Interior Conversations

Clearly a memo had been sent out that Thursday was ‘Take Your Car to Work Day". ‘Clogged’ would be under descriptive to ‘show not tell’ about the roadways. North, South, East, West, every car was in lock step with overflow.
 
Saturday night was worse. A nighttime Husky game, something happening at one of the stadiums, a ballet opening at McCaw and the Viaduct was closed. From the Eastside to Downtown, from Everett to U District and beyond, from Boeing Access to Union……….crawl.
 
Commutes are so luxurious on the ferry. One can sleep, or read, knit or eat. Car commutes require at least gripping the wheel and keeping your eyes roving on the off chance some car moves somewhere. No nodding off, nothing but audio books.
 
Every other activity or option eliminated, the mind drifts. Thoughts of the present walk around thoughts of responsibilities and tasks. Views of the past wander through scenarios that can either be remedied or accepted. Concerns and hopes and excitement about the future crisscross through possibilities and half accomplished dreams.
 
The alternatives for living life are endless, particularly where emotions are concerned. We all make choices about how disconnected or engaged we are with our feelings. That’s where we have our biggest disagreements; to feel or not to feel, that is the question.
 
Exterior or interior…hmmm… what’s your preference?
 
Heading from the Eastside to the Greenwood neighborhood, rain pelting the car, watching how people either slowed to accommodate the weather and density of automobiles, or speed along changing lanes to see if it was possible to arrive at a destination thirty seconds faster, I considered, like all writers do constantly, the plot and characters of the stories in the cars around me.
 
Who was truly in a hurry and had a deadline that could not be lengthened? Who was irritated with the people sitting next to them in the vehicle and couldn’t wait for the trip to be over? Who was in love? Who was feeling alone?
 
That which we do not feel, we act out. It’s basic human nature. Yet culturally, the differences between what is appropriate to express and reveal is so broad a spectrum we sometimes misjudge or just plain miscommunicate.
 
Pondering as the swish, swish, swish of the wipers repeat…What do I do with the fact I can’t go back to the way I was before, to when I was frozen?
 
Five years ago when it was de rigueur to find, develop and own a ‘brand’, I labeled myself ‘The Social Contemplative’.
 
When you put all the definitions together, it describes a gregarious person devoted to prayer at the core of their life. Practically it means I love interactions with people but do not find them energizing. Unlike extroverts who feed on the energy of others and find themselves animated by interactions, I, after a time, need to have silence and thought, and usually a bit of classical or Celtic music.
 
Even when I had four kids and a husband at home, I would rise early and go swimming, or go to breakfast alone after the kids were in school and journal and ponder.
 
It makes me feel like a bit of a misfit. American culture is in your face, go, go, go and then push it some more. I was so excited when I found I was a writer because, outside of the ministry, that’s the only vocation or calling in which a person is expected to muse.
 
It’s also put me very close to my feelings. When my kids were little, the social worker for our adoptions once asked me how I was doing. I looked at her trying to figure out what response I was supposed to give. I told her how the kids were doing. No, she wanted to know how I was doing. Me? I hadn’t gotten to Me in so long I’d forgotten what it felt like.
 
But here’s a cool story of my life. In the early 80’s after having decided at the age of nine I was going to concentrate on ‘good works’ because feelings were too overwhelming, I decided I wanted to thaw. Oh, I’d had feeling thoughts and certainly I could have compassionate and empathetic thoughts but deep, deep, down? Not engaged.
 
Then a miracle happened. Standing in my trench coat in the middle of the living room of the house on Wallingford Ave, as we called it, I had my first connection with my first felt emotion since I was a child. I had told a bit of my story to someone and let myself stay connected to it while narrating. BINGO! Feeling!!
 
You know what that feeling was? …………………….JOY!!!! Is that not awesome? Many times I would encourage myself in the future, reminding myself that at my core, in the center, that which I first felt was Joy!! A gift.
 
I use to make jokes about touchy feely people. Sometimes people make fun of me or tell me I live in la-la-land because of how I behave because I feel. Then I remind myself of the gift of feeling Joy. It has been worth the price of everything to have that ability to feel.
 
The holidays are here. In the hustle and the bustle, say a prayer that you will feel it. Tell a bit of a truth about your story you’ve never told before to open the door to engaging with your own life. Look at all the prettiness in the world this time of year and ask yourself," Are the lights on in my own interior? Because oh, my friends, it is so worth the price of admission. And it so improves the quality of one’s commute on so many levels!
 
Love,
Deborah