If I could have demanded anything
for my shy and wary child,
would I have begged God
make him less cautious?
Would I have wasted
a wish, a prayer, even a thought
on that part of my personality that I hate
and have come to
Make him less afraid.
Make him less
like me: petrified, wooden, shaken, sick to my stomach
Though I hate it about myself,
could I possibly hate this
How is this conceivable?
My baby, my flesh, my skin and bones
always crawling away from people
just like me.
I have learned, when the extroverted-overjoyed-inner-glowing-pastor says almost gleefully to
turn to our neighbor, I don’t immediately
run. I have learned.
Still, the bathroom is a cool, echoing, quiet and comforting place just then;
and I can hear
my heart exploding inside me. Blood pumping, rushing to all extremities.
The fear rushes about me, like pixies dancing, mocking,
When extroverted-overjoyed-inner- glowing-pastor says:
this is love
I may puke, not because I want to puke
mind you. (What kind of fool would want to throw up in church?)
when will church life be easier for introverts? And how to tell my kid,
that forcing him to attend Church events is virtuous?
It’s for your own good.
How? I’m thinking.
How? He’s asking.
This isn’t faith, I know. This isn’t my religion.
What’s an introverted mom to do?
Teach him to run?
The answer lies somewhere in between. Even
with programs bent on making you
your circle shaped heart into their
square pegged hole of a program.
Still, love wins
when you risk. And for us introverts, some days that’s
just showing up.