My Happy Place

I am an introvert. Introverts tend to be more shy, quiet, and introspective. We are not the "go-to" people of government or business. We are not the Type-A personalities, who die of heart attacks at age 55. Introverts may die of heart attacks as well, but not because they have been hard driving. Perhaps they have been trying to carry too many books to their library or strained themselves by writing too many pages on their computers. Introverts may put in hard working days with lots of colleagues. They may be friendly and kind, efficient, even tenacious. But at the end of the day, introverts want to go home and be alone--perhaps listen to music, the "Humming Chorus" from Madam Butterfly," or read aloud with his or her significant other. They do not want to go to cocktail parties or dance the night away. They want to meditate or read or even snooze in their own living room.

Introverts may be seen as shy or snotty, even aloof. But no no no. That is not the case. It's just that we need our time alone. Think of how many times in the Gospels Jesus went off to be by himself. He needed time to refuel his energies. Introverts need time for contemplation.

That said, INTROVERTS ALSO NEED HAPPY PLACES TO WHICH THEY CAN RETREAT. Not Oz, for heaven's sake. We're sick of Oz. I'm not talking about a cabin in the woods, although it could be a real cabin. I'm talking about an imaginary or remembered place of happiness. So that when babbling gets to be too much for introverts, they can retreat.  This babbling occurs in business meetings, political conferences, academic conferences, and, yes, church meetings.

Louise has told the following story from her point of view. I will now tell it from my point of view. We were in a new ward or church. A young couple was assigned to speak, to "instruct" us. The wife stood first, introduced herself briefly, and announced, "I want to demonstrate prayer."

Now this is the moment when introverts need to leave. And I was packing my metaphorical bags as she continued. "So," she said, taking a deep breath, "Our Father in Heaven."

I feel Louise jerk up next to me. She has taken the full force of this exhibition of prayer, while I have ducked out, imagining myself strapping the canoe to the car and throwing in bags.

"I thank thee for my blessings," the speaker continued.

And then came what none of us expected: A voice came over the speaker system, loud, with a deep bass voice. We all know that God must be a bass, not a tenor, don't we? "What blessings are you specifically thankful for?"

Louise grabs my hand. "Where's God," she asks. "Where is he?" She's not looking for God. I know that. She's looking for the God mimic. "Did you hear that? she whispers. He wants to quiz her. He's throwing her gratitude right back in her face."

Meanwhile I have arrived at my Happy Place: Hogback Lake, deep in the woods of Northern Minnesota. The canoe is off the car, and I'm dragging it to the water, carrying my fly rod.

The praying woman speaks again, "Well, I'm thankful for my husband and my baby boy, Troy."

To which God replies, "What have you done to make your husband and your baby boy, Troy, happy? How have you shown that you are worthy of these blessings?"

Louise has now reached a pitch of near hysteria. "Where is God?" she whispers in a loud voice? Then her whisper almost sings as she says, "I see him. I see God. He's crouching behind the organ with a microphone." She jams her elbows into my ribs. "Are you listening to this?"

By now I'm out on the lake, the sun is setting, the reds and oranges and yellows of fall have almost burst into flame, and the loons are calling. Listen to the loons calling. 
It's a sacred sound: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4ENNzjy8QjU

I turned to Louise with a feeling of complete peace and said, "I'm in my Happy Place."

I want to show you, dear friends, my happy place at the end of a perfect day of fly fishing. The day is almost done, the loons are calling their love calls. The boats are quietly docked:

It's a perfect solution for any introvert. Maybe for every extrovert, who needs a break.