Wallflowers and Introverts

I wonder how much Hemingway or Dickens or Crane thought about their personal identity. Did they try to draw lines between family circumstances and their own quirks and tendencies? Did it plague them or did they just accept it? Perhaps they were able to filter their own angst into their writing, their characters. How much time did the great thinkers of the past spend thinking? Did Plato or Aristotle spend all day postulating and writing? Were their lives encompassed by busy work, side jobs, meaningless enterprises? One can't survive on thought alone. How did they earn their bread? I wonder if these icons liked people. They spent their lives studying people, analyzing them, writing about them. But did they enjoy social interaction? Or were they on the sidelines taking notes? Questions of identity, purpose, eternity, ultimate meaning. These are things worth thinking about, but when do we? Are we given a real chance? I wonder how past philosophers wondered on the mysteries of the world because I am looking for a standard of normalcy. Can I sit and think all day? Or does that make me lazy, inept, and alienated? In an increasingly business-driven culture, it is the extrovert that is valued over the introvert. The introvert is driven to the margins. The introvert is derided for doing what it was created to do: absorbing, analyzing, thinking, and resolving in measured, patient steps. But it is the quick-thinker, the loud-speaker, the flamboyant-gesticulator that wins. He is given precedence because society thinks energy and volume trumps careful deliberation. We know Aesop's fable of the Tortoise and the Hare, but we'd still prefer the friggin' rabbit. He's more fun than the turtle. Introverts are necessary to society. But they are not wanted. So, introverts must absorb this knowledge while still discovering a way to flourish in a circus-esque society. We must know that we are not wanted, but we must also know that, at some point, someone is going to need more than a Band-Aid to heal their wound. We know that, at some point, someone is going to be in desperate need of invasive surgery. Extroverts will rush about with antiseptic and gauze and scotch tape. They'll frantically shout over each other as they use a first-aid kit to cover a gaping hole. And yes, sometimes that first-aid kit, that quick fix, is more than practicable on an ordinary day. But when crisis hits, when the quick-on-their-feeter's are at a loss, when the first-aid is out of band-aids, people will turn to someone with a better solution. They will turn to someone who has depth of wisdom and complexity of thought. Winston Churchill, for example. Or C.S. Lewis. Or Florence Nightingale. The silent observers who torturously analyze the work from every angle before they speak. The thinkers who process every possible outcome to the point that they tie an anchor to their words in case gravity fails them. And people will listen with bated breath because they can sense the weight and depth of what is being spoken. I have to remember that I am necessary. At times, my introversion may make me feel marginalized and devalued. I may feel that my thoughts aren't doing myself or anyone a bit of good. I may get tired of doing what my brain naturally tends towards. I may delve into some wishful thinking as I envision a world where I am flamboyant and quick-witted and constantly energized just like my friends. However, I would be doing myself and, I must believe, my friends, a disservice. I need their energy and their lightness just as they need my thoughts and my grounding. I need to learn their spontaneity and social dexterity, just as they need to learn how to enjoy peace in solitude. I must learn to show grace towards myself as I embrace the unique chemistry I've been given. I must feel free to create an environment of quiet where reading and writing and pondering are all wise, healthy, ambitious tasks that can be taken seriously. In a task-driven world, I can feel free to think without fear that I'm being lazy or less than productive. Productivity is not always tangible. How long did Michelangelo sit and think before he painted the Sistine Chapel? I'm sure he understood the need to give himself time and space to allow his mind to wander, to wonder, to create. I don't know how the great introverts of the past managed to get on. But it must have looked a little like letting go, like a release of expectations or standards. It may have required the shutting of doors, the closing of curtains, or a meander down a trail in the woods. It may have looked like escape. And perhaps that is what it takes, after all. Picking the lock on one's cell and running like mad towards the horizon. Escape. I think I'll do it. With notebook in hand.