by Marisa @ The Quiet One

Electric viola dreams

Daily Prompt: Tell us about something you would attempt if you were guaranteed not to fail (and tell us why you haven’t tried it yet).

Weeks before I was to enter third grade, my parents received a letter from my new intermediate school informing them that I would be required to take a weekly music class. I could choose to sing in the chorus or take up an instrument. Perusing the list of acceptable instruments, I formed a quick and inexplicable attachment to the idea of the viola.

“Why not the violin?” everyone asked me when I proudly showed off my half-size rented viola. “Everyone’s heard of the violin. Wait, what is a viola, anyway?”

I think it was exactly that air of mystery — that almost universal unfamiliarity — that drew me to the instrument. I didn’t want to be like everyone else and start my musical education on a violin. The viola was bigger, with a deeper and (in my opinion, anyway) much richer sound. Sure, when it came to orchestra arrangements we almost always played second fiddle (ha) to our smaller and shriller cousin, but we violas provided a musical backbone for the rest of the orchestra. Or at least that’s what my music teacher kept telling us.

The viola and I ended up getting along surprisingly well, and I continued with the instrument for a full decade. I started weekly private lessons in addition to my school lessons, my parents bought me a “real” instrument and I eventually joined about 87 different extracurricular orchestras. I found making music to be both satisfying and fun.

But so were other things, and as I advanced through high school my attention began to be drawn elsewhere — to the school newspaper, my paying jobs, my boyfriend. I stopped practicing nearly as much as my private teacher would have liked, and although I continued to participate in music-related activities, it became pretty clear that I wasn’t going to make a career of the viola. After graduating high school, I flirted briefly with the idea of continuing to play in college, but once I settled in Virginia I reached the conclusion that I was burned out from music. Over the next several years my viola case was tucked away under a series of beds and, although I would take it out and “noodle around” from time to time, I never again played it seriously.

Today, although I don’t regret not trying to go further with my playing (I can’t imagine having chosen a career path that doesn’t primarily involve writing), I still think back fondly to my time as a viola player and appreciate the incredible talent of those who have managed to make it their livelihood. I’m especially in awe of any player who has taken strides to make string music “cool” by playing the electric viola, which I think is one of the coolest things on the planet.

All of this is to say that if I were guaranteed not to fail, I would love to learn the electric viola and play as part of a rock band. I wouldn’t need to become famous — the band could consist of a bunch of grizzled 65-year-olds playing cover songs in a dive bar for all I care. All that matters is that I would be good enough to feel like a true musician and “wow” a few people in the process.

Of course, a few factors are keeping this particular fantasy at bay. One, I don’t think I have the drive to come home from a full day of work and practice the long, long hours it would require to whip me back into any sort of musical shape, especially since playing rock music on an electric instrument would require starting pretty much from scratch. Two, while I was a pretty decent player at my peak, I was never good enough to be able to improvise musically, which I believe is a pretty major part of playing in a band. And three, I’m not a big fan of putting myself out there publicly and I think I would require whole lot of Xanax to get me through every performance.

But a girl can still dream. As was inscribed by fellow alto clefs all over my high school yearbooks, violas rock!

Photo courtesy of ccho

05.14.13

by Marisa @ The Quiet One

I want to know what love is…

Daily Post: We each have many types of love relationships — parents, children, spouses, friends. And they’re not always with people; you may love an animal, or a place. Is there a single idea or definition that runs through all the varieties of “love”?

The easiest way to answer this question would be to copy and paste a dictionary definition of love and leave it at that.

love [luhv]
noun
1. a profoundly tender, passionate affection for another person.

Tack on “or place, or thing” and it sounds like Dictionary.com came up with a pretty solid, all-encompassing definition. But I’d argue that there’s more to it than that, and that there’s a better way to describe what love really means — whether it’s love for your husband of 35 years, your grandmother, or the goldfish you won at a carnival.

Try this on for size: Love is the deep, soul-enriching connection between two entities that continues to exist despite imperfections, differences in perspective and the stressors of life.

After all, love is easy when everything looks rosy — when there’s nothing to fight about with your spouse, when your child is perfectly behaved, when the town you’ve grown up in has the lowest taxes in the nation combined with the highest high school graduation rate. (Does such a mythical place exist?) But it’s when the going gets tough that love shows its true colors. Do you still feel that same affection — that same magnetic pull — toward someone or something when things aren’t perfect? For example:

…when you and your significant other are going through a rough patch due to [insert difficult life situation here: sick parent, financial issues, new baby, infertility, etc.]?
…when your “adorable” cat or dog scars your brand-new leather chair with deep gouges visible from 10 feet away?
…when the college you’d always felt was your perfect school suddenly makes a completely boneheaded decision that propels it into the national news for months? (Ahem…not that this one is based on personal experience or anything…)
…when the stress piles up at your job to the point where you begin to daydream of standing on top of your desk and repeatedly bellowing George Carlin’s Seven Dirty Words through a megaphone?

If your honest answer to questions like these is yes, then I’d argue that your love is the real deal.

Romantic, passionate love is great. But it’s not everything. It’s how you feel and behave in the face of the everyday grit — and shit — of life that truly speaks volumes.

As I’m feeling rather musical tonight, I’ll leave you with this:

You’re welcome.

05.07.13

by Marisa @ The Quiet One

My take on digital-age communication

Daily Prompt: How do you communicate differently online than in person, if at all? How do you communicate emotion and intent in a purely written medium?

For someone like me, the advent of electronic communication has proven nothing short of a miracle.

Being someone who tends to spend a lot of time inside my own head, I don’t always find it easy to untangle and translate the multitude of thoughts floating through my mind into spoken words — at least not in “real time.” Sometimes I need a few seconds or even longer to consider how I’m really feeling and the best possible way to express these feelings out loud. While I’m perfectly capable of carrying on a conversation, my built-in time delay means I’m not always the wittiest conversational partner, or the most active participant in an in-person brainstorming session.

Enter the Internet. I received my first modem and a subscription to America Online as an eighth-grade graduation present and quickly fell in love with the whole concept of Internet communication. On the computer my social insecurities fell away; I could use my flair for language to become whoever and whatever I wanted. I made online “friends” in other states and forged closer connections with actual people who went to my high school, including one guy who would eventually become my long-term boyfriend. I started an online ‘zine that gained several thousand subscribers and was responsible for landing me more than one writing gig for national publications.

Nearly two decades after dialing in to AOL for the first time (oh, my God), my love for all things online really hasn’t faded. In fact, it’s now grown to include texting and a select few forms of social media. Why? Simply put, as a general rule I’m better at expressing myself in writing than verbally. Online communication gives me the physical and mental space I need to share my views as effectively as possible. It allows me to spend a little longer considering what I truly want to say, without being concerned that my valuable ideas are going to get lost somewhere on the arduous journey between my brain and my tongue.

Of course, I realize that not every exchange can — or should — be had online. No matter how many eloquent words I might be able to slip into an email, text or Facebook post, my writing can’t always take the place of a good old-fashioned heart-to-heart discussion. I try my best not to let these digital filters get in the way of real human connections — but it sure is nice to know that on those days when my lips just can’t seem to form the right words, my keyboard is right there, waiting to pick up the slack.

05.03.13

by Marisa @ The Quiet One

A shower a day keeps the cobwebs away

Daily Post: Describe a little thing — one of the things you love that define your world but is often overlooked.

For me, when it comes time to slip from the warm embrace of my bed and face the day anew, there’s really only thing that can ease the jarring transition from blissful slumber to total alertness — and it’s not coffee. (Although coffee doesn’t hurt.)

Regardless of what else I may do in the morning (feed the cats, check Facebook, stare blankly into space), my day hasn’t started — hasn’t really started — until I take my shower.

Standing underneath that exquisitely relentless stream of hot water, I banish both the physical grime and mental cobwebs of the previous day, and I feel reset — as though whatever negative thoughts and emotions may have marred yesterday’s landscape have been obliterated, and my mind is newly clear. Maybe that’s why I (and millions of others, apparently) tend to do much of my best thinking in the shower.

Not to mention my unfortunate hair, which tends to become even more unfortunate after a night plastered to my pillow. Without my daily shampoo and subsequent blowdry, facing the public (especially on a workday) becomes a somewhat daunting prospect.

My morning shower is so ingrained in my routine that I often have little or no recollection of taking it once I’m out and wrapped in a towel. In that sense, I guess it could be considered an aspect of my life that’s both overlooked and taken for granted. However, on those rare mornings when I choose or am forced not to shower before leaving the house, I generally feel out of sorts for the remainder of the day. Dirty body and hair, tired eyes, fuzzy mind — just not right at all. So it would not be at all hyperbolic to call my morning shower a little thing with huge significance in my world.

So for all of you who shower at night to save time in the morning, I salute your efficiency — but I also don’t understand how you function the next day!

04.30.13

by Marisa @ The Quiet One

The worst form of torture

Daily Post: Do you feel uncomfortable when you see someone else being embarrassed? What’s most likely to make you squirm?

To put it bluntly, I’d rather lock myself in a room and listen to Kenny G’s version of “My Favorite Things” at top volume on repeat for three days straight than be forced to witness someone else’s embarrassment.

OK, perhaps that’s a bit drastic given that it only takes about three notes of any Kenny G song to throw me into a homicidal rage. Regardless, I’m wired with a strong empathetic streak — one that tends to come roaring to the surface whenever I watch a cringe-worthy situation unfold. Whether the person in question does something to embarrass himself or is unexpectedly embarrassed by the actions of a third party, you’re most likely to find me blushing on his behalf, averting my gaze and trying to pretend I haven’t noticed whatever is happening — even though I am most decidedly noticing every single horribly awkward second of it.

It’s the strangest thing. I could hate someone with every ounce of my being — to the point where I’d take pleasure imagining him flubbing the most important speech of his career or discovering he forgot to wear pants on a long-anticipated first date — but if one of these embarrassing events were to occur in front of me, it’s almost guaranteed that my initial reaction would be one of pity rather than glee. The same goes for any of those reality shows where “talented performers” often make idiots of themselves on stage. I watched the first season of American Idol religiously while in college (shut up), and whenever it became clear to me that one of the singers was doing a horrible job, I had to resist the urge to change the channel until they were done so that I wouldn’t have to bear further witness to their failure. This would happen even if I believed that a particular singer was awful and should never have made it on to the show in the first place.

I’m assuming all of this is a result of my overactive imagination, which often prompts me to think (too?) carefully about how others are probably feeling in a particular situation. It’s also frighteningly good at inserting me into situations I’m not actually a part of, compelling me to picture myself in another person’s shoes. My empathy sure makes me a great listener, but it also forces me to squirm in discomfort more often than most people realize. I’d call it both a blessing and a curse.

04.24.13

by Marisa @ The Quiet One

Double trouble

Daily Prompt: If you could clone yourself, how would you split up your responsibilities?

Perhaps unsurprisingly, my first instinct in responding to this question was to say that I’d create one clone of myself to go to work daily and at least one more to take care of all housework and other tedium, freeing up an abundance of time for the real me to do whatever the hell I’d like at any hour of the day or night.

But then I started thinking.

Sure, it would be amazing to sleep in every day (since I happen to be one of those people who has never outgrown the need for a lot of sleep), read as many books as I can get my grubby little hands on, and travel whenever the desire might strike. But I know myself. After a certain amount of time not learning anything new at my job, not contributing to my own savings account, not doing anything to improve my own house or yard, and generally not contributing to the betterment of my surroundings or society, I’m pretty sure I would start to feel unfulfilled. Slothlike. A shell of a human being. Personally, I feel that I solidify my standing as a productive member of society and therefore grow as a human being by carrying out all of those day-to-day tasks that aren’t necessarily fun but that signify my own ability to do something. For example, getting through the day at work means that I’ve succeeded at using my knowledge and talents to earn a certain amount of money. Emptying the litter box means that I’ve succeeded at taking care of (furry, adorable) dependents.

So here’s what I’d propose. I would not assign set responsibilities to each of my clones, thereby permanently robbing myself of the opportunity to learn and grow from those experiences. Instead, I’d reevaluate my needs on a daily basis. Generally I would go to work myself, but if on a particular morning I happened to wake up with a horrible headache or a pressing desire to spend the day sipping wine on the deck, I would have one of my clones attend work for me on that day only. If I found myself with five errands to run and only two hours in which to get them all done, I’d send a clone to run two of the errands while I completed the other three. Oh, and while I would continue to be relatively social, if there were a particularly odious event I felt obligated to attend (bridal shower on the first warm spring Sunday, Tupperware party any day of the week), you’d better believe my clone would go in my place.

See where I’m going with this? I would certainly take advantage of the additional help, but I’d also do everything in my power to prevent laziness, complacency and rootlessness from redefining who I was as a person. After all, we build our character by accumulating all kinds of experiences — not just the ones that involve lying on a beach in Tahiti!

Photo courtesy of Scoobymoo

04.17.13

by Marisa @ The Quiet One

The million-dollar question

Daily Post: Why do you blog?

I blog because I am, at heart, a writer. I don’t necessarily believe I’ll ever get around to publishing that novel I dreamed about throughout my childhood (although I’ll never say never), but I definitely do believe that I’ll always enjoy writing. So why not exercise my “right to write” by using the free digital tools at my fingertips?

I blog because I spend a large portion of my working days writing about industrial equipment. Don’t get me wrong — I love my job, and I actually do find it both challenging and rewarding to stretch my brain in this way. But blogging provides me with an after-hours outlet through which I have an opportunity to put a much more personal spin on my writing.

I blog because it’s a great way to blow off some steam. I’m not always so good at articulating my feelings, and as a result they tend to stew under the surface for awhile. While I make it a point not to air too many specific grievances on my blog, the simple act of pounding out a couple hundred words about whatever and clicking “Publish” is often enough to diffuse some tension and usher me into a much more clear-headed state.

I blog because I think it will be fascinating to read through these entries a few years from now and observe how much things have changed — and, if I’m lucky, how much I’ve grown as a person.

And finally, I blog because — although that aforementioned novel may never happen — I do relish the thought of others being touched by my words. If I know that even one person has been positively affected by even one thing I’ve ever written, I can call myself fulfilled.

04.14.13

by Marisa @ The Quiet One

My go-to list of introversion resources

Daily Prompt: Who doesn’t love a list? So write one! Top five slices of pizza in your town, ten reasons disco will never die, the three secrets to happiness — go silly or go deep, just go list-y.

Despite the title and subtitle of this blog, I try my best not to make introversion itself the main focus of my posts. My goal in starting The Quiet One was to write about various aspects of my life and consider how they may be shaded by the fact that I’m an introvert — but the last thing I want to do is hit readers over the head with my personality type so often that they cry “uncle” and promptly delete me from their RSS feeds.

Once in awhile, though, I do feel the need to turn the spotlight directly on introversion. After it, it’s still very misunderstood by many in our society (that is to say, extroverted American society), and the more that’s written to counteract stereotypes and shed light on the truth, the better. Today’s Daily Prompt has provided me with a prime opportunity to share a few resources about introversion that I read, follow and consult on a regular basis. Whether you’re an introvert craving advice and a community of like-minded individuals or an extravert seeking a better understanding of your quiet-loving friends and relatives, here is Marisa’s Top 5 Print and Online Resources About Introversion:

1. Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking. Susan Cain’s New York Times bestseller was released last January but is still making waves today, and I understand why. I read (well, more like devoured) the book when it was first published and found it to be an eloquently written and thoroughly researched manifesto for introverts and those who love them. The author also writes a (somewhat sporadically updated) blog, The Power of Introverts.

2. The Introvert’s Corner. Sophia Dembling is a prolific — and thoroughly introverted — writer who does an excellent job of expressing in her Psychology Today blog how she navigates day-to-day life. I often find myself wanting to give her a high-five when she writes things like, “There is nothing even remotely fair or kind about this, but when the people behind me on an airplane make friends and chatter through the an entire flight, I want to leap over my seat and throttle them both.” Also check out her Facebook page.

3. Social Introverts. This Facebook page is a veritable treasure trove of articles, inspirational quotes, and even pop culture references related to introversion. (Takeway of the week: Peter Dinklage, the dwarf from Game of Thrones, is an introvert.)

4. Shyness Is Nice. Another Psychology Today blog, this one tends to focus more on shyness and social anxiety — which are not the same as introversion but often go hand-in-hand. Psychologist Barbara Markaway offers some great tips on dealing with everything from job interviews to perfectionism.

5. The Introvert Forum. This is an outstanding gathering place for introverts to ask questions or generally speak their minds and receive support from others who understand where they’re coming from. Admittedly I’m not much of a forum commenter, but I do like to “lurk” on this forum once in awhile to see what others are saying.

If you have any additional introversion resources to share, please post links in the comments!

04.08.13

by Marisa @ The Quiet One

Spring has sprung

Daily Prompt: For many of us, winter is blooming into spring, or fall hardening into winter. Which season do you most look forward to?

When I first started looking at colleges, I had one overarching criterion: I don’t want to go anywhere colder than where I live now, and I’d prefer that the climate be warmer. (Of course, that went out the window when I sent in my applications to Cornell, Syracuse and Boston a few months later, but I rationalized that none of these were my top-choice schools anyway!) After learning to my total surprise that I had been accepted to Virginia, my parents and I loaded up the car and took a road trip down to Charlottesville during the first weekend of April. We left cold, windy, leaf-less New York and seven hours later arrived to…this:

The whole weekend at UVA was 70+ degrees and gloriously sunny, with trees and flowers blooming everywhere I looked. It didn’t take me long at all to decide that this was my college. I had been seduced by the architecture, the academics — and the weather. (The fact that we arrived back on Long Island to six inches of freshly fallen snow only further solidified my decision.)

That’s right, I am a sucker for spring, especially after a particularly long and cold winter like the one we’re coming off of right now. Give me 70-75 degrees with blue skies and a slight breeze, throw in some brightly colored flowers for good measure, and I’ll be a happy girl.

That’s not to say I don’t appreciate any of the other seasons. I love sitting outside on our back deck or patio in the middle of the summer, soaking up the hot sun along with a good book. But I burn easily and am a mosquito magnet, so the time I can safely spend outside in summer is somewhat limited. I also love the leaves in fall and all of the foods and drinks that come along with the increasing chill in the air — pumpkin, cider, roasted corn. But once October segues into November and the last of the leaves shrivel to brown, the sad knowledge that we’re in for a cold few months sets in. And winter — well, I’m not much of a cold-weather person, as you’ve probably already gathered. I’m a big fan of Christmas, but once December 26 rolls around I feel like going into hibernation until April. I have a feeling that Dan and I will eventually migrate somewhere with a somewhat warmer climate so as to avoid the worst of the Northeast winters (and no, NOT Florida).

Luckily for me, spring is finally starting to emerge around these parts after quite a protracted absence, and there’s nothing that could make me happier. Bring it on!

Photo courtesy of Vironevaeh

04.02.13

by Marisa @ The Quiet One

The little bunny that could

Daily Prompt: Describe an item you were incredibly attached to as a child. What became of it?

I was definitely a doll and stuffed animal kind of kid. There was Elephant Gerald, the fuzzy elephant who played “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” when you wound the key on his back. (My parents named him; the clever reference to the popular jazz singer was entirely lost on me until many years later.) There was Bunky, a floppy stuffed bear named after my parents’ first car. There was the inordinately expensive Samantha from the American Girl collection, whom I coveted for nearly two years before the tellingly large box appeared under the Christmas tree.

And there was Bunny.

When I was four or five, my grandmother on my father’s side crocheted me a simple finger puppet. It was a white rabbit with black eyes, a pink nose and a tiny puff of a tail. I’m sure she thought she was making something cute that I would play with on and off for a month or two until the next, more exciting toy came along.

Instead, she created a monster. A monster I named, appropriately enough, Bunny.

For the greater part of a year, Bunny went wherever I did. No mere finger puppet, she was instead my confidante, my constant companion, and the only toy I ever wanted to bring into school for Show and Tell. She went to bed with me at night and woke up with me in the morning. We ate meals together, drew pictures together, played pretend together. I even tempted fate by bringing her to my YMCA day camp over the summer, where other kids taunted me for refusing to let her go and a not-terribly-compassionate camp counselor once ripped her out of my hand and stashed her in a cubby hole too high for me to reach, informing me that I could only have her back when my mother came to pick me up. That was a very long day at summer camp.

The (in)famous Bunny. The grime was already creeping up her body by this point.

Over the months, Bunny evolved from bright white to dingy gray and began to unravel in spots, but I just didn’t care. I never wanted to let her out of my sight, and looking back I have a feeling there were two things going on. First of all, given that I was a pretty shy child, Bunny became a built-in friend to love me, protect me and boost my confidence, especially in unfamiliar situations. Second, Bunny had been created specifically for me by my grandmother, Grace, whom I loved dearly but didn’t get to see all that often since she lived in Florida. I think Bunny became, in a sense, an acceptable substitute for Grandma.

Eventually Bunny became grimy enough that she just couldn’t be considered cute anymore, and my attention and affections began to wander elsewhere. My grandmother dutifully crocheted a replacement, Bunny II (you can’t make this stuff up), and I did my best to form a bond with the second generation. But it just wasn’t the same — the finger puppet ship had already sailed.

I can’t think of a single other toy that ever made quite as much of an impression on me as the original Bunny. Over the next several years I cycled through the doll who peed and pooped herself, a series of somewhat creepy Magic Nursery Babies, the requisite Barbies and Kens and even Barbie’s nemesis Jem. But unlike most of the others, Bunny represented far more than something simply to play with. To this day, I remember the feeling of clutching her tightly in my hot little hand and being filled with the comforting knowledge that I was loved.

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