, cilantro, rosemary, strawberry plant, and various beauties to remember the basics.  It didn’t matter.  Yesterday I became a gardener as I left my gloves in the kitchen and dug with bare hands to create room for roots, whispering prayers for growth and strength for all of us.

Amidst the din of daily life traffic, for a few moments, I found my balance.  Something about new possibilities sprinkled with nurturance and warm breezes allowed me to breathe in the calm and settle into simple contentment.  Protective of their fragile roots, I steadied my feet in my own life.

I run on overwhelmed, with a default setting of anxiety.  I forget inhale, to prioritize, and to grasp that a to-do item doesn’t demand immediate attention simply by appearing on the list.  I wobble with change, and squirm until the last picture is hung on the wall.  I struggle to schedule fun before errands and relaxation in the face of emails unanswered.  And yet, filthy under a lazy Sunday sky, joy superseded groceries and my head ceased its 90 mph roaming to match my feet in the dirt. 

Maybe my plants will shrivel or my green thumb never appears.  Maybe.  But it won’t change the fact that I am a gardener, permanently imprinted with the sweet glee of my hands in the earth, taking deep breathes and gratefully balanced in my new home.