![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
The eras of the introvert
Sep. 18th, 2021 10:38 pmIf you're a person who likes solo activities, the first era of your life is an endless war against people and institutions that demand your attention. "Ugh, why won't all these people go away so I can read?"
If you manage some victory against them, you enter a second era, full of ongoing satisfaction from all the progress you make on your solo activities. "I've read so many great books. It's incredible. I've set up the perfect reading lounge. I love running my hands across the stacks, while I decide what to read next."
But then you enter a third era. One you didn't expect. You begin to suffer from being alone too often. Tragically, the only activities you've learned how to enjoy are solo activities. "I feel lonely. But people are so annoying. Let me browse the shelves and find a book to cheer me up..."
A difficult struggle begins. You need to play catch-up with all the skills you didn't use when you were fighting to be alone. You can't just avoid eye contact and fail to return calls any more. But the trouble is, every minute of the struggle, a part of you is terribly uncomfortable and screaming that your alone time is under threat, just like in the old days, and the only way to feel better is to stop this foolish socializing at once and go be alone. Half of your soul will bravely start a conversation with a stranger, and the other half will instantly start scrambling for a way to end the conversation and get this man out of your face.
After a long struggle, scattered with small victories, you might be lucky enough to see a fourth era: You like people, and can genuinely connect with them, and you also like time alone, and you have a collection of means to enjoy both.
One of the astonishing facts about the world, that hits me in the face over and over again when I'm traveling like this, is just how many people are living in it. The sheer number of lives happening all at once around us is utterly, absolutely, incomprehensible; and the ways in which we can reach out, the connections we can make, the perspectives we can learn ... there is no end to their variety and power.
And yet, even when we travel, so few of us actually reach out and connect. We go to a place to learn some history, see a building, feel some different weather, and the people around us are mostly just vendors of services. Why is that? Well, mostly because we already know more people than we can handle back home.
As much as I enjoyed my "second era" of being an introvert, my struggle in the "third era" is what truly gave me a shot at well-being; and that little toolkit I slowly put together - the one I use to build up a conversation with a stranger from nothing and dig for a connection, when I'm out here traveling on two wheels - gets just a little bit better with each use. Nevertheless, I feel an almost tragic sense of loss, when I think about how many more connections I could be making every single day, but don't -- because I'm too tired, or too busy working, or would just rather be enjoying the landscape.
Just today: The homeowner who waved hello when I stopped to pet his cat. The manager of the bike shop who gave me advice about the under-water tunnels. The conversation I could have started with the couple next to me at the cafe. The fishmonger who chatted me up in the harbor, as he stood hosing off the catch strung across the deck of his boat. The craggy old man with the flatcap and the pipe who looked like he'd just stepped out of a 300-year-old painting, who regarded my bike curiously. The questions I could have returned when an old woman stopped me to ask where I was riding to. The crowd of onlookers at the town festival I blundered across. The guy who gave me two bucks in Danish coins from his wallet when I mentioned that the food kiosk didn't take credit cards. The woman next to him who asked about California. The kids who fired excited questions at me from their bikes. I could have taken all of these farther. I could have learned new names and made friends.
7,800,000,000 people, all living at once.
Assuming I live to be 85 years old, if I started shaking hands with a new person every single second for the rest of my waking life, I would still only meet 1/10th of them. Meanwhile, during every one-second handshake ... two people would die somewhere on the planet, and four more would be born. I could go on shaking hands forever and just fall farther behind.
If you manage some victory against them, you enter a second era, full of ongoing satisfaction from all the progress you make on your solo activities. "I've read so many great books. It's incredible. I've set up the perfect reading lounge. I love running my hands across the stacks, while I decide what to read next."
But then you enter a third era. One you didn't expect. You begin to suffer from being alone too often. Tragically, the only activities you've learned how to enjoy are solo activities. "I feel lonely. But people are so annoying. Let me browse the shelves and find a book to cheer me up..."
A difficult struggle begins. You need to play catch-up with all the skills you didn't use when you were fighting to be alone. You can't just avoid eye contact and fail to return calls any more. But the trouble is, every minute of the struggle, a part of you is terribly uncomfortable and screaming that your alone time is under threat, just like in the old days, and the only way to feel better is to stop this foolish socializing at once and go be alone. Half of your soul will bravely start a conversation with a stranger, and the other half will instantly start scrambling for a way to end the conversation and get this man out of your face.
After a long struggle, scattered with small victories, you might be lucky enough to see a fourth era: You like people, and can genuinely connect with them, and you also like time alone, and you have a collection of means to enjoy both.
One of the astonishing facts about the world, that hits me in the face over and over again when I'm traveling like this, is just how many people are living in it. The sheer number of lives happening all at once around us is utterly, absolutely, incomprehensible; and the ways in which we can reach out, the connections we can make, the perspectives we can learn ... there is no end to their variety and power.
And yet, even when we travel, so few of us actually reach out and connect. We go to a place to learn some history, see a building, feel some different weather, and the people around us are mostly just vendors of services. Why is that? Well, mostly because we already know more people than we can handle back home.
As much as I enjoyed my "second era" of being an introvert, my struggle in the "third era" is what truly gave me a shot at well-being; and that little toolkit I slowly put together - the one I use to build up a conversation with a stranger from nothing and dig for a connection, when I'm out here traveling on two wheels - gets just a little bit better with each use. Nevertheless, I feel an almost tragic sense of loss, when I think about how many more connections I could be making every single day, but don't -- because I'm too tired, or too busy working, or would just rather be enjoying the landscape.
Just today: The homeowner who waved hello when I stopped to pet his cat. The manager of the bike shop who gave me advice about the under-water tunnels. The conversation I could have started with the couple next to me at the cafe. The fishmonger who chatted me up in the harbor, as he stood hosing off the catch strung across the deck of his boat. The craggy old man with the flatcap and the pipe who looked like he'd just stepped out of a 300-year-old painting, who regarded my bike curiously. The questions I could have returned when an old woman stopped me to ask where I was riding to. The crowd of onlookers at the town festival I blundered across. The guy who gave me two bucks in Danish coins from his wallet when I mentioned that the food kiosk didn't take credit cards. The woman next to him who asked about California. The kids who fired excited questions at me from their bikes. I could have taken all of these farther. I could have learned new names and made friends.
7,800,000,000 people, all living at once.
Assuming I live to be 85 years old, if I started shaking hands with a new person every single second for the rest of my waking life, I would still only meet 1/10th of them. Meanwhile, during every one-second handshake ... two people would die somewhere on the planet, and four more would be born. I could go on shaking hands forever and just fall farther behind.
