Introverts and Extroverts

Tonight, I finally left the house after almost four days. I have been very sick, so I have not been wanting to go out, but once I finally did, I felt a little more human. Since Cody will be gone for Valentines Day, we had a date early so we could still catch a little personal time before the beloved day. We went to a Hibachi grill. It was our first experience, and it was pretty neat. I enjoyed seeing the dexterity of our Hibachi chef, and I loved the food.

Our chef was either having a bad day or was a more pensive, no-nonsense personality because outside of smiling once when he tossed a piece of broccoli very far from my mouth, after challenging me to catch it, he cooked our meal very skillfully and bid us a good night at the end. However impressive his cooking skills were, I was feeling like the other chef was a bit more “fun”. He was joking with the guests and keeping them entertained even as he cooked. Then I thought for a minute about myself. Am I the fun type or the serious type? The answer is very easy…serious. I actually remember someone telling me in high school that they thought I was boring. Mean, right? After my experience tonight, I have to admit, maybe they are right. 😉

However, in defense of my own kind, however “boring” we may seem, there is depth and mystery to us. It is going to be harder to peg me into a category because I keep lots back, sometimes on purpose and sometimes because I don’t know how to reveal more. Serious people keep the “skippers” grounded and however “boring” that is, somebody’s got to do it! =) I may never be a center stage act, but I can keep the act running.

I do have a good time with people I am close to. My mom and siblings would tell you they can’t shut me up and that I am Crazy…with a capital C, but it generally takes me awhile to loosen up with everyone else. I am a very deep thinker who spends a lot of time observing. I certainly feel uncomfortable being the “life of the party” or the “center of attention”. When I look back on my closest friends, they have been people with few inhibitions. They pull me out of my shell and challenge me to take risks and “live a little.” I am grateful for those friends. My husband Cody is more “fun” than I am too, but he also has his shy moments. Thankfully for us, we are usually not both shy and awkward in the same situations. At least we don’t think so.

Which are you? The down beat or the up beat?

Whichever you are, own it and use it.

When I was a counselor at EFY (Especially for Youth: a weeklong spiritual camp for teens), I had a slight nervous breakdown after the first week. I thought I was the fun, energetic counselor that everyone was going to be so excited to have, but come to find out, I was quiet and reserved. I should have known that about myself, but I guess I didn’t because after that first week, I was ready to go home and forget it ever happened. My identity was shaken… The head counselor convinced me to stay another week and I am glad that I did. I embraced who I was and what I did know and tried not to worry about what I was not and what I did not know. I ended up having a good experience and seeing that I was best when I was me, boring, serious and corny.

Our first Habachi grill experience.

I’m glad you are you. I hope that you are all having good health and that lots of love is headed your way.

Best,

Lucy

I love John Milton, so here are two of his poems that relates to my post. Which of Milton’s poems do you relate to best…the L’Allegro (the brisk tempo) or the Il Penseroso (the serious man)?

L’Allegro

HENCE, loathed Melancholy,
   Of Cerberus and blackest midnight born
In Stygian Cave forlorn.
   ‘Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy,
Find out some uncouth cell,
   Where brooding darkness spreads his jealous wings,
And the night-Raven sings;
   There, under Ebon shades, and low-brow’d Rocks,
As ragged as thy Locks,
   In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.
But com, thou Goddess fair and free,
In Heav’n ycleap’d Euphrosyne,
And by men, heart-easing Mirth;
Whom lovely Venus at a birth
With two sister Graces more
To Ivy-crowned Bacchus bore:
Or whether (as som Sager sing)
The frolick Wind that breathes the Spring,
Zephir with Aurora pIaying,
As he met her once a Maying,
There on Beds of Violets blew,
And fresh-blown Roses washt in dew,
Fill’d her with thee a daughter fair,
So bucksom, blith, and debonair.
Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee
Jest and youthful Jollity,
Quips and Cranks, and wanton Wiles,
Nods, and Becks, and Wreathed Smiles,
Such as hang on Hebe’s cheek,
And love to live in dimple sleek;
Sport that wrincled Care derides,
And Laughter holding both his sides.
Com, and trip it as you go
On the light fantastick toe,
And in thy right hand lead with thee,
The Mountain Nymph, sweet Liberty;
And if I give thee honour due,
Mirth, admit me of thy crue,
To live with her, and live with thee,
In unreproved pleasures free;
To hear the Lark begin his flight,
And singing startle the dull night,
From his watch-towre in the skies,
Till the dappled dawn doth rise;
Then to com in spite of sorrow,
And at my window bid good morrow,
Through the Sweet-Briar, or the Vine,
Or the twisted Eglantine;
While the Cock with lively din,
Scatters the rear of darknes thin,
And to the stack, or the Barn dore,
Stoutly struts his Dames before:
Oft list’ning how the Hounds and Horn
Chearly rouse the slumbering morn,
From the side of som Hoar Hill,
Through the high wood echoing shrill.
Som time walking not unseen
By Hedge-row Elms, on Hillocks green,
Right against the Eastern gate
Where the great Sun begins his state,
Roab’d in flames, and Amber light,
The clouds in thousand Liveries dight;
While the Plowman neer at hand,
Whistles ore the Furrow’d Land,
And the Milkmaid singeth blithe,
And the Mower whets his sithe,
And every Shepherd tells his tale
Under the Hawthorn in the dale.
Streit mine eye hath caught new pleasures
Whilst the Lantskip round it measures,
Russet Lawns, and Fallows Gray,
Where the nibbling flocks do stray,
Mountains on whose barren brest
The labouring clouds do often rest:
Meadows trim with Daisies pide,
Shallow Brooks, and Rivers wide,
Towers, and Battlements it sees
Bosom’d high in tufted Trees,
Wher perhaps som beauty lies,
The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes.
Hard by, a Cottage chimney smokes,
From betwixt two aged Okes,
Where Corydon and Thyrsis met
Are at their savory dinner set
Of Hearbs, and other Country Messes,
Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses;
And then in haste her Bowre she leaves,
With Thestylis to bind the Sheaves;
Or if the earlier season lead
To the tann’d Haycock in the Mead,
Some times with secure delight
The up-land Hamlets will invite,
When the merry Bells ring round,
And the jocund rebecks sound
To many a youth, and many a maid,
Dancing in the Chequer’d shade;
And young and old com forth to play
On a Sunshine Holyday,
Till the live-long day-light fail,
Then to the Spicy Nut-brown Ale,
With stories told of many a feat,
How Faery Mab the junkets eat,
She was pincht, and pull’d she sed,
And by Friars Lanthorn led
Tells how the drudging Goblin swet,
To earn his Cream-bowle duly set,
When in one night, ere glimps of morn,
His shadowy Flale hath thresh’d the Corn,
That ten day-labourers could not end,
Then lies him down the Lubbar Fend,
And stretch’d out all the Chimney’s length,
Basks at the fire his hairy strength;
And Crop-full out of dores he flings,
Ere the first Cock his Mattin rings.
Thus done the Tales, to bed they creep,
By whispering Winds soon lull’d asleep.
Towered Cities please us then,
And the busie humm of men,
Where throngs of Knights and Barons bold,
In weeds of Peace high triumphs hold,
With store of Ladies, whose bright eies
Rain influence, and judge the prize,
Of Wit or Arms, while both contend
To win her Grace whom all commend.
There let Hymen oft appear
In Saffron robe, with Taper clear,
And pomp, and feast, and revelry,
With mask, and antique Pageantry,
Such sights as youthful Poets dream
On Summer eeves by haunted stream.
Then to the well-trod stage anon,
If Jonsons learned Sock be on,
Or sweetest Shakespear fancies childe,
Warble his native Wood-notes wilde.
And ever against eating Cares,
Lap me in soft Lydian Aires,
Married to immortal verse
Such as the meeting soul may pierce
In notes, with many a winding bout
Of lincked sweetness long drawn out,
With wanton heed, and giddy cunning,
The melting voice through mazes running;
Untwisting all the chains that ty
The hidden soul of harmony.
That Orpheus self may heave his head
From golden slumber on a bed
Of heaped Elysian flowres, and hear
Such streins as would have won the ear
Of Pluto, to have quite set free
His half regain’d Eurydice.
These delights, if thou canst give,
Mirth with thee, I mean to live.

Il Penseroso

HENCE, vain deluding joyes,

The brood of Folly without father bred,

How little you bested,

Or fill the fixed mind with all your toyes;

Dwell in some idle brain,

And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess,

As thick and numberless

As the gay motes that people the Sun Beams,

Or likest hovering dreams

The fickle Pensioners of Morpheus train.

But, hail, thou Goddess, sage and holy,

Hail divinest Melancholy,

Whose Saintly visage is too bright

To hit the Sense of human sight;

And therefore to our weaker view,

Ore laid with black staid Wisdoms hue.

Black, but such as in esteem,

Prince Memnons sister might beseem,

Or that starr’d Ethiope Queen that strove

To set her beautys praise above

The Sea Nymphs, and their powers offended,

Yet thou art higher far descended,

Thee bright-hair’d Vesta long of yore,

To solitary Saturn bore;

His daughter she (in Saturns raign,

Such mixture was not held a stain)

Oft in glimmering Bowres, and glades

He met her, and in secret shades

Of woody Ida’s inmost grove,

While yet there was no fear of Jove.

Compensive Nun, devout and pure,

Sober, stedfast, and demure,

All in a robe of darkest grain,

Flowing with majestick train,

And sable stole of Cipres Lawn,

Over thy decent shoulders drawn.

Com, but keep thy wonted state,

With eev’n step, and musing gait,

And looks commercing with the skies,

Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes:

There held in holy passion still,

Forget thy self to Marble, till

With a sad Leaden downward cast,

Thou fix them on the earth as fast.

And joyn with thee calm Peace, and Quiet,

Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet,

And hears the Muses in a ring

Ay round about Joves altar sing.

And adde to these retired leasure,

That in trim Gardens takes his pleasure;

But first, and chiefest, with thee bring,

Him that yon soars on golden wing,

Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne,

The Cherub Contemplation,

And the mute Silence hist along,

‘Less Philomel will deign a Song,

In her sweetest, saddest plight,

Smoothing the rugged brow of night,

While Cynthia checks her Dragon yoke,

Gently o’re th’accustom’d Oke;

Sweet Bird that shunn’st the noise of folly,

Most musical, most Melancholy!

Thee Chauntress oft the Woods among,

I woo to hear thy Even-Song;

And missing thee, I walk unseen

On the dry smooth-shaven Green,

To behold the wandering Moon,

Riding neer her highest noon,

Like one that had bin led astray

Through the Heav’ns wide pathless way;

And oft, as if her head she bow’d,

Stooping through a fleecy cloud.

Oft on a Plat of rising ground,

I hear the far-off Curfeu sound,

Over some wide-water’d shoar,

Swinging slow with sullen roar;

Or if the Ayr will not permit,

Som still removed place will fit,

Where glowing Embers through the room

Teach light to counterfeit a gloom,

Far from all resort of mirth,

Save the Cricket on the hearth,

Or the Belmans drowsie charm,

To bless the dores from nightly harm.

Or let my Lamp at midnight hour,

Be seen in some high lonely Towr,

Where I may oft out-watch the Bear,

With thrice great Hermes, or unsphear

The spirit of Plato to unfold

What Worlds, or what vast Regions hold

The immortal mind that hath forsook

Her mansion in this fleshly nook:

And of those Daemons that are found

In fire, air, flood, or under ground,

Whose power hath a true consent

With Planet, or with Element.

Some time let Gorgeous Tragedy

In Sceptr’d Pall com sweeping by,

Presenting Thebs, or Pelops line,

Or the tale of Troy divine,

Or what (though rare) of later age,

Ennobled hath the Buskind stage.

But, O sad Virgin, that thy power

Might raise Musaeus from his bower;

Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing

Such notes as warbled to the string,

Drew Iron tears down Pluto’s cheek,

And made Hell grant what Love did seek;

Or call up him that left half-told

The story of Cambuscan bold,

Of Camball, and of Algarsife,

And who had Canace to wife,

That own’d the vertuous Ring and Glass,

And of the wondrous Hors of Brass

On which the Tartar King did ride;

And if ought els, great Bards beside,

In sage and solemn tunes have sung,

Of Turneys and of Trophies hung;

Of Forests, and inchantments drear,

Where more is meant than meets the ear,

Thus night oft see me in thy pale career,

Till civil-suited Morn appeer,

Not trickt and frounc’t, as she was wont

With the Attick Boy to hunt,

But Cherchef’t in a comely Cloud,

While rocking Winds are Piping loud,

Or usher’d with a shower still,

When the gust hath blown his fill,

Ending on the rustling Leaves,

With minute drops from off the Eaves.

And when the Sun begins to fling

His flaring beams, me Goddess bring

To arched walks of twilight groves,

And shadows brown that Sylvan loves

Of Pine, or monumental Oake,

Where the rude Ax with heaved stroke,

Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt,

Or fright them from their hallow’d haunt.

There in close covert by some Brook,

Where no prophaner eye may look,

Hide me from Day’s garish eie,

While the Bee with Honied thie,

That at her flowry work doth sing,

And the Waters murmuring

With such consort as they keep,

Entice the dewy-feather’d Sleep;

And let some strange mysterious dream,

Wave at his Wings in Airy stream,

Of lively portrature display’d,

Softly on my eye-lids laid.

And as I wake, sweet musick breath

Above, about, or underneath,

Sent by som spirit to mortals good,

Or th’unseen Genius of the Wood.

But let my due feet never fail,

To walk the studious Cloysters pale.

And love the high embowed Roof,

With antick Pillars massy proof,

And storied Windows richly dight,

Casting a dimm religious light.

There let the pealing Organ blow,

To the full-voic’d Quire below,

In Service high, and Anthems cleer,

As may with sweetness, through mine ear,

Dissolve me into exstasies,

And bring all Heav’n before mine eyes.

And may at last my weary age

Find out the peacefull hermitage,

The Hairy Gown and Mossy Cell,

Where I may sit and rightly spell

Of every Star that Heav’n doth shew,

And every Herb that sips the dew;

Till old experience do attain

To something like Prophetic strain.

These pleasures, Melancholy, give,

And I with thee will choose to live.

( com = come; som = some; dore = door; ore = o’er; Lantskip= Landscape; pide = pied; Compensive = Come pensive)

Comments

Candace says

February 13, 2017 at 2:07 am

One word I would not use to deceive Lucy: Boring. Girl, you are not boring! Pensive and reserved at times, but definitely not "boring". Love your posts. I feel I've definitely become more reserved the older I get.

- Lucy Bowman says
  
  February 13, 2017 at 2:37 am
  
  Hi Candace! How is the furniture shopping going or just moving in? I LOVED to see your pregnancy update and picture. You are on the home stretch friend! Thank you for reading! And I sure am glad that you wouldn't describe me as boring! =)