Solitude

Inside myself is a place where I live all alone, and that's where I renew my springs that never dry up. 

 Pearl Buck

The lake is quiet today. No fishermen roaring or trolling by. No jet skis. No pontoons coming too close to the dock. I don't have to wave or talk to anyone. I sit on the porch and notice the leaves on the trees across the lake are changing. The greens becoming brilliant yellow and orange and red. 

Yesterday my husband and my oldest son jumped into the lake. A last swim as after a week where we saw freezing temperatures, a fine weekend in the 80's had blessed us. We always base  water temps on Green Lake in Minnesota, a spring-fed lake that more often than not took quite a bit of bravery to enter. You either went for it and dove in anticipating a heart attack  or walked in inch by torturous inch until when finally under water that accomplishment overshadowed the cool.

Hillbilly Shower

 It was agreed between husband and son that the November water in our Texas lake was indeed colder than Green Lake in July. So pleased they settled that for me and I did not have to share their bravery. Nor did my granddog as we two watched from the dock.  And a walk this morning with my ears and eyes aware of my surroundings garnered more proof that indeed, fall has arrived. 

My walk didn't only make me aware of the time of year, however. It provided an opportunity to recharge. You see, in reality, I'm shy. I'm an introvert. Might come as a surprise to some of my friends - those that see me telling stories and totally relaxed in their presence. Those that know I open my home and have tons of guests and family visiting often. 

It doesn't bother me to stand in front of a classroom of middle schoolers, but in real life I seek the back row.  I hate when it is my turn to talk when going around the circle. I cringe when I have to make a phone call to someone I don't know. And entertaining? I find it easier to hide when I'm the host - much more difficult to be the guest. 

I'm hiding out at the lake today, a Monday, as last week was my social week. I had Bunco, Book Club, dinner with kids and friends. Great fun, but it wears me out. All that stimulation. All that conversation. I love my friends and family, but I'm used to hanging out in my head and even though I might do that too often, I find comfort there. 

I believe a day like today makes me a better person. The solitude refills my coffers, as they say. The solitude makes me laugh and cry and participate in life the rest of the time. 

Come walk with me. We don't have to talk. Let's just look.

 

 My book club recently read a great book entitled Quiet - The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking by Susan Cain. Most interesting. The best explanation I've had of myself in a long time.

Puzzle Pieces

Did you ever stop to think, and forget to start again?

Winnie the Pooh

When you were a kid, lying under a tree or while cuddled under a warm blanket, did you envision yourself as a grownup? In my Midlife Jobhunter quest to discover what I'd like to be, I've returned often to what my thoughts may have been when I was ten. I mention 10 as somewhere I read - I think in Simple Abundance by Sarah Ban Breathnach - that we are the closest to our authentic self when we are 10 years old.

Ten. Oh, to summon back the youthful vision of ten.

When I completed Breathnach's year long study many years ago, I discovered a long forgotten photo of myself -- at 10. Sure luck as I don't have many photos of my youth. But, alas, from a book my oldest brother had gathered for me, I discovered a picture in front of a birthday cake -- a smile on my face and 10 candles ready to blow. I studied the face of that child, excited about life, unaware of what might lie ahead, and tried to recall her dreams, desires, and hopes.

I'm sure at the time I journeyed through Simple Abundance, I also journaled my recollections. But life, once again, segued me off in another direction.That journal is now buried in a box in the attic and I have no desire to dig around up there. I must begin anew.

Sitting on my porch this morning, accompanied by the morning glories that burst open today,

I recall I liked to explore, albeit with trepidation. I was neither the one with the most guts, nor the most fear. I would climb the trees and ride the neighbor's horse, but always with a tug of angst in my chest. I wasn't fond of getting hurt. But I never minded following a new trail in the forest. I had a good sense of direction and the ability to remember where I came from. I could always find my way back.

I know I wanted to see the world. In middle school, we had assemblies in the auditorium. We saw movies of far away places, different cultures, adventures. My family didn't venture far - a week at the lake in summer and a four day trip to Chicago in the fall. Sunday car rides offered a view of life surrounding our small corner of southern Minnesota - the cornfields flying by, interrupted by the cows walking home or a railroad track with a train due. As my older brother was drilled on his math facts or the parts of speech, I sat in silence, watching the heart and soul in the countryside glide by outside the window. I dreamed.

My mother always talked of visiting Paris so from an early age I knew another world existed. Her father left her a $1000 life insurance policy when he died. She planned to take that money and go to Paris someday. Then more kids were born and life took over and many years passed, the $1000 depleted. But in my head, a world beyond the gridded sections of Minnesota countryside existed. Paris, New York City, the Pacific Ocean.

What does this have to do with my authentic self and what I want to be when I grow up? Hell if I know. Trying to piece it together, I guess. And today, you are my listeners as I sort things out.

Sorting. Always seem to be sorting. Laundry, thoughts, me.