As the new year
dawned yesterday morning, I woke up and did what I've been doing nearly every
day since Christmas Eve: exactly nothing.
It's been a wonderful week and a half of peace and quiet, save for the
fireworks that woke me up at midnight on January first. I had been out and about for the better part
of New Year's Eve, so after a late dinner, I was in bed by ten-thirty. I'm no party pooper, just enjoying the best
part of wintertime -- sustained silence.
I could get used
to not working. In fact, I've absolutely
surprised myself by staying out of my yoga studio and away from the computer
for the better part of a week. This time
last year I had already made and wrapped presents for the 2015 holiday season,
cleaned the house from top to bottom, and spent a couple dozen hours
researching at the library.
But not this
year...and the best part is I don't feel guilty at all for fully enjoying my
"stay-cation" at home.
As many of you
know, I love, love, love to talk. In
fact, nearly every day this past week, I've had coffee dates with friends and run into folks at
the gym where we chat while lifting weights or trotting on the treadmill. Even complete strangers engage me in
curiously fascinating conversations and I come home pondering a host of ideas
and opportunities. I enjoy it all.
But it wears me
out.
Over coffee last
week, a friend suggested a fascinating book called Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World that Can't Stop Talking. I immediately picked
up a copy and have been reading it ever since.
Thoroughly researched and articulately written, the author, Susan Cain,
describes me to a "T". So far,
the quote with which I resonate the most is: It's okay to cross the street to avoid making small talk. Yes, I'm a talker, but I cannot stand talking
with someone just to hear myself speak...and vice versa.
I suppose I've
always been this way. In first grade, I
clearly remember talking to Billy Klatt when I was supposed to be finishing a
writing assignment. He was a year older
than me and lived a few houses away from mine, so we knew each other better
than the other kids in class. I
have no memory of what we were chatting about, but I do remember that he was as
interested in talking with me as I was with him, which resulted in Mrs. Bureau
assigning us a writing penalty because, even though we kept our voices down, we
were supposed to be quiet.
Even then, I
preferred the intimacy of one-on-one conversations to the boisterous
back-and-forth on the playground. While
the girls were jumping rope and the boys were playing tag, I sat as far away
from the mayhem on a cement cinder-block, writing in a three-ring-notebook,
imagining I was Harriet the Spy.
Surprisingly enough, I was joined not by the girls, but by a few quiet
boys who made me laugh. In the
classroom, they were shy and didn't raise their hands at all, but with me on
the playground, they talked about GI Joes and baseball and how they hoped we wouldn't have to get on the trampoline in gym class because that was the
worst: being up there by yourself while
the whole class stood around watching you bounce around and try not to twist
your ankle.
I couldn't agree
more.
As time went on,
I became know as "Katie the Bookworm" or "Katie the
Goody-Goody", which made me want to cloister even more. Sure, I was friendly and chatty with my
friends. I raised my hand and answered
questions in the classroom. Still, any
kind of group setting mortified me. And
sometimes it still does.
It's ironic that
I've spent the better part of my adult life in front of a classroom. I teach and nurture and guide my
students. I listen to their questions,
then try to provide a clear answer. I'm
often called upon for advice or suggestions, which is just fine with
me...except that it hasn't made me the listener I want to be because I'm always
at the ready with a response.
It's my
intention that this year will manifest many things, the greatest of which will
be the shedding of what my friend, Kendall, calls "the people I used to
be". In September I'll hit my
Chiron return, which means that if I've learned the lessons from the past, I'll
be able to move forward into that which I've been imagining for the past
decade. After all I've experienced in
the past four years in particular, I'm hopeful that will be the case. In any event, I'm working toward being a
different kind of teacher, allowing the writer in me to move forward and stand
side-by-side with the instructor. For
it's in these quiet moments alone in my creativity that I find the greatest solace. Perhaps then I'll be able to let go of my
tendency to have a response for everything and simply listen for the answer
inherent in my students' questions.
Yes, I'm an
outgoing introvert, but I'm also shifting into someone who now understands she
cannot change the world, but can transform my little one day by day...quiet choice
by quiet choice.
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