Okay, I’ll admit it: I’m an introvert. That doesn’t mean I hate people. On the contrary, I love people, especially my own people, that is, the amazing, creative, joyful, noisy bunch that I have raised and now live with, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. These are my favorite peeps. And they are all, nearly all of them, extroverts. For those of you who are a bit rusty on the whole human nature schtick: introverts recharge by spending time alone. Extroverts recharge by spending time with others, even, it would seem, with introverts, (ironically).
I am not complaining. I think we are–by and large–good for each other. The extroverts in the family keep me social, grounded, outward-looking; they drag me out into the sunshine quite often and help me to remember how to keep a conversation going. For my part, I remind them to stop talking long enough to admire a glorious sunset that our Father created just for us, to stop talking long enough each day to enjoy the charms of a good book, to write a letter, or to draw a picture. (You can’t draw and talk at the same time, theoretically, as the two sides of the brain work against each other. I taught all my children how to draw at an early age.) I do think we are good for each other.
But during the long dark grey interminable winter, an introvert living in a busy, sometimes-chaotic, noisy, creative home, will, by her very nature, long for a private little hole into which she might crawl, now and again. For an hour. Or a day. Just someplace quiet.
I think I must have been longing for this respite one day when I scribbled down this cartoon. This is my life. Again, I am not complaining. But it’s a fairly true and accurate representation. Except that my hair looks better in the cartoon than in real life. (And yes, even the dog is an extrovert.)
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