A Patient Heart

I am a creative soul. I thrive on both the act of creation, and appreciating the creations I am surrounded with--whether they are sculptures at the Tacoma Museum of Glass or the desolate beauty of the South Dakota desert.

Like this, but with colors, and a rattlesnake or two. Courtesy of Toothpaste for Dinner.

The other thing I am, quite often, is an introvert. Technically I am an ENFJ (emphasis on the E = Extrovert!) but I definitely "recharge" in solitude and tranquility, with lots of books and not so much human interaction. I try not to focus on this--I'm a person, I'm not just an introvert, and it doesn't keep me from functioning so in all honesty it matters very little. But, in some circumstances, it matters quite a lot.

Being both of these things (a creative semi-introvert) can cause me to be intensely critical of myself. Katie, you don't have enough warm colors in this doodle. Katie, stop staring at your phone (you don't even have texting!) and smile at that acquaintance who's walking by. Katie, write more sonnets. Katie, stop reading and make new friends. Katie, if you really loved sitting in a meadow full of daisies you wouldn't be so prone to getting ants in your socks. Katie, be this, do that, this isn't good enough, you are not good enough, blah blah blah blah blah.... 

We, as in human beings, are ALL our own worst critics. We are not patient with ourselves. We encounter self-hatred in myriad ways on a daily basis, in circumstances grandiose and mundane, so much that we don't even notice. And when we don't notice, we don't stop ourselves. We have patience with our friends and spouses and children (or at least we try) but for some reason it's simply too "weak" to be patient with ourselves. I am not patient with my creative self. I am not patient with my social self.

But this last weekend, I got to be both.

I went on my church's women's retreat in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin. This is terrifying on a few levels because women have always intimidated me more than men. I've grown out of that, for the most part, but I was a little anxious about the weekend.

 I was in a room with four other young women, three of whom I was already friends. When I got back to the room on Friday night they were all getting ready to sleep on the roof outside our window. Naturally, they invited me to go with them while they excitedly pulled on layers of socks and hoodies, and insisted that it would be worth it. 

Honestly, I had to fight myself to go out there. I thought, I'm feeling shy, and I'll have to spend the whole night with these girls. But, I know, I KNOW, that if I stay inside by myself I will feel immensely depressed and miserable. I will regret not going with them. So I climbed out the window, which took strain and stretching and twisting my body in ten directions at once, thinking that I would come outside just to "test the waters" and then make my decision. I wasn't pushing myself, or forcing myself to do or be anything just yet--I only knew I needed to try.

It was beautiful. The stars were in these textured clusters like a kid's sloppy glitter-glue art, and the air was cool and calming. I wanted to be there. By not forcing myself to think I had to do it, I allowed myself to want to do it.

The next challenge was getting five mattresses out the window, as well as getting myself back inside to get ready for an outdoor sleepover and then returning to the roof. But once we were settled in I was extremely grateful, to myself, and to my friends, for letting me be adventurous and intrepid. With friends on all sides we stared up at the sky, breathing in the autumn night and marinating in the glory of creation.

But there was one last thing I wanted--something I've always wanted. A photo of the night sky--and this sky, let me tell you, was photographically desirable by anyone's standards. So I whipped out my camera, because I was prepared and brought it onto the roof, and tried for half an hour to get a good photo. I took probably thirty pictures, on different settings, zooming in and out, desperately aiming upward in hopes that I could capture the night I'd given to myself.

In the back of my mind I could hear that voice, telling me to try harder, to be a better photographer with my unimpressive point-and-shoot camera, to be somehow more artistically skilled with this small, digital device. I pushed the belligerent voice away. I thought, if I just keep trying, it might happen. And if it doesn't, I still got to sleep out here, I will still remember the experience even if I can't show it to anyone.

And then it happened.

These photos don't capture even 1/100th of the beauty we saw that night.

Two photos. Seven shooting stars. One patient heart.