How to (Sort of) Stay Sane:
With witless foe
I won't engage;
by doing so
I fuel my rage.
Reasoned attempt
proves of no use -
the thought exempt
are speech profuse.
They rave and rant
their jabberwock,
and won't recant
on foolish talk.
When I explain
with logic sound -
they show disdain
for facts I've found.
Their blissful state
of ignorance
will agitate
my common sense -
so it is best
by far for me
to just protest
non-verbally.
Thus with this ode
I will explain:
This is my mode
of staying sane.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, April 20, 2018
It's a crazy old world we live in - and sometimes I'm just about driven to distraction by the level of lunacy I see online.
Conspiracy theories abound. Anything or anybody who's made it into the news in the past decade seems to have inspired some kind of nefarious plot of epic proportions. Did Hilary Clinton die, only to replaced by an even more evil doppelganger? Is Michelle Obama actually a man? Is Elvis dead, or is he secreted on some desert island with Michael Jackson and Princess Diana?
A lot of people believe bizarre things - like the earth is actually run by lizard aliens, chemtrails released by jets are gassing us all into submission, the moon-landing was faked, and of course, the world is flat.
I saw an interview with a "flatworlder" recently, wherein he stated that gravity was "only a theory". Science was never my forte, but I'd say gravity seems to be working just fine for me. I mean, if you want to believe the earth is a big old pie plate in the sky that's your problem, but the sad thing is that the guy I saw was pretty rabid in expressing his beliefs. The rest of us are the crazy ones who've bought into a Jewish conspiracy to boot.
Don't even get me started on those sad excuses for humanity that believe the Holocaust never happened.
American political conspiracies run the gamut - 9/11 was an inside job, Obama isn't really American, the US government has alien technology at their compound in Roswell, and JFK might have been shot by a dozen different parties - and heck - he might be on that desert island too!
"Big Pharma" takes a lot of heat. Vaccines are turning our kids autistic, claims a Hollywood blonde and a doctor who was relieved of his medical license decades back - and some still buy it, and do their best to sell it too. Somebody has already cured cancer, but the FDA is withholding the cure just for fun. Pharmaceuticals are killing us all - say the alternative and "natural" medicine crowd. Some of them would have us turn back time and still look to leeches to "bleed us". Others turn to blatant new age quackery, like relying on the healing energy of dolphins. Last week I read a story about a homeopathic practitioner who came under fire for treating a teenager with rabid dog saliva!
I'm not saying that all natural remedies are useless or silly, but a whole lot of people who sell them don't know what they're talking about (thus saith a woman who spent three years working in a health food store), and the customers who buy usually know less. But golly - dolphins and dog saliva? At some point wouldn't a person of average intelligence question these practices?
People adhere to some pretty nutty "religious" beliefs too. (I put that word in quotes, because some of these beliefs are just too over the top to maintain status of "religion". Use Scientology as a comparison, and Tom Cruise and his cohorts begin to look reasonable.) There are multiple groups out there who worship aliens of one sort or another, Jediists who try to emulate Luke Skywalker - or Yoda. At least they have lofty goals, unlike The Church of Euthanasia, which has this catchy motto - "Save Earth - Kill Yourself." On a more amusing note, somewhere in the wilds of Vanuatu there's a tribe who believe that Prince Philip is essentially the great white God. (Apparently he's cool with it, and sends them gifts occasionally.)
Media has introduced me to interesting, but mind-boggling folk who insist on living like dogs, cats or babies. Call me judgmental, but how screwed up would you have to be to go live out your life waiting for someone to change your soiled diaper, or litter box, when you could just get up off all fours and take care of your own business? Yuck.
Sometimes crackpots want you to engage with them so that they can preach the gospel of the inane. These folks are so entrenched in their own variety of lunacy that they can't access any of the common sense they might've arrived with, and I've learned the hard way that you can't talk facts with people who think they're geniuses who've figured out how to debunk all those things we learned in history or science class. No - there's a narcissism at play here that most of us need to back away from - quickly. Sometimes in my mind's eye I can see Will Robinson's robot standing before me with arms flailing - "Danger, Sharon - DANGER!" I speak to both sides of every aforementioned belief here. (And oh - so many more!) Don't waste your breath. I'm really not worthy of your proselytizing efforts - I've got all the crazy I'll ever need. I just can't allow myself to be drawn into your debate.
Nope - not gonna comment. Scroll on by, Sharon.
Simply put - you drive me nuts and I need all the marbles I have left.
Saturday, 21 April 2018
Thursday, 5 April 2018
"Visiting William" - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
William's House
I know nothing about him
except he owned a mill,
and maybe had five children -
a few small facts - but still -
somehow I feel I know him
from living in this place;
I often try to picture
how he lived in my space.
My house, you see, was his dream -
he lived scant decade here.
As I wander through my rooms
one thing seems very clear.
William had a vision once -
for his children and spouse -
William milled some lumber
and built a lovely house.
He built this house I live in,
the place I work and play.
Though I don't really know him,
I thank him ev'ry day.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, April 4, 2018
When we moved to our home in Atwood Ontario we were quite thrilled to be able to glean a few facts about the history of the house we'd bought. Our home was built in 1896, and originally dubbed "Forrest House", after its builder William Forrest. We know very little about William, except that he owned the original mill in town (located at the end of John Street), had five children, and lived in this house ten years before he died at the age of 48. I've always felt badly that William only got to live in his house for a decade.
Last year my husband and I took our first drive to the Atwood cemetery. It was a pleasant spring day - and my husband's birthday - and we found ourselves in the car looking to explore. Seeing the cemetery we decided to stop. It was a peaceful spot to visit on a crisp but sunny spring day. On a whim I said, "Maybe we can find William Forrest's grave."
So we divided up and each searched a separate area of the graveyard. After a few minutes my husband called out to me - and I stood over the grave of the man who'd built my house. At the bottom of the tombstone I read the inscription - He is missed at home.
I don't know exactly why I teared up, but I did. Even before I knew his name I'd felt a connection to the builder of my house. I'd often marveled at what a fabulous house it must have been in its day, and how excited the owner must've felt when he walked into the completed house for the first time. When I found out that it was built by a miller I felt excitement - he had chosen the lovely golden oak trim and had probably checked over each bit surrounding the windows and doors. Perhaps he had been the one to proudly hand carve the year the house was built into the lintel above the pocket doors in my living room, which would've been his front parlour.
"Thank you for building our home, William", I whispered. "We are enjoying it for you."
I like to think that he was a good man - a beloved husband and father who was truly "missed at home" after his death. I'm only certain that if he misses the home that missed him, and stops by for the occasional visit, he does so quietly and unobtrusively. (Which I appreciate!)
I still don't know much about William Forrest, but I know that his "vision" and mine were oddly aligned. When I was a child in Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario, there was one house across town that always stood out to me - a house with a rounded turret on the left front corner. For a Grade Twelve project I had to fashion a house out of bristol board - and the house I made was modeled on the house on Queen St that I'd always admired - complete with turret.
Odder still, when my current house was first sold in 2011 by the insurance company that was based here for many years, the listing made such an impact on me that I remembered photos of the wood trim (and the pink chairs in the board room) a full five years later when the property came on the market again! I knew I had to see this house, and then I knew we had to buy it. William gave me my turret.
We have decided to make an annual pilgrimage to William's grave. I know it might seem silly, or morbid - or downright weird - but "visiting William" reminds us of our mortality in a pleasant way. My husband has decreed that he wants to go to that cemetery every year on his birthday; to walk past the graves of the men who built our town and the man who built our house. I agree that this annual trek satisfies the soul. I can't speak for him, but it gives me a sense of continuity and puts my life in perspective. Who knows how long I have here? Who knows what I might leave behind as a legacy?
Someday I'll put up a commemorative plaque in my front entrance. It will simply say, Forrest House - established 1896. It will make me happy to give my house back it's original name, and in so doing, pay tribute to the builder. This house is his legacy - a dream that not only came to fruition, but has outlived him by more than a century.
Every day I'm inspired by William's house - not just the building itself, but what it represents for me - hope. William created something beautiful that outlasted him. People may have forgotten the name of the builder, but his house still draws attention. His handiwork is still admired. And when I give the house back its name I'll have opportunity to retell his story - what little I know of it. William's house gives me hope that someday there will be "Sharon's poem" - one verse that outlasts me - something worthy of being quoted a century after my death.
Thank you, William, for giving me a goal as lofty as our turret.
I know nothing about him
except he owned a mill,
and maybe had five children -
a few small facts - but still -
somehow I feel I know him
from living in this place;
I often try to picture
how he lived in my space.
My house, you see, was his dream -
he lived scant decade here.
As I wander through my rooms
one thing seems very clear.
William had a vision once -
for his children and spouse -
William milled some lumber
and built a lovely house.
He built this house I live in,
the place I work and play.
Though I don't really know him,
I thank him ev'ry day.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, April 4, 2018
When we moved to our home in Atwood Ontario we were quite thrilled to be able to glean a few facts about the history of the house we'd bought. Our home was built in 1896, and originally dubbed "Forrest House", after its builder William Forrest. We know very little about William, except that he owned the original mill in town (located at the end of John Street), had five children, and lived in this house ten years before he died at the age of 48. I've always felt badly that William only got to live in his house for a decade.
Last year my husband and I took our first drive to the Atwood cemetery. It was a pleasant spring day - and my husband's birthday - and we found ourselves in the car looking to explore. Seeing the cemetery we decided to stop. It was a peaceful spot to visit on a crisp but sunny spring day. On a whim I said, "Maybe we can find William Forrest's grave."
So we divided up and each searched a separate area of the graveyard. After a few minutes my husband called out to me - and I stood over the grave of the man who'd built my house. At the bottom of the tombstone I read the inscription - He is missed at home.
I don't know exactly why I teared up, but I did. Even before I knew his name I'd felt a connection to the builder of my house. I'd often marveled at what a fabulous house it must have been in its day, and how excited the owner must've felt when he walked into the completed house for the first time. When I found out that it was built by a miller I felt excitement - he had chosen the lovely golden oak trim and had probably checked over each bit surrounding the windows and doors. Perhaps he had been the one to proudly hand carve the year the house was built into the lintel above the pocket doors in my living room, which would've been his front parlour.
"Thank you for building our home, William", I whispered. "We are enjoying it for you."
I like to think that he was a good man - a beloved husband and father who was truly "missed at home" after his death. I'm only certain that if he misses the home that missed him, and stops by for the occasional visit, he does so quietly and unobtrusively. (Which I appreciate!)
I still don't know much about William Forrest, but I know that his "vision" and mine were oddly aligned. When I was a child in Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario, there was one house across town that always stood out to me - a house with a rounded turret on the left front corner. For a Grade Twelve project I had to fashion a house out of bristol board - and the house I made was modeled on the house on Queen St that I'd always admired - complete with turret.
Odder still, when my current house was first sold in 2011 by the insurance company that was based here for many years, the listing made such an impact on me that I remembered photos of the wood trim (and the pink chairs in the board room) a full five years later when the property came on the market again! I knew I had to see this house, and then I knew we had to buy it. William gave me my turret.
We have decided to make an annual pilgrimage to William's grave. I know it might seem silly, or morbid - or downright weird - but "visiting William" reminds us of our mortality in a pleasant way. My husband has decreed that he wants to go to that cemetery every year on his birthday; to walk past the graves of the men who built our town and the man who built our house. I agree that this annual trek satisfies the soul. I can't speak for him, but it gives me a sense of continuity and puts my life in perspective. Who knows how long I have here? Who knows what I might leave behind as a legacy?
Someday I'll put up a commemorative plaque in my front entrance. It will simply say, Forrest House - established 1896. It will make me happy to give my house back it's original name, and in so doing, pay tribute to the builder. This house is his legacy - a dream that not only came to fruition, but has outlived him by more than a century.
Every day I'm inspired by William's house - not just the building itself, but what it represents for me - hope. William created something beautiful that outlasted him. People may have forgotten the name of the builder, but his house still draws attention. His handiwork is still admired. And when I give the house back its name I'll have opportunity to retell his story - what little I know of it. William's house gives me hope that someday there will be "Sharon's poem" - one verse that outlasts me - something worthy of being quoted a century after my death.
Thank you, William, for giving me a goal as lofty as our turret.
Tuesday, 20 March 2018
Olive Branch - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Olive Branch:
Oh sweet salvation of the soul
that brought me to this place,
remind me of the years I've fought
to see myself with grace.
Remind me that the risks I take
in offering to love
are worth the effort and the pain -
send forth a gentle dove.
When it returns perhaps I'll see
a twig - an olive branch -
some proof that once the tears abate
it's safe to take a chance.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, March 11, 2018
Sometimes people are too hurt to not hurt in return. I've learned that lesson over the years, when I've tried to befriend people too wounded to trust or accept love. It would be easy to stop making the effort if I didn't have such a highly developed conscience.
You see, I know I've been lucky. For all of my social dysfunction at times, my temper, and my lack of filters when it comes to expressing sometimes unpopular opinions, I love and am loved. I have a family who cares about me, and a few trusted friends who have my back when times are hard. I know a lot of people have far less, and so I'm willing to risk being hurt when the occasional person comes into my life who can't accept my friendship, my concern or my love.
I recently read an interview between a woman who had been abused and her abuser. It shook me to the core, but at the same time it inspired me. At one point the woman tells her abuser that no matter how much he hurt her she'd rather be in her position than his - unable to truly comprehend how much damage he did, and too arrogant in his belief that he didn't need to fully repent of his sins, or seek help to conquer his abusive behavior.
I understand what she was saying because to a far lesser extent I've experienced those feelings too. As often as I've had my hand bitten by those who I attempted to "feed" with a bit of TLC, I feel sorrier for the people who bit me than the fact that my hand (and heart!) needed a bit of bandaging after the encounter.
I'm going to be very frank now - and there may be some who feel that this level of honesty isn't warranted, but I want you (as readers) to understand a vital part of my history. The family I grew up in wasn't perfect, but I never encountered mental illness until I left home. In my twenties, I encountered people who had some serious issues - and a few of them bit me. At that time I was just really hurt, ignorant as I was of the kind of underlying problems that prompt some people to lash out at others.
At the age of 26 I got married, and try as I might I just couldn't seem to win my mother-in-law's love. Nothing I ever did was good enough - I didn't deserve her son, and I didn't deserve to raise her grandsons. For years I'd feel sick every time we visited her. I made it all about me - why couldn't she find it in her heart to love me? I was a good person and I truly loved her son and our children! Why couldn't I win her approval? There were times I thought that I hated her because her disapproval and constant criticism hurt me so much.
It took me years to begin to understand that she suffered from mental illness. And it took decades for me to learn to forgive her, and to understand that what I experienced from her wasn't really her, but a manifestation of problems and issues that began long before I ever met her.
I am ashamed to admit that it took me years to begin to love her.
Now with that experience behind me, I've learned to try harder to be accepting, but part of accepting is knowing when I simply can't be the person to offer help or friendship. Sometimes I'll encounter people who are too damaged to accept my best efforts on their behalf, and I'll just have to admit that there's nothing more I can do.
But despite suffering inevitable bites and heartaches, I'm not ready to stop caring. Once my heart stops hurting for me, it continues to hurt for them. I know I'd rather be hurt by having my clumsy efforts to befriend rejected than suffer the pain they suffer.
I know this: Sooner or later I'll risk a further dose of heartbreak when I open my heart to another vulnerable soul. I couldn't live with myself if I didn't.
Oh sweet salvation of the soul
that brought me to this place,
remind me of the years I've fought
to see myself with grace.
Remind me that the risks I take
in offering to love
are worth the effort and the pain -
send forth a gentle dove.
When it returns perhaps I'll see
a twig - an olive branch -
some proof that once the tears abate
it's safe to take a chance.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, March 11, 2018
Sometimes people are too hurt to not hurt in return. I've learned that lesson over the years, when I've tried to befriend people too wounded to trust or accept love. It would be easy to stop making the effort if I didn't have such a highly developed conscience.
You see, I know I've been lucky. For all of my social dysfunction at times, my temper, and my lack of filters when it comes to expressing sometimes unpopular opinions, I love and am loved. I have a family who cares about me, and a few trusted friends who have my back when times are hard. I know a lot of people have far less, and so I'm willing to risk being hurt when the occasional person comes into my life who can't accept my friendship, my concern or my love.
I recently read an interview between a woman who had been abused and her abuser. It shook me to the core, but at the same time it inspired me. At one point the woman tells her abuser that no matter how much he hurt her she'd rather be in her position than his - unable to truly comprehend how much damage he did, and too arrogant in his belief that he didn't need to fully repent of his sins, or seek help to conquer his abusive behavior.
I understand what she was saying because to a far lesser extent I've experienced those feelings too. As often as I've had my hand bitten by those who I attempted to "feed" with a bit of TLC, I feel sorrier for the people who bit me than the fact that my hand (and heart!) needed a bit of bandaging after the encounter.
I'm going to be very frank now - and there may be some who feel that this level of honesty isn't warranted, but I want you (as readers) to understand a vital part of my history. The family I grew up in wasn't perfect, but I never encountered mental illness until I left home. In my twenties, I encountered people who had some serious issues - and a few of them bit me. At that time I was just really hurt, ignorant as I was of the kind of underlying problems that prompt some people to lash out at others.
At the age of 26 I got married, and try as I might I just couldn't seem to win my mother-in-law's love. Nothing I ever did was good enough - I didn't deserve her son, and I didn't deserve to raise her grandsons. For years I'd feel sick every time we visited her. I made it all about me - why couldn't she find it in her heart to love me? I was a good person and I truly loved her son and our children! Why couldn't I win her approval? There were times I thought that I hated her because her disapproval and constant criticism hurt me so much.
It took me years to begin to understand that she suffered from mental illness. And it took decades for me to learn to forgive her, and to understand that what I experienced from her wasn't really her, but a manifestation of problems and issues that began long before I ever met her.
I am ashamed to admit that it took me years to begin to love her.
Now with that experience behind me, I've learned to try harder to be accepting, but part of accepting is knowing when I simply can't be the person to offer help or friendship. Sometimes I'll encounter people who are too damaged to accept my best efforts on their behalf, and I'll just have to admit that there's nothing more I can do.
But despite suffering inevitable bites and heartaches, I'm not ready to stop caring. Once my heart stops hurting for me, it continues to hurt for them. I know I'd rather be hurt by having my clumsy efforts to befriend rejected than suffer the pain they suffer.
I know this: Sooner or later I'll risk a further dose of heartbreak when I open my heart to another vulnerable soul. I couldn't live with myself if I didn't.
Thursday, 8 March 2018
Go Ahead and Cry - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Handkerchief
Here's my hanky, dearie -
use it if you will.
I am well accustomed
to tears women spill.
Eyes so very pretty
ought not be so wet;
what's so very awful
that it makes you fret?
Are you not delighted
with your role in life?
Cleaner, cook or consort,
daughter, sister; wife?
Handkerchief I hand back -
tears run down my face.
I don't need to mop up -
tears do not disgrace.
Tears of great frustration,
tears expressing pain;
tears of fear and sorrow.
Tears that fall like rain.
Even if you want to
you can't read my tears.
I was born to sorrow;
I lived there for years.
While you conquered nations,
cleared the land of trees,
and thought you provided
us with lives of ease -
our hands rocked the cradle,
and they planted seeds.
Women offered comfort.
Women met your needs.
See me as your equal -
matched in mind and skill.
Man - here is your hanky.
Use it - if you will.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, March 8, 2018
This morning my husband and I had a heart to heart talk about a person we both feel concern for. We both shed tears as we discussed what a difficult predicament this person is in - tears of compassion for this person's pain, and frustration because there's not a lot we can do to alleviate it. And as we faced each other with tears leaking out of our eyes I thought about how far we'd each come.
When we married I was the only crier - and my tears made me feel weak and ashamed. I hated feeling that I couldn't neatly contain my emotions. Both he and I had encountered manipulative criers along the way, and I realize that those people influenced the way we both saw tears. So he didn't cry at all, and I felt like a failure every time I dropped a tear.
I never wanted to be seen as someone willing to turn on the waterworks in order to make people do what I wanted, or make them feel sorry for me. I never cried to prove that I was spiritual or sensitive - I just cried because I had to - and I hated every tear I shed.
Today I logged into Facebook to note that it was International Women's Day - and it struck me that this morning's tears symbolize the way my husband and I have each grown - and might be an analogy for the way men and women in general have evolved.
Women can look back on their "journey of tears" with pride and acceptance. In most of the world we're treated as equals. We can choose the lives we want to live - decide whether we marry, and how we want to spend our lives. We can choose to have children or not have children. We can choose where we work, how we dress, and who we vote for.
There are still men who view women with a level of condescension, but thankfully they're fewer. The Me Too movement has made many men rethink the way they look at - and respond to - women. I won't say we've made it free and clear into the realm of true equality - but we're getting there. If we, as women, have passed you the hanky, it isn't because we've stopped crying ourselves. We're just acknowledging that now it's time for men and women to cry together. You've stood by, dry eyed, while encouraging us to mop up our tears with your borrowed handkerchiefs for too long. Use it yourself and we'll both feel better.
When I look back on my own life, I can be grateful that I was free to make my own decisions. Whatever his flaws as a man, my father wanted education for his daughters as well as his sons, and my biggest regret in life is that I didn't believe in myself sufficiently to pursue the educational path that would've suited me best. The reasons behind some of my choices might have been flawed, but I can't deny that I made my own choices.
I've been lucky. I wanted to stay home with my children, unlike many in the religious culture I was raised in, who felt there was no other option available to them. I was fortunate that my husband always saw me as an equal partner in our relationship. There were no heavy-handed tactics or "listen to me because I'm the man" speeches in our home. He made the money and we decided how it would be spent. I looked after our sons during the day, but once he came through the door his first priority was being a father. We were both parents. We had clear divisions of labour, and while I didn't always relish tending kids and keeping house, it was tolerable because it was the life I chose.
I shed a lot of tears while raising my sons - tears of frustration when I couldn't make their lives easier, and fearful tears that I wasn't always up to the task of constantly nurturing with wisdom and patience. I cried when I felt people looking at me with disdain because I was only a housewife. I cried covert tears of self-doubt because I wasn't living my chosen life effortlessly and flawlessly. It took years for me to accept myself as someone who was allowed to cry, and more years still before my husband stopped passing me the figurative hanky and found the courage to shed a few tears of his own.
Remember this - tears don't make you weak. Women sailed on rivers of tears to find a place where they could make the choices that many of us take for granted. Men will sail on that same river until their own tears strengthen the current enough to move us on to a still better place - a place where casting couches don't exist and women are truly seen as more than a sum of their parts, a place where nobody feels shamed for shedding tears of compassion.
Go ahead and cry.
Here's my hanky, dearie -
use it if you will.
I am well accustomed
to tears women spill.
Eyes so very pretty
ought not be so wet;
what's so very awful
that it makes you fret?
Are you not delighted
with your role in life?
Cleaner, cook or consort,
daughter, sister; wife?
Handkerchief I hand back -
tears run down my face.
I don't need to mop up -
tears do not disgrace.
Tears of great frustration,
tears expressing pain;
tears of fear and sorrow.
Tears that fall like rain.
Even if you want to
you can't read my tears.
I was born to sorrow;
I lived there for years.
While you conquered nations,
cleared the land of trees,
and thought you provided
us with lives of ease -
our hands rocked the cradle,
and they planted seeds.
Women offered comfort.
Women met your needs.
See me as your equal -
matched in mind and skill.
Man - here is your hanky.
Use it - if you will.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, March 8, 2018
This morning my husband and I had a heart to heart talk about a person we both feel concern for. We both shed tears as we discussed what a difficult predicament this person is in - tears of compassion for this person's pain, and frustration because there's not a lot we can do to alleviate it. And as we faced each other with tears leaking out of our eyes I thought about how far we'd each come.
When we married I was the only crier - and my tears made me feel weak and ashamed. I hated feeling that I couldn't neatly contain my emotions. Both he and I had encountered manipulative criers along the way, and I realize that those people influenced the way we both saw tears. So he didn't cry at all, and I felt like a failure every time I dropped a tear.
I never wanted to be seen as someone willing to turn on the waterworks in order to make people do what I wanted, or make them feel sorry for me. I never cried to prove that I was spiritual or sensitive - I just cried because I had to - and I hated every tear I shed.
Today I logged into Facebook to note that it was International Women's Day - and it struck me that this morning's tears symbolize the way my husband and I have each grown - and might be an analogy for the way men and women in general have evolved.
Women can look back on their "journey of tears" with pride and acceptance. In most of the world we're treated as equals. We can choose the lives we want to live - decide whether we marry, and how we want to spend our lives. We can choose to have children or not have children. We can choose where we work, how we dress, and who we vote for.
There are still men who view women with a level of condescension, but thankfully they're fewer. The Me Too movement has made many men rethink the way they look at - and respond to - women. I won't say we've made it free and clear into the realm of true equality - but we're getting there. If we, as women, have passed you the hanky, it isn't because we've stopped crying ourselves. We're just acknowledging that now it's time for men and women to cry together. You've stood by, dry eyed, while encouraging us to mop up our tears with your borrowed handkerchiefs for too long. Use it yourself and we'll both feel better.
When I look back on my own life, I can be grateful that I was free to make my own decisions. Whatever his flaws as a man, my father wanted education for his daughters as well as his sons, and my biggest regret in life is that I didn't believe in myself sufficiently to pursue the educational path that would've suited me best. The reasons behind some of my choices might have been flawed, but I can't deny that I made my own choices.
I've been lucky. I wanted to stay home with my children, unlike many in the religious culture I was raised in, who felt there was no other option available to them. I was fortunate that my husband always saw me as an equal partner in our relationship. There were no heavy-handed tactics or "listen to me because I'm the man" speeches in our home. He made the money and we decided how it would be spent. I looked after our sons during the day, but once he came through the door his first priority was being a father. We were both parents. We had clear divisions of labour, and while I didn't always relish tending kids and keeping house, it was tolerable because it was the life I chose.
I shed a lot of tears while raising my sons - tears of frustration when I couldn't make their lives easier, and fearful tears that I wasn't always up to the task of constantly nurturing with wisdom and patience. I cried when I felt people looking at me with disdain because I was only a housewife. I cried covert tears of self-doubt because I wasn't living my chosen life effortlessly and flawlessly. It took years for me to accept myself as someone who was allowed to cry, and more years still before my husband stopped passing me the figurative hanky and found the courage to shed a few tears of his own.
Remember this - tears don't make you weak. Women sailed on rivers of tears to find a place where they could make the choices that many of us take for granted. Men will sail on that same river until their own tears strengthen the current enough to move us on to a still better place - a place where casting couches don't exist and women are truly seen as more than a sum of their parts, a place where nobody feels shamed for shedding tears of compassion.
Go ahead and cry.
Thursday, 22 February 2018
In Praise of "Inspirational Resource Material" By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
The Unfinished File
Half written poems in a file -
unfinished thoughts within -
there to consult once in a while
when inspiration's thin.
I return to odes once started,
and neurons re-ignite;
from efforts once halfhearted
I can gain fresh insight.
A single word might catch my eye
to percolate a thought
that makes my pen 'cross paper fly
until the verse is caught.
Thus scribbled bits I jot in haste -
disjointed lines of rhyme -
will very seldom go to waste;
they all evolve in time.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, February 21, 2018
I've come to the conclusion that most creative people - writers, poets, artists, crafters and makers of all kinds - are a bit hard on themselves. Prone to what's dubbed "artistic temperament" we're apt to feel considerable frustration when a project that we once started with great enthusiasm and high hopes just...fizzles out...
We all have that file, or that corner, or that room - the place we store our half finished creative endeavors. I used to stash away those scraps of paper, the ones that held a few lines of poetry, in furtive haste -and largely forget about them. Always a bit hard on myself, I saw those unfinished verses as a testament to my failure - failure to stay on task and see things through to completion.
While I was packing up my old house - before my big move to a small town - I found what I secretly thought of as my file of shame. And because packing was miserable work - that I needed a momentary reprieve from - I gave the contents a quick perusal.
To my amazement I was pretty excited about what I found. There was definitely food for thought among those pages, and I vowed I'd keep that file handy in the future and revisit it more often. I don't think of it as my file of failure anymore; no - now it's been re-categorized as "Inspirational Resource Material".
I keep that file in my kitchen - on the shelf with my cookbooks. It seems like the perfect spot. After all, when my tongue craves a new meal I consult those cookbooks, and if I find a recipe that appeals to me I amass the ingredients and try it out. Sometimes I re-work the recipe considerably in order to accommodate the palates of the household - and the food allergies of the husband! The completed recipe might not be what its creator intended it to be, but (generally speaking) I often manage to turn it into a reasonably good addition to my culinary repertoire.
Now my unfinished poetry file serves the same purpose as those cookbooks. I flip through it whenever my brain can't quite get a new idea off the ground. Sometimes I find exactly what I'm craving among my scattered scribblings and execute the poem exactly as I originally intended it to be. (That doesn't happen often, so when it does I feel like I've accomplished quite a creative feat and give myself a mental high five.) I've come to the conclusion that my mind just got ahead of me when that poem was started - the verse needed a bit more time to rattle around in my subconscious before it could find its way to paper.
More often, I find an old idea - or even a word or two - that triggers a whole new poem. I play around with "the ingredients" - the thoughts, ideas, or phrases - on the scrap of paper I've selected until I find a combination that suits my literary palate. And Voila! Out of the confusion of the half formed thoughts and random rhymes in my file a new poem comes to life!
So - this blog post is a big shout out to all the makers who leave things half-made. Be kind to yourself, my creative friends. Your unfinished projects are not failures! They shouldn't be kept to remind you of what you couldn't finish, but to inspire you to consider what you will finish later. Once the creative dust has settled and your brain has had a chance to work out the kinks that left you snafu-ed during that first attempt, you will be able to turn those bits into something that satisfies your creative cravings - take encouragement from a poet who has re-constructed some pretty strange lines into verses that I'm now happy with - and even proud of!
Keep those unfinished efforts handy, and re-visit them often. One day you'll surprise yourself by putting it all together - perhaps as you'd originally intended, and perhaps in some bold new way that you haven't even dreamed of - yet.
Art emerges when it's ready.
Half written poems in a file -
unfinished thoughts within -
there to consult once in a while
when inspiration's thin.
I return to odes once started,
and neurons re-ignite;
from efforts once halfhearted
I can gain fresh insight.
A single word might catch my eye
to percolate a thought
that makes my pen 'cross paper fly
until the verse is caught.
Thus scribbled bits I jot in haste -
disjointed lines of rhyme -
will very seldom go to waste;
they all evolve in time.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, February 21, 2018
I've come to the conclusion that most creative people - writers, poets, artists, crafters and makers of all kinds - are a bit hard on themselves. Prone to what's dubbed "artistic temperament" we're apt to feel considerable frustration when a project that we once started with great enthusiasm and high hopes just...fizzles out...
We all have that file, or that corner, or that room - the place we store our half finished creative endeavors. I used to stash away those scraps of paper, the ones that held a few lines of poetry, in furtive haste -and largely forget about them. Always a bit hard on myself, I saw those unfinished verses as a testament to my failure - failure to stay on task and see things through to completion.
While I was packing up my old house - before my big move to a small town - I found what I secretly thought of as my file of shame. And because packing was miserable work - that I needed a momentary reprieve from - I gave the contents a quick perusal.
To my amazement I was pretty excited about what I found. There was definitely food for thought among those pages, and I vowed I'd keep that file handy in the future and revisit it more often. I don't think of it as my file of failure anymore; no - now it's been re-categorized as "Inspirational Resource Material".
I keep that file in my kitchen - on the shelf with my cookbooks. It seems like the perfect spot. After all, when my tongue craves a new meal I consult those cookbooks, and if I find a recipe that appeals to me I amass the ingredients and try it out. Sometimes I re-work the recipe considerably in order to accommodate the palates of the household - and the food allergies of the husband! The completed recipe might not be what its creator intended it to be, but (generally speaking) I often manage to turn it into a reasonably good addition to my culinary repertoire.
Now my unfinished poetry file serves the same purpose as those cookbooks. I flip through it whenever my brain can't quite get a new idea off the ground. Sometimes I find exactly what I'm craving among my scattered scribblings and execute the poem exactly as I originally intended it to be. (That doesn't happen often, so when it does I feel like I've accomplished quite a creative feat and give myself a mental high five.) I've come to the conclusion that my mind just got ahead of me when that poem was started - the verse needed a bit more time to rattle around in my subconscious before it could find its way to paper.
More often, I find an old idea - or even a word or two - that triggers a whole new poem. I play around with "the ingredients" - the thoughts, ideas, or phrases - on the scrap of paper I've selected until I find a combination that suits my literary palate. And Voila! Out of the confusion of the half formed thoughts and random rhymes in my file a new poem comes to life!
So - this blog post is a big shout out to all the makers who leave things half-made. Be kind to yourself, my creative friends. Your unfinished projects are not failures! They shouldn't be kept to remind you of what you couldn't finish, but to inspire you to consider what you will finish later. Once the creative dust has settled and your brain has had a chance to work out the kinks that left you snafu-ed during that first attempt, you will be able to turn those bits into something that satisfies your creative cravings - take encouragement from a poet who has re-constructed some pretty strange lines into verses that I'm now happy with - and even proud of!
Keep those unfinished efforts handy, and re-visit them often. One day you'll surprise yourself by putting it all together - perhaps as you'd originally intended, and perhaps in some bold new way that you haven't even dreamed of - yet.
Art emerges when it's ready.
Friday, 2 February 2018
Pieces of Heart - By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Pieces of My Heart
If my heart's in pieces that's okay -
wouldn't want it any other way.
A heart that stays unbroken
will not ever be complete;
those pieces are the tokens
of each win and each defeat -
and for every portion that you cede,
you'll amass some pieces that you need.
Hearts strong and compassionate are built -
bits are pieced together like a quilt.
Portions doled out, cut to size,
others offered in return
'til a pattern is devised,
as you bind up seams you'll learn;
without all the pieces that you gain
just the drabbest colours would remain.
Can't regret the pieces that I lost.
Nothing worthwhile comes without a cost.
And though I've known rejection
when some offered bits were spurned -
now in my recollection
it took time before I learned:
Don't force a piece where it doesn't belong;
take care before the pattern turns out wrong.
So although I know I'll never find
remnants of my heart left far behind -
I know I'm more than content
with the new bits I've received;
now I know when love is spent
there is greater love achieved.
And I've learned I simply have to dare
to scatter my heart's pieces everywhere.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, June 2008
My heart has been fragmented for a long time, and I've lost quite a few pieces along the way. I'm not complaining though - others have shared pieces of their hearts to fill in the gaps.
Hearts swell, expand, and shatter regularly. When you find your soul-mate, you learn all about "loaves and fishes". You scrape together every bit of love you have to offer, and miraculously realize that your heart is fuller than ever before. When you hold your newborn child, your heart is so full it bursts - and your heart pieces scatter all over the place. But with every toothless smile they give, and with every stroke of a downy head you give, you discover you have more than you ever gave away. Every little bit of shared heart is magical.
I lost another little piece a few days back when I had to say good-bye to the Brazilian exchange student who lived with us for a few short months. I really didn't think it would be so difficult to give him a quick hug and put him on a bus bound for the airport - but man... I am amazed by how quickly people can find their way into my heart these days.
I am consoled by knowing that a bit of my heart lives on in a village in Brazil - and that a wonderful boy left a piece of his heart here too. It's Karma in the sweetest sense - what we give comes back to us. My heart is like a starfish - if I lose a piece here and there it will always grow back.
This isn't the first piece I've lost. I have bits of my heart scattered all over North America. A big chunk is in Alberta with the two siblings who live there. Another sizable portion is scattered across Southern Ontario with two more siblings and my mother. Still another bit lives in the Ottawa area - and a really hefty piece of my heart lives in Boston with my son and daughter in law. I function very well without those pieces because each of those people have given me some of their heart in return.
I have no regrets about the pieces of heart I lost years ago. Friends I've long since lost touch with still matter because of the experiences we shared. Ex-boyfriends enriched my life long after those relationships fizzled. They all gave me pieces of heart, and introduced me to parts of myself that I hadn't recognized previously; parts of myself that I've learned to love. Old friends who've died live on in my heart, and somewhere out there in the ether every ounce of love I gave them lives on. My long departed friends left big chunks of heart with me too. Those friendships left me forever changed for the better.
Over the years I've told a few people that I didn't intend to ever stop caring - and I didn't - because there was simply no need to. I knew I would always be able to spare a little corner of my heart, even after giving over most of that real estate to my husband, family and close friends.
The way I see it, life is too short to try to take back any of the scant amounts of love we manage to give to others. People change, relationships end, or evolve, and the nature of love changes - but there's no need to undermine memories or deny genuine feelings once felt. We can learn to hold on to good, loving feelings even after acknowledging that a relationship simply wasn't meant to be. I've been evicted from a heart or two when friendships ended - but I've never been the one to tell a friend I no longer care about them or don't want to see them again. It's natural that sometimes friendships wane, but I see no reason to summarily dismiss people from my life. The rejection hurts, but my heart is big enough to spare a dollop of kindness and wish them well.
I'm learning how gratifying it is to scatter bits of my heart farther afield. I no longer feel inclined to concentrate on loving people who are related to me, or look like me, or hold to the same ideologies that I do. I won't say that I love without conditions, but I have a shorter list of criteria than I used to. Loving others hasn't become automatic, but the process of learning to give and accept love has grown swifter. My tendency is still to proceed with caution, but at least I'm moving in the right direction.
Age and maturity grant us increasing ability to love generously. We begin to understand that the exchanges aren't always equitable. Sometimes we'll give more; sometimes we'll get more. Sometimes we'll give and give and get nothing in return. When we were younger, we wasted a lot more time complaining about who gave or received more, but age grants us enough grace to spend less time quibbling. We learn to see that small scraps and bits can be useful to bind up the seams of our lives. Nothing we give - or get - is ever wasted.
The fabric of our hearts continues to increase no matter how many bits we share. The pattern grows brighter and more intricate as we integrate every new bit we're given into an ever-evolving design. And the pieces we scatter become part of other quilts and tapestries. They add warmth, texture and colour to every life they touch.
So if I offer you a scrap or two, take it. And if you have a bit to share in return I'll find a place for it. Maybe someday we'll all have little pieces of our hearts scattered all over the world...
Can you imagine how beautiful the world would be if we sewed them all together?
If my heart's in pieces that's okay -
wouldn't want it any other way.
A heart that stays unbroken
will not ever be complete;
those pieces are the tokens
of each win and each defeat -
and for every portion that you cede,
you'll amass some pieces that you need.
Hearts strong and compassionate are built -
bits are pieced together like a quilt.
Portions doled out, cut to size,
others offered in return
'til a pattern is devised,
as you bind up seams you'll learn;
without all the pieces that you gain
just the drabbest colours would remain.
Can't regret the pieces that I lost.
Nothing worthwhile comes without a cost.
And though I've known rejection
when some offered bits were spurned -
now in my recollection
it took time before I learned:
Don't force a piece where it doesn't belong;
take care before the pattern turns out wrong.
So although I know I'll never find
remnants of my heart left far behind -
I know I'm more than content
with the new bits I've received;
now I know when love is spent
there is greater love achieved.
And I've learned I simply have to dare
to scatter my heart's pieces everywhere.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, June 2008
My heart has been fragmented for a long time, and I've lost quite a few pieces along the way. I'm not complaining though - others have shared pieces of their hearts to fill in the gaps.
Hearts swell, expand, and shatter regularly. When you find your soul-mate, you learn all about "loaves and fishes". You scrape together every bit of love you have to offer, and miraculously realize that your heart is fuller than ever before. When you hold your newborn child, your heart is so full it bursts - and your heart pieces scatter all over the place. But with every toothless smile they give, and with every stroke of a downy head you give, you discover you have more than you ever gave away. Every little bit of shared heart is magical.
I lost another little piece a few days back when I had to say good-bye to the Brazilian exchange student who lived with us for a few short months. I really didn't think it would be so difficult to give him a quick hug and put him on a bus bound for the airport - but man... I am amazed by how quickly people can find their way into my heart these days.
I am consoled by knowing that a bit of my heart lives on in a village in Brazil - and that a wonderful boy left a piece of his heart here too. It's Karma in the sweetest sense - what we give comes back to us. My heart is like a starfish - if I lose a piece here and there it will always grow back.
This isn't the first piece I've lost. I have bits of my heart scattered all over North America. A big chunk is in Alberta with the two siblings who live there. Another sizable portion is scattered across Southern Ontario with two more siblings and my mother. Still another bit lives in the Ottawa area - and a really hefty piece of my heart lives in Boston with my son and daughter in law. I function very well without those pieces because each of those people have given me some of their heart in return.
I have no regrets about the pieces of heart I lost years ago. Friends I've long since lost touch with still matter because of the experiences we shared. Ex-boyfriends enriched my life long after those relationships fizzled. They all gave me pieces of heart, and introduced me to parts of myself that I hadn't recognized previously; parts of myself that I've learned to love. Old friends who've died live on in my heart, and somewhere out there in the ether every ounce of love I gave them lives on. My long departed friends left big chunks of heart with me too. Those friendships left me forever changed for the better.
Over the years I've told a few people that I didn't intend to ever stop caring - and I didn't - because there was simply no need to. I knew I would always be able to spare a little corner of my heart, even after giving over most of that real estate to my husband, family and close friends.
The way I see it, life is too short to try to take back any of the scant amounts of love we manage to give to others. People change, relationships end, or evolve, and the nature of love changes - but there's no need to undermine memories or deny genuine feelings once felt. We can learn to hold on to good, loving feelings even after acknowledging that a relationship simply wasn't meant to be. I've been evicted from a heart or two when friendships ended - but I've never been the one to tell a friend I no longer care about them or don't want to see them again. It's natural that sometimes friendships wane, but I see no reason to summarily dismiss people from my life. The rejection hurts, but my heart is big enough to spare a dollop of kindness and wish them well.
I'm learning how gratifying it is to scatter bits of my heart farther afield. I no longer feel inclined to concentrate on loving people who are related to me, or look like me, or hold to the same ideologies that I do. I won't say that I love without conditions, but I have a shorter list of criteria than I used to. Loving others hasn't become automatic, but the process of learning to give and accept love has grown swifter. My tendency is still to proceed with caution, but at least I'm moving in the right direction.
Age and maturity grant us increasing ability to love generously. We begin to understand that the exchanges aren't always equitable. Sometimes we'll give more; sometimes we'll get more. Sometimes we'll give and give and get nothing in return. When we were younger, we wasted a lot more time complaining about who gave or received more, but age grants us enough grace to spend less time quibbling. We learn to see that small scraps and bits can be useful to bind up the seams of our lives. Nothing we give - or get - is ever wasted.
The fabric of our hearts continues to increase no matter how many bits we share. The pattern grows brighter and more intricate as we integrate every new bit we're given into an ever-evolving design. And the pieces we scatter become part of other quilts and tapestries. They add warmth, texture and colour to every life they touch.
So if I offer you a scrap or two, take it. And if you have a bit to share in return I'll find a place for it. Maybe someday we'll all have little pieces of our hearts scattered all over the world...
Can you imagine how beautiful the world would be if we sewed them all together?
Wednesday, 17 January 2018
In Praise of "Quiet" - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
In Praise of Quiet:
Oh Introvert,
you won't exert
exub'rance of
an extrovert.
You'll try and fail -
'side them you'll pale -
until you on
own strengths prevail.
Use what you've got;
delve into thought.
For quiet wisdom
you'll be sought.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, Jan. 12, 2018
In a recent conversation with some of my family, I described myself as an introvert. One of my sisters seemed incredulous, and perhaps rightly so. Her experience with me, as a family member, tells a different story. I'm not "shy" around family - in fact I'm pretty outspoken around most people I'm familiar with. I'm not afraid to talk about most things online - so how can I be an introvert?
Webster's dictionary defines the word introvert as "someone more interested in their own mental or emotional processes than in outside events etc." To paraphrase this, introverts spend a whole lot of time in their own heads. Introverts thrive on plenty of solitude. They do their best work alone, in peace and quiet. They prefer one on one conversations to spending time in large groups. They often feel anxious about attending social events and physically/emotionally drained afterwards. That doesn't mean they don't want to go, but it does mean that their definition of a great party is one where they found a few friends to spend the evening chatting with. They'd just rather not have to circulate all night long.
I recently finished reading Quiet (The Power of Introverts in a World that Can't Stop Talking) by Susan Cain. A quiz early in the book confirmed what I've always suspected about myself - I am an introvert! (I scored 14 out of 16 on this quiz - which is "based on Characteristics of introversion often accepted by contemporary researchers.")
Susan builds a strong case for the theory that North American society values extroversion over introversion. Think back to your own experiences and you'll see clear examples of times where you were rewarded for "being sociable" - or at least appearing to be sociable - and times when you were shamed for being too shy, cautious or solitary. It shouldn't be so surprising that many of us, as introverts, learned to become adept at hiding in plain sight. Appearing more extroverted than we are becomes a survival tactic. Let me elaborate:
How many times in school did you have to do "group work", give presentations to a group, answer questions in front of a group, and so on? Can you see that many of these situations are intimidating to quiet (or less socially confident) children and advantageous to those who are more extroverted? I did well in school, and as a result I had confidence when it came to answering questions - but I hated having to work in groups larger than three. I just wanted to go do my own work in peace and quiet - to focus all my energy on one task without a million distractions. Introverts work very effectively when they're allowed to process things at their own pace and prioritize time for themselves - and by themselves. Introverts aren't wild about group efforts and collaborations. They have their own ideas about how projects need to be completed, and just want to get on with it. Having to listen to a whole lot of extroverts work through their thoughts verbally sounds like a waste of time to us.
But sadly the prevailing attitudes in North America don't often play to the needs of the quiet, and quiet-loving, souls among us, and educators seem to be increasingly relying on group interaction within their classrooms.
I remember one scenario from my high school days that demonstrates exactly the sort of school experience that can make classroom learning miserable for an introvert. In my grade nine math class, I didn't know a soul. Strike one - I felt anxious just going to class. I soon discovered that for the first time ever I was completely confused by the subject material - which was a huge blow to my usually academically confident self - strike two. Because of those first two points, I was terrified to raise my hand and ask questions - and when I finally got up the nerve to do so, I encountered my worst feelings of inadequacy yet. You see, my teacher's solution to "helping" students who didn't understand was to send them up to the blackboard to "try and solve the problem themselves". I didn't even know where to begin solving those equations, and publicly demonstrating my ignorance was a resounding strike three for my ability to become mathematically proficient. After a couple rounds of public humiliation, I gave up and accepted failing grades - for the first time in my life. What's really sad about this experience is that I'm certain there were kids in that class who were more intimidated by that "helping" process than I ever was!
The upside of that experience was that I began to learn empathy for those who were more withdrawn than I was. As I began to look around for the kids who were obviously suffering more social discomfort than I was, I gained confidence - and found friends I could relate to. I learned that others, who seemed far shier than I was, were comfortable sharing their experiences and frustrations with me.
Navigating education was nothing compared to my early experiences with dating. An extrovert has no problem speaking up and demonstrating interest. An introvert, on the other hand, needs to know with absolute certainty that the other party "likes" them before they'll give anything away. Because they spend so much time with their own thoughts, introverts are a lot more likely to second-guess themselves during social interactions. Here's a classic example from my own youth:
I was at a wedding reception and a guy I had a huge crush on asked me to dance. But I was uncertain that he'd asked me to dance because he hadn't asked me by name. So I hesitated - I mean - could he really have asked me to dance? In my moment of hesitation/disbelief a far more extroverted and popular girl seated next to me jumped up and said, "Sure - I'll dance with you!" Friends seated with me were certain that the invitation had been intended for me, and could see how crestfallen I was to have missed the opportunity. Forty years later, I still wish I'd done what the other girl did - simply jumped up and danced with him. But older, wiser, and still introverted me can't help but remember that he never asked again.
Let me tell you - I'm convinced that introverts suffer a lot of heartbreak before they find someone who's willing to take them as they are. While I love having a husband I can talk to, I'm even more appreciative of the fact that we can enjoy comfortable silences together.
Perhaps the only thing more challenging for an introvert than finding a trusted romantic partner is finding employment. Every manager wants to hire the proverbial "People Person" - whether or not sociability weighs heavily into the person's ability to do the job. Employers ask questions that are skewed toward extroverts. They want future hires to prove that they're charismatic. They want proof they can play to the crowd and sway others to their way of thinking, and whether their ideas merit being adopted by others is often a secondary concern. In spite of the fact that "slow and steady wins the race", North American employers consistently show a marked preference for hares over tortoises.
Many introverts learn to fake it in order to be hired. Some continue to put on an act at work, and essentially live double lives. Their "work persona" seems bubbly and energetic, but at home they are quiet, subdued and energized by their solitary pursuits. Other introverts are lucky enough to find employment that they feel passionately about - and a passionate introvert doesn't need to pretend. No matter how "shy" they may be, chances are they'll have areas of interest that they feel so strongly about that they could talk about them for hours with anyone who shares that interest - or expresses curiosity about it. Some passionate introverts learn to excel at making speeches and public presentations simply because they feel so strongly about their cause, or their area of expertise.
Remember this - people often differ from what we perceive them to be. All introverts don't manifest as "shy". Many, like me, learn to speak up for themselves. Many more of us are confident sharing our ideas in written form. We learn to let out some of the thoughts that keep us looking inward, and by sharing them become more outwardly focused. Reaching out to share our unique gifts with others increases our confidence - and helps us locate the other quiet, deep-thinking uni-taskers around us.
So here's to all the introverts out there - the ones who have fully embraced their "quiet" and the ones who push themselves far into the fray on a daily basis. We are important. We have plenty to offer in a noisy world. Some will see our meticulous efforts as plodding, and our desire to be alone as anti-social, but others will see who we really are - and love us. They'll appreciate our ability to listen and analyze the facts before offering a thoughtful response. They'll appreciate our more cautious nature, and the creative solutions our busy, observant brains dream up. They'll value the close relationships we offer them, over being part of an extrovert's large entourage. Some will ask us to dance again - and again...
In this chaotic world, it's often the quieter powers employed by the inwardly-focused that keep those around them grounded and comfortable.
Oh Introvert,
you won't exert
exub'rance of
an extrovert.
You'll try and fail -
'side them you'll pale -
until you on
own strengths prevail.
Use what you've got;
delve into thought.
For quiet wisdom
you'll be sought.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, Jan. 12, 2018
In a recent conversation with some of my family, I described myself as an introvert. One of my sisters seemed incredulous, and perhaps rightly so. Her experience with me, as a family member, tells a different story. I'm not "shy" around family - in fact I'm pretty outspoken around most people I'm familiar with. I'm not afraid to talk about most things online - so how can I be an introvert?
Webster's dictionary defines the word introvert as "someone more interested in their own mental or emotional processes than in outside events etc." To paraphrase this, introverts spend a whole lot of time in their own heads. Introverts thrive on plenty of solitude. They do their best work alone, in peace and quiet. They prefer one on one conversations to spending time in large groups. They often feel anxious about attending social events and physically/emotionally drained afterwards. That doesn't mean they don't want to go, but it does mean that their definition of a great party is one where they found a few friends to spend the evening chatting with. They'd just rather not have to circulate all night long.
I recently finished reading Quiet (The Power of Introverts in a World that Can't Stop Talking) by Susan Cain. A quiz early in the book confirmed what I've always suspected about myself - I am an introvert! (I scored 14 out of 16 on this quiz - which is "based on Characteristics of introversion often accepted by contemporary researchers.")
Susan builds a strong case for the theory that North American society values extroversion over introversion. Think back to your own experiences and you'll see clear examples of times where you were rewarded for "being sociable" - or at least appearing to be sociable - and times when you were shamed for being too shy, cautious or solitary. It shouldn't be so surprising that many of us, as introverts, learned to become adept at hiding in plain sight. Appearing more extroverted than we are becomes a survival tactic. Let me elaborate:
How many times in school did you have to do "group work", give presentations to a group, answer questions in front of a group, and so on? Can you see that many of these situations are intimidating to quiet (or less socially confident) children and advantageous to those who are more extroverted? I did well in school, and as a result I had confidence when it came to answering questions - but I hated having to work in groups larger than three. I just wanted to go do my own work in peace and quiet - to focus all my energy on one task without a million distractions. Introverts work very effectively when they're allowed to process things at their own pace and prioritize time for themselves - and by themselves. Introverts aren't wild about group efforts and collaborations. They have their own ideas about how projects need to be completed, and just want to get on with it. Having to listen to a whole lot of extroverts work through their thoughts verbally sounds like a waste of time to us.
But sadly the prevailing attitudes in North America don't often play to the needs of the quiet, and quiet-loving, souls among us, and educators seem to be increasingly relying on group interaction within their classrooms.
I remember one scenario from my high school days that demonstrates exactly the sort of school experience that can make classroom learning miserable for an introvert. In my grade nine math class, I didn't know a soul. Strike one - I felt anxious just going to class. I soon discovered that for the first time ever I was completely confused by the subject material - which was a huge blow to my usually academically confident self - strike two. Because of those first two points, I was terrified to raise my hand and ask questions - and when I finally got up the nerve to do so, I encountered my worst feelings of inadequacy yet. You see, my teacher's solution to "helping" students who didn't understand was to send them up to the blackboard to "try and solve the problem themselves". I didn't even know where to begin solving those equations, and publicly demonstrating my ignorance was a resounding strike three for my ability to become mathematically proficient. After a couple rounds of public humiliation, I gave up and accepted failing grades - for the first time in my life. What's really sad about this experience is that I'm certain there were kids in that class who were more intimidated by that "helping" process than I ever was!
The upside of that experience was that I began to learn empathy for those who were more withdrawn than I was. As I began to look around for the kids who were obviously suffering more social discomfort than I was, I gained confidence - and found friends I could relate to. I learned that others, who seemed far shier than I was, were comfortable sharing their experiences and frustrations with me.
Navigating education was nothing compared to my early experiences with dating. An extrovert has no problem speaking up and demonstrating interest. An introvert, on the other hand, needs to know with absolute certainty that the other party "likes" them before they'll give anything away. Because they spend so much time with their own thoughts, introverts are a lot more likely to second-guess themselves during social interactions. Here's a classic example from my own youth:
I was at a wedding reception and a guy I had a huge crush on asked me to dance. But I was uncertain that he'd asked me to dance because he hadn't asked me by name. So I hesitated - I mean - could he really have asked me to dance? In my moment of hesitation/disbelief a far more extroverted and popular girl seated next to me jumped up and said, "Sure - I'll dance with you!" Friends seated with me were certain that the invitation had been intended for me, and could see how crestfallen I was to have missed the opportunity. Forty years later, I still wish I'd done what the other girl did - simply jumped up and danced with him. But older, wiser, and still introverted me can't help but remember that he never asked again.
Let me tell you - I'm convinced that introverts suffer a lot of heartbreak before they find someone who's willing to take them as they are. While I love having a husband I can talk to, I'm even more appreciative of the fact that we can enjoy comfortable silences together.
Perhaps the only thing more challenging for an introvert than finding a trusted romantic partner is finding employment. Every manager wants to hire the proverbial "People Person" - whether or not sociability weighs heavily into the person's ability to do the job. Employers ask questions that are skewed toward extroverts. They want future hires to prove that they're charismatic. They want proof they can play to the crowd and sway others to their way of thinking, and whether their ideas merit being adopted by others is often a secondary concern. In spite of the fact that "slow and steady wins the race", North American employers consistently show a marked preference for hares over tortoises.
Many introverts learn to fake it in order to be hired. Some continue to put on an act at work, and essentially live double lives. Their "work persona" seems bubbly and energetic, but at home they are quiet, subdued and energized by their solitary pursuits. Other introverts are lucky enough to find employment that they feel passionately about - and a passionate introvert doesn't need to pretend. No matter how "shy" they may be, chances are they'll have areas of interest that they feel so strongly about that they could talk about them for hours with anyone who shares that interest - or expresses curiosity about it. Some passionate introverts learn to excel at making speeches and public presentations simply because they feel so strongly about their cause, or their area of expertise.
Remember this - people often differ from what we perceive them to be. All introverts don't manifest as "shy". Many, like me, learn to speak up for themselves. Many more of us are confident sharing our ideas in written form. We learn to let out some of the thoughts that keep us looking inward, and by sharing them become more outwardly focused. Reaching out to share our unique gifts with others increases our confidence - and helps us locate the other quiet, deep-thinking uni-taskers around us.
So here's to all the introverts out there - the ones who have fully embraced their "quiet" and the ones who push themselves far into the fray on a daily basis. We are important. We have plenty to offer in a noisy world. Some will see our meticulous efforts as plodding, and our desire to be alone as anti-social, but others will see who we really are - and love us. They'll appreciate our ability to listen and analyze the facts before offering a thoughtful response. They'll appreciate our more cautious nature, and the creative solutions our busy, observant brains dream up. They'll value the close relationships we offer them, over being part of an extrovert's large entourage. Some will ask us to dance again - and again...
In this chaotic world, it's often the quieter powers employed by the inwardly-focused that keep those around them grounded and comfortable.
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