The eras of the introvert
Sep. 18th, 2021 10:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
garoteIf 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.
no subject
Date: 2021-09-18 11:52 pm (UTC)Have not gotten to stage 3 yet. But good point about your observations; that's the kind of interaction that is precious: casual, you don't have to tell people anything, and just enjoy the chat and you can go any time.
no subject
Date: 2021-09-19 12:10 am (UTC)I don't think you can say you're in stage 2... Not entirely. I've noticed you really do generate and participate in an astounding quantity of correspondence. :D
no subject
Date: 2021-09-19 12:23 am (UTC)See, I love social networks, been there for almost 30 years. But it's a different story. One can always cut off a discussion. Like, one guy is asking me, what caused me to buy TSLA one morning last week, and sell it by the end of the day. I know one thing: if I start discussing it, my psychology in that area may change, and it may cost me money. I'd rather stay were I am and not discuss this kind of things. So I just don't answer. Of course there are more serious topics that are not worth discussing, for similar reason: discussions modify one's behavior.
no subject
Date: 2021-09-19 12:41 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2021-09-19 06:55 am (UTC)Hahaaaa I had a moment like this with a good friend tonight. Asked her a nice, thoughtful question because we were all sitting around in awkward silence, and I found myself immediately recoiling from her wordy response, which I specifically elicited, and *while remaining totally interested in every word*. And this is someone I've known for years and respect and love! And I really did want to know the answer. But you know, it all turned out a bit more "peopley" than I'd expected. So I resisted the onslaught of the other person's consciousness. That reaction right there is the curse of the introvert.
I don't see myself as a totally introverted person, and I feel that, before covid shut everything down, I had found a really good balance between my impulses to retreat and my only somewhat weaker impulses to be an active person in the world. Most of my time was spent alone, but a non-trivial amount of time was also spent with other people, usually in connection with making music together, and there were whole huge stretches of my life where I was, by necessity, almost totally extroverted (band tours being the prime example of this). Covid put an end to all that for a while and has encouraged me to be the shut-in I mostly want to be, and right now I'm kind of just working my way out of that sterile mindset yet again. Weirdly, it seems to be one of those things that just doesn't get easier with practice.