I start to feel this pressure in my head, like there's no more room left. When I meditate, I realize "Wait, there's all this room around the thoughts." Meditation puts spaciousness around stress.
—Doug, who uses meditation as a natural antidepressant
A regular daily retreat, or Daily Ritual, is a cleansing practice you incorporate into each day, such as meditation or silent reflection, a leisurely walk, or writing in a journal. If the ritual involves an activity, the purpose is not to further a goal, but to open up reflective space. When you work a retreat into your daily routine, it becomes an anchor for your introversion, assuring you that you will indeed have time to yourself—today.
I got the idea for Solo Date from the "Artist Dates" that Julia Cameron discusses in her classic creativity manuals, The Artist's Way and Vein of Gold. Cameron assigns Artist Dates as a date with yourself, for at least an hour's duration, doing something "out of the ordinary." You can see a film, stroll through the park, or do anything that fills up your creative stores. Similarly, a Solo Date is an outing with yourself to satisfy some of your introvert cravings. And it is a delicious treat. My favorite Solo Date is to go to a movie in the middle of a weekday, by myself of course. When I started doing this, my therapy practice was across the street from a cinema. I blocked my Friday afternoons, and walked over to catch the earliest showing of a film. Because these are the least attended showings, I sometimes had the luxury of being the only one in the theatre—a private showing!
But what I came to enjoy most was the time just after the movie, when I emerged from the dark into the world. I noticed everything—a leaf rolling across the pavement in the breeze, the sound of a car door shutting—as if I were still viewing the big screen. I practiced stretching out this experience and developed my movie therapy technique, which we'll discuss more in Chapter 18.
Whatever retreats you design for yourself, do them regularly. Protect them. Put them on your calendar and tell others you will not be available during these times. Turn off your cell phone. And melt.
Chapter 9:
The Freedom of a Flâneur
The spectator is a prince who everywhere enjoys his incognito"
—Charles Baudelaire
I remember the moment I first read the words of Charles Baudelaire. I was recovering from a surgery and enjoying—in addition to the quiet—a video study course on Impressionism. Baudelaire was a French poet associated with this radical artistic movement. When I read his description of the flâneur in his essay, "The Painter of Modern Life" (1863), I was dumbstruck: "How did he know? This is me he's describing!" For the first time, I realized that there was a word for my favorite preoccupation. As you read this excerpt, you might recognize yourself as well:
For the perfect flâneur, for the passionate spectator, it is an immense joy to set up house in the heart of the multitude, amid the ebb and flow of movement, in the midst of the fugitive and the infinite. To be away from home and yet to feel oneself everywhere at home; to see the world, to be at the centre of the world, and yet to remain hidden from the world—such are a few of the slightest pleasures of those independent, passionate, impartial natures which the tongue can but clumsily define.
We have no equivalent word for flâneur, or the feminine flâneuse, in our language. The literal English translation, "idler or loafer," has little resemblance to Baudelaire's "passionate spectator" and would likely be considered an insult! We name what we value, and we value the movers and the shakers. Here in America, we describe the spectator by what she is watching and by what she is not—not a participant.
THE ARTIST'S EYE
For the introvert, as for the observing is not a fallback position—something we do because we can't participate. We watch because we want to. There is something wonderfully grounding about remaining still as others mull about—or mulling about while others remain still. Against the backdrop of the scene, the introvert feels more like an "I." This enhanced subjectivity is just the opposite of the entrainment that pulls us in and renders us invisible. The entrained introvert becomes overstimulated and shuts down; the flâneur shops for inspiration and feels larger. It is as if the best parts of ourselves are scattered about. As we stumble upon them in the world, we discover who we are.
The Impressionist painters made this process tangible. They didn't sit in a studio and paint posed models; they walked the streets of Paris and traveled the country, noticing the scenes of modern life and painting what interested them. Recording objective reality was not the goal. Impressionists captured how they saw things, and what they saw was better, richer, and more alive than what was out there. This kind of tampering with reality outraged critics such as Albert Wolff, who wrote: "Try to make Monsieur Pissarro understand that trees are not violet; that the sky is not the color of fresh butter." But the Impressionists just got more impressionable: Gauguin and Van Gogh used shockingly intense (for the time) color pigments to depict a more primal and emotional reality.
Though introverts are drained by interaction, we can take immense pleasure in watching the scene around us: people moving about, their dress, movements, and preoccupations. The Impressionists were masters of people watching. Degas took a special interest in the movements of ballet dancers, but not the performances as much as the process: the stretching, rehearsing, resting. Mary Cassatt, who was not as free to walk the streets due to her gender, painted opera patrons and scenes of domestic life.
There's a part of me that is always writing the script of what I'm viewing, processing it. Then the muses go to work on it.
—Doug, songwriter, poet, and flâneur
In contrast to the "frozen" historical paintings of the time, these artist-flâneurs enjoyed recording movement and change—whether the changing fashions on the street or the changing light against the cathedral. Series paintings became popular, such as Monet's studies of light—paintings of the same landscape, one at early dawn, another as the scene becomes illuminated, a later version when the sun sets. Pairs of artists, such as Cézanne and Pissarro, would sometimes paint the same scene, revealing how their subjective interpretations distinguished them.
The flâneur, artist or not, has a talent for staying out of the scene even as he is in the midst of it. This introverted observer can draw energy from society because he or she remains the interpreter of what is happening, the integrating action happens inside. This skill—focusing outside while staying inside—can come in very handy. Think of Renoir as he painted his famous The Ball at the Moulin de la Galette, and for our purposes, let's assume he's an introvert. Mobs of people are socializing, laughing, drinking, and reveling. It's noisy and chaotic. But Renoir gets to engage in a solitary pleasure amid all of this. He sees the color and the lighting; he gets to choose what story to capture. And he's not bothered or annoyed by the activity—he's a passionate observer. And his painting captures his passion. The chaos is beautiful, sparkling with life and vitality.
In our forward-moving, competitive society, it's easy to reduce our focus to the step ahead or the obstacles in our way. We are too much a part of the action—and interaction—to see what's happening. Yet, flâneurie is a wonderful tool for the introvert, whether roaming the city or stuck at a party.
Let's say you're talking to someone—no, someone is talking to you—and that person is really enjoying the sound of his or her own voice. You feel trapped and don't have the energy to withdraw. Try playing flâneur and look for the artistic, and perhaps comic, value of the situation. I have observed very boring conversations—no, monologues—come to life when I look at the speaker as a work of art: the character lines on his face, the way he or she gestures, the color of her lipstick. For extreme talkers, it usually matters not if we are listening—they just want to talk. (These are the talkers who continue the monologue as we walk away.) Yet, their talking only distances us. Sometimes we can actually feel more empathy when we bypass the talk and look into eyes that are real, or internally narrate a story about the conversation, or imagine what role
the talker would play in a movie. If you are cast as the observer, you might as well relish the experience!
AMONG, YET ALONE
As I write today, I am sitting in a Starbucks. I drove an hour to get here, even though I have my pick of coffeehouses ten minutes from my home. I didn't come all this way for the coffee. As you recall, it's the "house" in coffeehouse that attracts me. I came to this particular Starbucks because I don't know anyone here or, rather, no one knows me. My identity is invisible. And it is this invisibility that frees me to study my surroundings. Samba music plays in the background, the cobalt blue of low-hanging lamps accents the warm tones of the room, and from my table next to the window, I can watch people in here or out there, strolling, conversing, smoking, or studying.
The introvert who is not broadly known has an advantage. While extroverts talk away, she is free to observe, to think, to enjoy the details and nuances of the situation. Though I love to act and have had my Hollywood fantasies, I can imagine no fate worse than being known everywhere. I recall the scene in the movie, Lost in Translation, in which the American actor/celebrity relishes a moment of anonymity at a nightclub in Tokyo, only to have a couple of eager fans proclaim, "You're Bob Harris!" As if he didn't know.
I'm never happier than when I am alone in a foreign city; it's as if I have become invisible.
—Storm Jameson, author of more than fifty novels
Walking in an unknown city is a delight for an introvert. Unfortunately, American cities have become less walk-able. I have yet to live in a neighborhood with sidewalks—these were eliminated as suburbs became "bedroom communities" and malls replaced streetside shops. Edmund White, author of The Flâneur, writes, "Americans are particularly ill-suited to be flâneurs" because we are so driven to improve ourselves. I would add that being a flâneur is difficult because we are so driven to talk. Example: you are taking a thoughtful walk, sorting out your feelings after a difficult conversation, and your neighbor calls out, "Hey! Are you coming to the block party?" Or you are browsing a bookstore, feeling that reverence that introverts have for books, and an acquaintance recognizes you before you have a chance to duck around the corner.
We have an assumption here in America that the kind thing to do is to be "friendly," which means being extroverted, even intrusive. The Japanese assume the opposite: being kind means holding back.
So, today I am in the city next door rather than my own. I mentioned to my husband and boys my plan to come here to write and they were thoroughly confused: "Why would you spend two hours driving in order to write?" Anonymity is why. The paradox is, when I travel and am assured anonymity, I feel friendlier. I enjoy my exchanges with the shop owners and even welcome a greeting from someone setting up a laptop nearby. But, really, this makes sense. An introvert just needs time and space, and interaction occurs more spontaneously. But because we get so little time and space, we spend more time defending our boundaries than we do reaching beyond them.
When I sent questions to introverts I knew to be very private, I was surprised by their candid, unselfconscious responses. Cecilia, my contact from Puerto Rico, explained: "Only when we can be guaranteed anonymity, can we take our masks off and bare our souls. When we are no one, we become who we are." As an author, I shouldn't be surprised—I bare my soul quite frequently. I'm just doing it on my time and in my own way.
FLNEURIE 101
To learn the art of flâneurie, or strolling the city without aim, let's look to the Parisian flâneurs for some tips:
• Give yourself a nice, open stretch of time. Vacations are ideal, because you have already cleared the time, and you're likely to be away from what's familiar. But an open Saturday would work just as well.
• Go somewhere new. Explore a new area of the city. If you live in the country or a small town, retreat to a neighboring city for the weekend.
• Leave your goals behind and assume the perspective of the child. Baudelaire captures this attitude: "The child sees everything in a state of newness; he is always drunk. Nothing more resembles what we call inspiration than the delight with which a child absorbs form and colour." And White: "He (or she) is a Parisian in search of a private moment, not a lesson, and whereas wonder can lead to edification, they are not likely to give the viewer gooseflesh." Goosebumps are a good sign.
• White suggests staying clear of the tourist centers and monuments—where people are checking off their lists of "Major Sights"—to look instead to the unusual, the "tilting paving stone," and the details that often go unnoticed. This advice reminds me of a city stroll I took with other members of my writers' group. We met up at 6:30 a.m. in our downtown Charleston to find images for a book we were writing. I realized that I had never looked up at the top of the old buildings. I was transfixed as I saw the beauty architects and builders had taken the time to create but I had been too busy to see: elaborate trim, elegant cornices, gargoyles, and even painted art. As we looked upon one building, we saw a large but aging portrait looking out of an upper window: a mystery waiting to be solved. White sees an entirely different Paris than the typical tourist, including some very different museums, such as the Museum of Romantic Life and museums of hunting, eyeglasses, and perfume.
At school, I hide in my drawings. At home, I hide in my room. If it's possible, I like to totally remove myself, like on the roof or in another city.
—Solveig
Today I was thinking I should put back up my hammock on the balcony. It's really soft and I can sit there unbeknownst to my neighbors below. When I had it up, I could watch the breeze move through the trees, or compare which neighbor is the worst car parker, or just see clouds move by.
—Cecilia
YOUR INVISIBILITY CLOAK
Ever wish you could be invisible? If you were, where would you go? What would you look for? What would you like to overhear?
The invisibility fantasy is a popular one for introverts because it allows the possibility of pure observation. Though some of us like to get on stage, many introverts are content to put on their invisibility cloaks and watch. But well-meaning extroverts will have none of that! They need to draw us out, invite us to participate—repeatedly—and question why we are so depressed as to not want to join. Unfortunately, J. K. Rowling has not yet patented a working invisibility cloak like the one her fictional hero Harry Potter found so useful.
Sometimes we can find a private vantage point for observation, like a rooftop, but this option is not likely to be available during the meeting at work or at the local softball game.
In lieu of an invisibility cloak, you might find it useful to have a "prop" on hand, such as a book, journal, or, for some, a sketchpad. These props communicate that you are involved in something and don't want to be disturbed. When I roam to write, I carry a number of props: laptop, bookbag, and purse. My friends call me the "bag lady." Though you needn't carry an entire office, having at least a few props can help you stake out a space and, as Baudelaire put it, "set up house in the heart of the multitude." And even a jacket can serve as a space-expander: put it on the chair next to you and you're less likely to have a "friendly" intruder sit down to talk.
But perhaps we would do best by incorporating flâneurie into the American vocabulary and imagination. We can promote safer and more walkable cities. We can stop assuming that just knowing someone is cause for conversation. Perhaps we could don T-shirts with "Flâneur" printed on them as a way of signaling the choice to remain anonymous. Sometimes wearing black helps. Or we could pretend we're invisible and just not respond to anyone. But when familiar surroundings and people close in, there's nothing like hopping on the train or into your car and finding a place where you are happily unrecognized.
Chapter 10:
Inroads to Intimacy
If successful, the link results in a merging of both minds, essentially creating a single consciousness in the two bodies.
—memory-alpha.org
As I read about the Vulcan mind meld in Memory Alpha, an online Star Trek
encyclopedia, I thought about how convenient this gift would be for introverts. We could forgo the preliminaries, develop some cue to identify others who wanted to do the same, and meld away—no talking required!
The beauty of the mind meld, as I understand it, is that, once you meld, you can disconnect, retaining an understanding of the other person. Then you can get to the real conversation. Of course, introverts would require shields to prevent unwanted intrusion, and would use the mind meld very selectively, as apparently the Vulcans did. According to Memory Alpha, "It is a deeply personal thing, part of the private life, and not normally used on aliens."
Psychoanalysts like Freud and Jung developed their own techniques for going deep, or reading "unconscious communication," in order to understand and help their patients. A familiar example is the "Freudian slip," an accidental turn of a phrase that reveals a more honest feeling. Mostly, though, the approach just teaches the therapist to listen on different levels at the same time. Though I was intellectually fascinated by the approach, I think I pursued the training primarily because I wanted to connect. I believed that if I had the whole story, if I had the opportunity to really know the person I was sitting with, there would be nobody I could not love. And my idealistic belief found support.
Some clients shield me from access, and I have learned to respect that—I have my own shields, after all. Some I cannot reach—my powers are human, not Vulcan. But the ones who let me in, regardless of how obnoxious they may be on the outside, consistently reveal themselves to be loveable. There's really nothing that mysterious about it: we were all children once, we've all been hurt, and each one of us has a story.
Let's clear one thing up: Introverts do not hate small talk because we dislike people. We hate small talk because we hate the barrier it creates between people.
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