I am an introvert.
This always takes people slightly by surprise. As I have written before, I don't have any qualms about speaking in front of a large group of people, sharing my thoughts, or volunteering to do something. I am friendly, lively, and outgoing, quick to speak (and slow to listen... not something I'm necessarily proud of.)
Large parties or get-togethers, however, are my nightmare. That awkward cocktail hour, mingling, meet and greet makes me want to hide in the bathroom until it's time for the event to start. Bonfires with people I don't know well are a perfect time to stuff my face with marshmallows to give me something to do instead of stare blankly at everyone else who seems to be having a wonderful time (sadly I like the caught-on-fire-burned-to-a-crisp marshmallows, so the actual cooking does not distract me for too long...)
As I have processed before, living away from my family and my dearest friends has led to lots of feelings of loneliness. When I used to treasure being alone, eager to spend time in devotions, doing crafts, writing letters, writing in general, and reading, I now dread it. I stay at school late. When I leave I always invite someone over (or invite myself over). I fill my life with people to keep the loneliness away. It seems like it would work. But the minute they leave, a flood of loneliness washes over me again.
I have been thinking through this for some time, and I am realizing that in my desperate avoidance of anything solitary, I have robbed myself of rest, joy, and the most precious times with my Savior. I realized that I fill my life with noise. Whether it be blasting some music, always having someone around, or inventing texts to send out just so that I can be communicating with someone. But I have traded the best company, the quiet talks with my Lord, for the company of others. While of course friendship is deeply valuable and beautiful, I have been taking almost no time away from people.
I am a forgetful introvert. I forget that I am energized after spending long hours alone... thinking and writing deeply about what's on my heart, while wrapped in a cozy blanket, wearing thick socks, and drinking tea.
After one night when my usual fill-my-life-with-people plans fell through, I decided to take the hint and spend time alone. I turned off my phone. I turned off my music. I pondered, I prayed, I journaled, I made decorations to remind me of truth. And I wrote about the things that truly energize me and give me life.
Friends and family most certainly have a huge part to play in my life. Without them I would be lost in a solitary cage of misery. But for me, it is healthy to spend time away. To face the loneliness with truth gathered from my moments away from everyone else.
Saturday, September 28, 2013
Saturday, September 21, 2013
Why I love slow processors
I'm one of those kids who went through school, hand raised, always ready with an answer. Not a "you-better-call-on-me-before-I-explode" hand raised, but a confident, occasionally wiggly hand, and an arm that frequently shifted from side to side as it fell asleep, waiting to be called on.
In bible studies and Sunday school I was the "know-it-all." I always had an example from my own life that (usually) applied to what we were talking about. I tried not to be cocky or prideful, but I'm afraid I usually came off that way.
I was the one eagerly hopping in the van after a full day of school, stories brimming to be told.
Basically, if a question is asked, I'm all there, ready with an answer, bursting at the seams, but usually containing it, trying really hard to let others have a turn until I finally feel so bad for the question-asker that I just go right ahead.
I've been frustrated with the kids that take forever to answer a question, that can't express themselves, that wait for what seemed like eternity before announcing they "forgot," a simple way to get out of actually having to answer the question.
And then. I met some slow processors. And I learned some amazing things.
While I typically want an immediate answer to my questions, and I want a fast-paced, lively discussion, I appreciate the silent mulling-over done by a slow processor...
I used to talk right over them. If there was silence in a conversation, I would jabber away, simply to make it disappear. I would ask another question. I would answer my own question. Anything to make the awkwardness go away.
I became friends with a slow processor. Our long "talks" on the phone involved mostly silence at times. I became frustrated. I used to multitask and wait for the voice on the other end to finally break the silence. Then I would put down my homework or whatever else I was doing and finally listen. I was always shocked at the depth that came out of the silence. The stuff I had been missing in all my lightning-fast processing. The depth of wisdom, the depth of patience, the depth of understanding, and finally the vulnerability that sprung out of time.
It was still uncomfortable leaving that silence. I began tutoring in the Writing Lab. My boss and mentor listened to my sessions with students. "You're not letting them answer you. You keep redirecting them too quickly," was something I heard daily. I thought the two seconds of wait time was plenty. But I began to leave a gap. A gap long enough for seat-shifting discomfort to set in. And the answers to my questions became deeper, longer, harder.
Then I began tutoring Koreans and other ESL students. I made friends with people who struggled with communicating easily in a second language. Sometimes I would wait a whole minute in silence for them to speak. I began to learn the art of facial expressions. I watched their mouths slowly form the words, practice them, before the sounds left their lips. I watched their eyes, searching for words they knew, their fingers quickly hunting for a word on their electronic dictionaries. I knew something was about to happen. So I would wait with pregnant anticipation. Then. They would express their true hearts, share their culture, their struggles with adjusting, and their frustration at being misunderstood. Ironically, they felt comfortable with me because I gave them time to think, to say what they were trying to say, and to get their thoughts across without interrupting them. I celebrated moments of growth.
Sometimes my students will come back in my room crying. I can keep teaching and hope it goes away. Or I can slow time down for them, let them know I'm here. I can give her a hug, and give her the choice: now or later, paper/pencil or voice. I can listen to his needs, teach him how to express his emotions in a healthy way.
Even in my closest relationships, I am learning the beauty of silence. Of gaps of thinking space. Of revisiting old conflicts gently, with minutes of deep thought before diving in. I can now sit and wait fifteen minutes for someone to speak. I watch their face. Their eyes. The words dance on their lips before being released, ready to catch them. I have learned to be slower to speak, and quicker to listen. I have learned to be still.
I realize that slow processors are the people that have some of the best insights. I have learned that when they are ready to speak, I better be ready to listen. Because they have something they've been chewing on. And when they are ready to share, who knows when the opportunity will arise again (especially in our fast-paced world). I have made so many mistakes in my eager responses, my quick quips, my thoughtless remarks. But slow processors are deliberate and cautious with their words. They understand that their words can make a huge difference.
I now realize it is in the silence that the greatest thoughts are born. That the guarder of secrets decides to be open. Where the thumping heart-beat escalates into the throat, into the back of the tongue where the words form, until they have been uttered, and yet met with acceptance.
My heart's desire is to be a safe place for slow processors. Where silence is not only tolerated but embraced. Where time can slow down, ears can be open, and mouths closed.
In bible studies and Sunday school I was the "know-it-all." I always had an example from my own life that (usually) applied to what we were talking about. I tried not to be cocky or prideful, but I'm afraid I usually came off that way.
I was the one eagerly hopping in the van after a full day of school, stories brimming to be told.
Basically, if a question is asked, I'm all there, ready with an answer, bursting at the seams, but usually containing it, trying really hard to let others have a turn until I finally feel so bad for the question-asker that I just go right ahead.
I've been frustrated with the kids that take forever to answer a question, that can't express themselves, that wait for what seemed like eternity before announcing they "forgot," a simple way to get out of actually having to answer the question.
And then. I met some slow processors. And I learned some amazing things.
While I typically want an immediate answer to my questions, and I want a fast-paced, lively discussion, I appreciate the silent mulling-over done by a slow processor...
I used to talk right over them. If there was silence in a conversation, I would jabber away, simply to make it disappear. I would ask another question. I would answer my own question. Anything to make the awkwardness go away.
I became friends with a slow processor. Our long "talks" on the phone involved mostly silence at times. I became frustrated. I used to multitask and wait for the voice on the other end to finally break the silence. Then I would put down my homework or whatever else I was doing and finally listen. I was always shocked at the depth that came out of the silence. The stuff I had been missing in all my lightning-fast processing. The depth of wisdom, the depth of patience, the depth of understanding, and finally the vulnerability that sprung out of time.
It was still uncomfortable leaving that silence. I began tutoring in the Writing Lab. My boss and mentor listened to my sessions with students. "You're not letting them answer you. You keep redirecting them too quickly," was something I heard daily. I thought the two seconds of wait time was plenty. But I began to leave a gap. A gap long enough for seat-shifting discomfort to set in. And the answers to my questions became deeper, longer, harder.
Then I began tutoring Koreans and other ESL students. I made friends with people who struggled with communicating easily in a second language. Sometimes I would wait a whole minute in silence for them to speak. I began to learn the art of facial expressions. I watched their mouths slowly form the words, practice them, before the sounds left their lips. I watched their eyes, searching for words they knew, their fingers quickly hunting for a word on their electronic dictionaries. I knew something was about to happen. So I would wait with pregnant anticipation. Then. They would express their true hearts, share their culture, their struggles with adjusting, and their frustration at being misunderstood. Ironically, they felt comfortable with me because I gave them time to think, to say what they were trying to say, and to get their thoughts across without interrupting them. I celebrated moments of growth.
Sometimes my students will come back in my room crying. I can keep teaching and hope it goes away. Or I can slow time down for them, let them know I'm here. I can give her a hug, and give her the choice: now or later, paper/pencil or voice. I can listen to his needs, teach him how to express his emotions in a healthy way.
Even in my closest relationships, I am learning the beauty of silence. Of gaps of thinking space. Of revisiting old conflicts gently, with minutes of deep thought before diving in. I can now sit and wait fifteen minutes for someone to speak. I watch their face. Their eyes. The words dance on their lips before being released, ready to catch them. I have learned to be slower to speak, and quicker to listen. I have learned to be still.
I realize that slow processors are the people that have some of the best insights. I have learned that when they are ready to speak, I better be ready to listen. Because they have something they've been chewing on. And when they are ready to share, who knows when the opportunity will arise again (especially in our fast-paced world). I have made so many mistakes in my eager responses, my quick quips, my thoughtless remarks. But slow processors are deliberate and cautious with their words. They understand that their words can make a huge difference.
I now realize it is in the silence that the greatest thoughts are born. That the guarder of secrets decides to be open. Where the thumping heart-beat escalates into the throat, into the back of the tongue where the words form, until they have been uttered, and yet met with acceptance.
My heart's desire is to be a safe place for slow processors. Where silence is not only tolerated but embraced. Where time can slow down, ears can be open, and mouths closed.
Monday, September 9, 2013
Violet Hope
I have a small African violet plant in a green ceramic pot.
My parents brought it to me when they came a month ago for my birthday, and it has been struggling ever since.
I have watched as slowly the leaves turned yellow, blotchy, brown, and dry. The buds of hope it had in August have dropped away. I have been frustrated with it... as it sits in my classroom bay window, drinking up the delicious rays of sun, yet producing nothing. I watered it gingerly, waiting for change. But none happened.
Last week was long. It was hard. It was draining. Every time I glanced on my mailbox shelf where my violet sat, I felt a frustration... because in some ways I felt like that yellow-ing little violet. Watered, and soaked in sun, yet not producing, not thriving, not growing, not blooming.
I spent several nights working at school until very late, hardly seeing the sunlight during those days. Some of it was lack of focus, some of it was frustration with new curriculum, and some of it was just pure exhaustion of pouring into twenty little lives without taking time to stop and rest.
While I dislike the billboards that announce "you deserve it!" (especially when "it" is whatever product they are trying to sell), I am realizing the enormous importance of rest.
I continue to strive, to try, to work until I have nothing left, I am completely drained, and I feel no closer to my goal.
The past few weekends I have been very intentional to rest. To take time to spend with dear friends, new friends, old friends. To talk, to pray, to read, to watch movies, to go on adventures, sip coffee, and visit cafes, instead of sitting in a cocoon of 4th grade math worksheets or reading summaries.
At the end of each weekend I'm always a little nervous to check on my little violet. I'm afraid perhaps it will be completely shriveled and dead.
Today when I did my usual check, I noticed this:
Despite the blotchy scars of exhaustion and sickness on its leaves, it has bloomed.
I was so excited.
And that violet gave me hope. That blooming and thriving is just around the corner.
My parents brought it to me when they came a month ago for my birthday, and it has been struggling ever since.
I have watched as slowly the leaves turned yellow, blotchy, brown, and dry. The buds of hope it had in August have dropped away. I have been frustrated with it... as it sits in my classroom bay window, drinking up the delicious rays of sun, yet producing nothing. I watered it gingerly, waiting for change. But none happened.
Last week was long. It was hard. It was draining. Every time I glanced on my mailbox shelf where my violet sat, I felt a frustration... because in some ways I felt like that yellow-ing little violet. Watered, and soaked in sun, yet not producing, not thriving, not growing, not blooming.
I spent several nights working at school until very late, hardly seeing the sunlight during those days. Some of it was lack of focus, some of it was frustration with new curriculum, and some of it was just pure exhaustion of pouring into twenty little lives without taking time to stop and rest.
While I dislike the billboards that announce "you deserve it!" (especially when "it" is whatever product they are trying to sell), I am realizing the enormous importance of rest.
I continue to strive, to try, to work until I have nothing left, I am completely drained, and I feel no closer to my goal.
The past few weekends I have been very intentional to rest. To take time to spend with dear friends, new friends, old friends. To talk, to pray, to read, to watch movies, to go on adventures, sip coffee, and visit cafes, instead of sitting in a cocoon of 4th grade math worksheets or reading summaries.
At the end of each weekend I'm always a little nervous to check on my little violet. I'm afraid perhaps it will be completely shriveled and dead.
Today when I did my usual check, I noticed this:
Despite the blotchy scars of exhaustion and sickness on its leaves, it has bloomed.
I was so excited.
And that violet gave me hope. That blooming and thriving is just around the corner.
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