So She Danced

Me and my forever friend, Nicole. Some people think we're identical. We're not.
Shockingly, this is the only photo I could find of me hands-up dancing.

So She Danced

A paraphrase inspired by Momastery

I am sitting in a bright white kitchen with God. It's gleaming, open and immaculate. A butcher's block is fit into the corner of the stone countertop with the sharpest knives money can buy. I didn't get to test them out, but in dreams you can be certain of things without truly knowing. Sharpest knives in the world. That—and their handles were encrusted with pearly ivory.

The north side of the kitchen opens into a living room through a breezy walkway. I wander in. My bare feet felt smooth on the wide-plank herringbone wood floor. I nestle back into the wide embrace of an overstuffed leather chair and drink in its earthy scent. We are the only ones in the house.

God remains in the kitchen at the countertop with the knives. Apparently he is quite the chef. I hear he's also pretty kickass at soccer, but he leaves the knives at home for that.

Although I can clearly hear his warm yet booming voice from the living room, I'm annoyed he didn't follow me in here. I grab a linen-covered throw pillow and hug my knees into my chest along with it, obviously pouting. I can hear him repeatedly pounding the utility knife against the cutting block. I know he knows I'm in here. I know he knows I'm upset. 

I let out a long breath against the back of my throat—like Ujjayi breathing in yoga. It's loud and intentional, but it doesn't calm me this time. I reposition myself in the chair, leaning hard onto my right arm, my cheek weighing heavy into my right hand. I can see him now through just a sliver of an angle in the walkway. He has the short paring knife out now. His demeanor is calm and collected as he cuts bite-sized pieces out of one of my Fuji apples. 

I kick childishly at the leather ottoman, trying to knock it over, but instead it just makes a loud scuffing noise against the floorboards. He doesn't look up from his work. Now he's pulling scallions from the ice box and is slicing meticulously.

Fine, I think. I can be the bigger person. I can start.

Why? 

Why am I here? Better question—why would you lead me here and then leave me? Because clearly, YOU led me here. I didn't kick down any doors or plow through any barricades to get here. And now you're being awfully coy and quiet over there in the kitchen. What's your big plan? It's been over a year. There isn't a plan, is there? Is there?!

God keeps chopping. I can smell the ginger wafting over. He says nothing though.

The job rejection letter, you know, the one job that I would finally feel proud to tell everyone back home about...? And how I got it in the mail on Valentine's Day? Reminding me that not only am I the only single female left in America, but no one in this state has heard of my college and no one wants to hire me...? [Clearly hyperbole was getting the better of me at this point.] 

Was I supposed to learn something from that?

This is NOT where I dreamed I'd be at age 26. And you made me, didn't you? You gave me these dreams, and now I want to know why. What's the point? 

And then the real kicker, because all the yelling wasn't really about a silly job: Why does life make love so hard?

During all of that, God is still a picture of serenity in the kitchen. I heatedly watch him rinse the paring knife of ginger and turn to slice a lime in half before reaching for a basket of freshly picked kale. 

In my mind I hear myself brooding, What is he even making? It better be good.

It will be. He breaks his silence. Actually, it is already.

Then he sets down the knife, smiles in at me and says, 

My sweet girl, you are so upset. I get that. I feel that. And I love you so freaking much. [Yes, God said freaking.] So would you like me to shut down the dinner prep for a while so we can talk face-to-face? 
 

His sudden direct attention unnerves me, and I rise to standing. My curiosity pulls me into the kitchen, where I can finally see all of what he has been doing. I gaze into the over-sized serving bowl and the presentation takes my breath away. Jewels of produce—ten times more than what I had noticed him handling—intermingle with water particles freshly clinging like diamonds. Rich reds and emerald greens and orange, yellow and purple. It was a mess of color—so vivid that I could actually taste them without bringing any of it to my mouth. The best summer squash and dried currants. Persian cucumbers and wild mint. Blueberries and shavings of baby asparagus. 

I'm a big salad girl, but I'd never crafted something so nuanced before. And the smell—I couldn't place it, but I never wanted to let it go.

My lips parted to ask, What is it? But just before the words came out, I tilted my head and saw myself. The wild and perfect concoction was me. All swirly and crunchy and life-giving.

No, keep going, I say. I want you to finish the meal.

Because he is preparing my life, of course. His hands are touching me. Cutting, chopping, peeling away. And I wouldn't want to distract him from that. I decide I still trust him.

Hey...God? 

I don't want to get in the way anymore. But I don't really know what to do exactly. So I’m just going to dance. While you cook. Is that okay?

 

He walks toward me, pauses, and gently brushes a few strands of my hair back behind my ear. Then he says, Dance? Is that okay? That's all I've ever wanted for you to do, sweet girl. So you go dance, and I’ll cook. It’s going to be so, so good. I've got this.

So I twirl my hair into a big messy bun on the top of my head and throw my gaze and my hands skyward. And God turns back to the cutting board, beaming over me.

denial no more

“I restore myself when I'm alone.” ― Marilyn Monroe

SOMETHING HAPPENED THIS PAST YEAR:

...more like a surprising realization of a long-lived lifestyle rather than an actual event.

If you've asked me how Seattle's going in the past, oohhh…year, I probably responded with something a little more in-depth and psycho-introspective than what you were hoping for. A few months back I had lunch with my friend Ryan (who happens to be a Class V Extrovert), and I told him I was surprised that Seattle had turned me into an introvert.

His quick response: "Maddie. You've always been an introvert. Just embrace it. This is nothing new." 

I protested. But I love people and talking…and I like to think I’m not shy or awkward (usually)...

A few other notable conversations with good friends revealed that I was the only one surprised by the “Maddie = an introvert” equation. And there I had been feeling as if my increasingly hermit-like ways were something I needed to work on! —to fix! 

Seattle hadn’t changed me—rather it had given me the space and time to realize a vital part of my personality that had been with me all along.

Once I stopped being in denial of my very own personality, I was able to look back at my life and see all of the signs I had been ignoring:

Several good friends have always purposely placed me facing away from doors/windows at cafes and coffee shops because I get overly stimulated. 

Whether at a party, loud restaurant or some other crowded gathering, I truly use the restroom as a restroom. Not uncommon for me to lock myself in a stall, throw my back up against the wall, stare at the ceiling and just breathe.

While I know deep down that I’m not riddled with insecurity and anxiety, I hate going to parties without a wingman/woman because it’s such a relief to have just that one side person to focus on when needed.

Things that I love but need to really rally for:

• multiple-day music festivals
• my own birthday
• weddings where I don't know anybody
• weddings where I know everybody
• holiday gatherings with extended family
• makeshift high school reunions at bars
• Fourth of July
• New Year's Eve

WHAT SCIENCE HAS TO SAY:

Introverts are people whose energy tends to expand through reflection and dwindle during interaction. (j)

On his blog, author and musician Carl King picked apart Doctor Marti Olsen Laney’s book The Introvert Advantage (How To Thrive in an Extrovert World). "If the science behind the book is correct, it turns out that Introverts are people who are over-sensitive to Dopamine, so too much external stimulation overdoses and exhausts them. Conversely, Extroverts can’t get enough Dopamine, and they require Adrenaline for their brains to create it. Extroverts also have a shorter pathway and less blood-flow to the brain. The messages of an Extrovert’s nervous system mostly bypass the Broca’s area in the frontal lobe, which is where a large portion of contemplation takes place. According to the book, only about 25% of people are Introverts. (e)

“Shyness has nothing to do with being an introvert. Introverts are not necessarily afraid of people. What they need is a reason to interact. They don’t interact for the sake of interacting.” (d)

It’s a myth that introverts don’t like to go out in public. “Nonsense. Introverts just don’t like to go out in public FOR AS LONG. They also like to avoid the complications that are involved in public activities. They take in data and experiences very quickly, and as a result, don’t need to be there for long to “get it.” They’re ready to go home, recharge, and process it all. In fact, recharging is absolutely crucial for introverts.” (d)

And regarding friendships: “It is not easy for introverts to make new friends because getting to know someone takes so much energy. However, introverts don’t need a wide circle of friends.” (d)

And in case I started to lose you with all of that serious science mumbo-jumbo…

WHAT THE LITTLE MERMAID HAS TO SAY:

I've always felt a fierce loyalty toward Ariel. We're kindred spirits in a way. She's a classic introvert with extroverted desires. Hanging out in her secret underwater grotto all the time, daydreaming and singing to herself, curious about the people who are "...strollin' along down the—what's that word again?—street!"

(If you want your day to instantly improve, watch Ariel sing her angst-y, teenage introverted heart out here.)

And for those of you who'd like to dive into the Disney Kingdom a bit more, there's also a lively online forum already heading up the discussion on the overwhelming extroversion of Disney princesses.

I think an obvious (while loose) Biblical comparison here would be Luke 2:19:

 "But Mary [read: Ariel] treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart."

Which makes a clumsy yet somehow perfect segue into our next segment...

WHAT THE BIBLE HAS TO SAY:

Pastor and author Adam McHugh wrote a book called Introverts in the Church: Finding Our Place in an Extroverted Culture. In it he says, "On a broader scale, I find the fact that God uses people of all different sorts of gifts, abilities, and temperaments, incredibly comforting. Introversion is not a category in the Bible, but the patriarch Jacob was called "a quiet man"...and Jesus' mother Mary was deeply introspective and reflective." (i)

Indeed, even Moses is described as a very meek and shy Biblical character, and is well-known for trying to use it as an excuse to not go where God was sending. But God knows us better than we know ourselves, so He equipped Moses with the tools he would need for success.

McHugh continues with more insight that I absolutely love: 

"More specifically, there is a text in the Old Testament prophet Isaiah that says, "In quietness and in trust shall be your strength." I love the idea that life and the world is bigger than I am, and I don't need to expend all kinds of energy obsessively trying to make everything happen in my life by my own efforts. But I can find strength by quietly trusting in One who is more powerful than I am, and who is even at work when we are silent and at rest." (i)

"Oh yes, you shaped me first inside, then out;

      you formed me in my mother's womb.

   I thank you, High God—you're breathtaking!

      Body and soul, I am marvelously made!

      I worship in adoration—what a creation!

   You know me inside and out,

      you know every bone in my body;

   You know exactly how I was made, bit by bit,

      how I was sculpted from nothing into something.

   Like an open book, you watched me grow from conception to birth;

      all the stages of my life were spread out before you,

   The days of my life all prepared

      before I'd even lived one day."

Psalm 139:13-16

Yep.

WHAT HISTORY HAS TO SAY:

In the science journalist Winifred Gallagher’s words: “The glory of the disposition that stops to consider stimuli rather than rushing to engage with them is its long association with intellectual and artistic achievement. Neither E=mc2 nor ‘Paradise Lost’ was dashed off by a party animal.” (a)

 

Famous Introverts a.k.a. my kindred spirits:

• C.S. Lewis • Michelle Obama • Glenn Close

• Mr. Darcy (yes, the Pride & Prejudice one)  • Marcel Proust 
• Albert Einstein • Google's Larry Page • J. K. Rowling

• Audrey Hepburn • Helen Hunt • Diane Keaton • Grace Kelly  

• Julia Roberts  • Meg Ryan • Meryl Streep • Clint Eastwood

• Harrison Ford • Tom Hanks • Alfred Hitchcock • Steve Martin

 • David Letterman • Diane Sawyer • Barbara Walters

I'm in good company.

Sources:

a) NYTimes b) Gifted Kids Glossary c) The Adventurous Writer: test d) Gifted Kids Social Emotional Issues e) 10 Myths About Introverts f) The Adventurous Writer: Famous Introverts g) Myers Briggs Basics h) Typelogic: INTJ i) Psychology Today j) Introvert Power

an agressive quota

Last week I submitted a chunk of the piece I've been working on for the CNF class I'm taking through Stanford. My professor ripped it to shreds. A few tears were shed, but then I admitted to him that his one-page critique did more for me than 3+ years of counseling ever had. But still—when you've poured so much of yourself into your art and truly been honest with what you've created, the last thing you want is for someone to straight up reject it. I reminded myself that I signed up for this class specifically wanting out of my Christian liberal arts circle, full of its assumptions and naiveté. I wanted fresh eyes to read me—someone who didn't have any preconceived ideas when I put the word "I" down on paper.

So I scrapped that project.

And now I have ≈15 pages due on Saturday that I'm hoping will appear in a big unmarked box on my doorstep, preferably in Helvetica.

A lot of being in a creative rut is the consequence of faithfully sticking to 'tried and true' methods that no longer take into consideration how you (or the world) have been refashioned over the years. We have to be patient with ourselves...and not punish ourselves. And big ruts often just require new ideas...which means giving ourselves an "aggressive quota."
I know of a choreographer who has an exercise where she instructs her students to find a simple object (a chair, for example) and come up with 60 new uses for it in a limited amount of time. This forces them not to panic, but rather to focus, which means they have to suspend critical thinking. When our internal critic is on hold, everything can be let out and we aren't "choking off the good impulses," as she puts it.
Usually we'll find that the most inspired and unorthodox ideas come toward the 60th idea...not at the beginning when we're only stating the obvious.

So I sat in Zoka for four hours on Saturday and came up with 41 things I could write about. And what an eclectic and embarrassing list that was.
More and more I'm realizing that nothing is original and everything is inspired by something, so artists are really just creative [and sometimes overly emotional] thieves. 
Which brings me to the comic relief portion of this post, and my case in point—Robyn, 'stealing' from Teddybears, who 'stole' from Kid Rock (who should never have been given free reign over a microphone in the first place):

See what I mean? Paintball on set was for sure toward #60 on her list. Love that girl though.

P.S. If anyone is dying to give me a Sunday ticket to Sasquatch, I can make sure you won't regret it...