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AngelofCourage1

Just in case you didn’t know, I am a quiet person.  This fact was first brought to my attention when I entered first grade.  David Petry backed me into a corner of the classroom where he towered over me with his puffy blonde hair, pointed his finger in my face and asked, “Don’t you ever talk?!”  Up until then, I had not defined myself as “quiet.”  My earliest years spent climbing trees, hiking through fields, and gathering clay from the riverbanks of Nelson County, I felt perfectly at home with myself.  That is, until we moved to suburbia during the summer before first grade.

First grade was a real eye-opener for me.  Not having attended kindergarten prior to starting school, I had a lot to learn.  How to read, how to write (other than my first name), and how to make new friends.  Fortunately, an outgoing little blonde girl named Susan asked if I wanted to be her friend at recess on the first day of school and we stayed pretty tight all through elementary school. Riding our bikes to each other’s house, playing in the woods, and creating haunted houses in the upstairs’ bonus room over her parents’ garage.  At school, I remained fairly quiet and learned that teachers tend to like quiet kids, even earning the endearing nickname, “Lamby-Pie,” from my second grade teacher, Ms. Stout.  Unintentionally, I was well on the road to becoming a people pleaser.  It felt safe and comfortable at the time.

I continued-on into middle school and high school where I developed a nice group of girlfriends, all pretty quiet-natured, like me.  I loved my girlfriends and the fun we had together.  At the same time, I carried around this nagging voice in my head that told me I was too quiet and shy.  Everyone around me seemed to be more confident.  More fun.  In my eyes, quiet equaled boring.  It took a LOT of energy for me to put myself out there.  And while I was known for being a kind, friendly person, I mainly focused on the quiet part.  The part of me that I did not want to own.

As a young adult and into adulthood, I began to feel stuck inside a box.  A box that I named “QUIET.”  My spirit longed to bust out of that box and make itself authentically known.  I wasn’t even sure what it would  look like if I busted-out.  Would it be loud and crazy?  Cursing and saying whatever it felt like?  I hated the incongruency between what others saw from the outside (calm and peaceful) and what I actually felt on the inside (anxious and irritable).  I wanted this peace but without the cost of smothering my soul.

When my boy and girl started back to school one fall, I wandered into a free creative parenting class thinking that I would pick-up a few fun tips and wound-up embarking on a five-year journey during which, one by one, I ripped-down the walls that were squeezing the life out of me.  And you know what?  I didn’t go crazy or run naked through the streets!  After doing the hard work of  acknowledging my old stories and negative ways of seeing myself, I learned to sit with the uncomfortable feelings and then gently (and sometimes not so gently) release them through my art.  It is a beautiful thing, really.

For me, the final leg of this journey has meant embracing my quiet self.  After all those years of rejecting a huge chunk of my being, I am wrapping my arms around my gentle spirit and curling-up in its softness and warmth. And, that free-spirited 5-year old little girl who loved to commune with nature?  She is still inside me and always has been.  She might be quiet, but she is also joyful.  She is strong and compassionate.  She provides a sanctuary for other anxious hearts.  And she knows that the quiet nourishes her soul and serves God in the exact way that she is created.

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