To Speak Volumes

It’s been a month.

Let me assure you that a period of silence from me is, generally, a very good thing.

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Last week, I betrayed my plan for a rest week to go find a friend on the trail. Someone I knew only though shared humor on the internet, whose face I had never seen, was touring the Katy after having taken the train to Kansas City from Flagstaff, AZ. I was off the back of three big training weeks and protecting my recovery, but my last-minute rationale tends to be “Well, I probably won’t die,” when an opportunity comes that may not again.

Despite not generally liking casual chat very much, I consider windows to meet people individually as too important to miss, if I can help it.

So I met him and his company outside of a dark cave trailside in the middle of the afternoon in a balmy Missouri midsummer. And while I followed the two barefoot riders with the hole in my bibs preventing me from looking too serious, my friend said something about my writing that I have only ever considered because a computer told me the same thing; you, dear reader, know me better now than I know most of you.

I still don’t understand the contrast between the ease I feel to share the deeply personal on the internet while so many don’t feel safe or capable of doing so even to the closest to them. We learned to build walls of plaster rather than glass. It’s inconsiderate, at best, to peek inside someone else’s drawers.

“Oh, that’s uncomfortable,” as they dump it into a crate, push the pile down with their foot, and slam the lit closed.

And then, “I’m doing well. How are you?” as your guest arrives.

And other disservices we do to ourselves.

But why is leaving all interior doors open the radical thing?

Because, allegedly, it’s inconsiderate to burden someone with the real story unless you have first earned it with pleasantries. Moving about unlocked is simply asking to be hurt.

And we slowly shut ourselves into our own home.

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Telling anybody how I really felt was the most dangerous choice when I was growing up, but I kept doing it. It defied survival logic, and there is no definitive explanation as to where I even learned to be so earnest.

The pattern continued to get me punished in adulthood, as I have described in essays like What Are You Looking at Me For? I think there is particular combination of me being a difficult person to read in a casual setting but incredibly willing to be direct when it feels warranted. The process has predictably gone from “she’s quiet,” to “she’s rude,” rapidly because nobody could see everything that happens in between.

All of the experiences, virtues, values, and personality traits that could make one known sit in that space.

I started to put that material here, where nobody could stop me midstream with their assessment of where I was going wrong, and now I am trying to wrap my head around why people I have barely spoken to happily greet me.

You’re talking to me?

The front door is wide open, but I won’t cross the street to yours because,

Oh gosh, I’d hate to impose.

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Recently, somebody close to me disclosed some reservations they were having. It involved me, and my stomach got that knot in it. I finished what I was doing, pulled up a chair, and asked them what was going on.

The conversation spooked me. It had potential consequences I wanted to avoid. I had vested interest in trying to influence their perspective to make me feel more secure in the moment. Instead, I just asked questions.

I need to understand how they are thinking.

They later told me they noticed that I got very quiet during that talk.

Right. Because this isn’t my disclosure, it’s yours. I cannot hear you if I am also speaking, so I won’t. But I’m right here.

After that, I spent an entire afternoon mulling everything over and I kept coming back to a single word they had repeatedly used that did not match the rest of what they were explaining to me, so I called to ask more questions. We found the root of the problem together, and the tension released.

At the end of that phone call, they said “I think you had me figured out before I did.”

Only because you allowed me to, my friend.

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I was a part of a large group one day when a person whom I’ve experienced to be pretty brief with their words stopped to speak on something personal to them. And as expected, they didn’t stay long.

I was behind only few people in the quiet bunch, and I could hear them just fine.

But that moment slowed down for me, for some reason. As I listened, I leaned my head to the side so I could look past the person in front of me and see the speaker’s face as they addressed us.

This is important. Pay attention, Genna.

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I would like to know some of my readers better. If you’ve ever felt compelled to reach out, the contact button is at the top right for that reason.