I have always considered myself an extrovert. Bright, colorful, social butterfly with wings spread. I was called ‘precocious’ as a child. An old soul, wise beyond my years, with an extensive vocabulary. My now six-year-old great-niece, Aryanna (my sister’s granddaughter ) is like that too. When she comes over to Aunt Edie’s house, after greeting hugs, she goes right for the drums and other percussion instruments, costume pieces, wings and magic wands, hula hoops, coloring books, and crayons. I am well stocked for kiddos to visit, partly because I also teach mindfulness to tiny humans. She tells me about school, friends, the animals at their home and what she is learning. I look at her and wonder what her life will be like. A beautiful child with piercing blue eyes that don’t miss a thing, with her aunt’s fashion sense that combines seemingly mismatched pieces that somehow come together well. We all focus on her other qualities beyond physical appearance. Intelligent, creative, loving, talented, and strong-willed (much to the chagrin of my sister who, along with my niece-her aunt is raising her).
There are times when she crackles with electricity and talks a mile a minute and others when she is internal and it is hard to get words out of her. We spoke on the phone this morning as she was getting ready for school since yesterday was her birthday and we didn’t have much time to chat. She was silent after I asked a question and my sister said, “She can’t hear your head rattle.” I laughed because that is what our mother said to us when we didn’t answer. She then responded.
As I contemplate the trajectory this little wise woman’s life will take, I think about mine. This avowed ‘out there on the fringes’ person has lately been feeling far more internal. Chalk it up to the challenges of providing care for a friend who recently died and I am still assisting with cleaning and packing up her belongings and planning her memorial service. Consider that the Winter Solstice is a few days away and I am doing what comes naturally to us humans as I hunker down and nest. As I am writing this, I am still in unicorn jammies that I donned last night after a long day at my job as a therapist. Listening to music, sipping ginger tea, prepping for another day that includes visiting a dear friend who is home as she heals from pneumonia (I had a nasty bout with it in April…no fun), writing and counseling more clients.
There are times when I get ‘all peopled out’, as much as I love them and need to push the reset button. I have been refraining from my usual flitting about, which looks like landing here there and everywhere, scattering joy and moving on. I have never been shy or had social anxiety, so it’s not reflective of those dynamics. There are times when this empath feels like one of those velcro dart boards onto which the round darts stick when hurled at the circle. I need to pull them off and smooth my surface. At first, it felt uncharacteristic and I worried if I was withdrawing and isolating. My home has become my haven, warmth and comfort abound. I can invite people in if I so choose or enjoy my solitude.
The term ‘ambivert‘ applies to this condition. According to an article in Forbes, entitled 9 Signs That You’re An Ambivert, written by Travis Bradberry, “The continuum between introversion and extroversion captures one of the most important personality traits. It’s troubling that we’re encouraged to categorize ourselves one way or the other because there are critical strengths and weaknesses commonly associated with each type.”
He goes on to say that ambiverts are inclined to be more flexible in any given situation since they are highly adaptive to their environment. I checked out other articles on the topic and found myself at odds with the descriptions of ambiverts as not being comfortable beginning conversations or being in a crowd without familiar people around them. I can approach strangers and start talking about nearly anything. I can walk into a room all by myself and feel at ease most of the time. My mother’s advice, “Walk in like you own the joint,” and my father’s reminder that “They put their pants on one leg at a time just like you do,” makes all the difference in the world.
I can tell when this psychic sponge has soaked up too much juice and needs to go home, wring out, decompress and zip up the fuzzy pj’s.
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