The Journey Inward

Earlier this month, my writing group met for a scrumptious breakfast at a Main Street bakery before we took an architectural tour of town, led by a prominent, local architect who has redesigned several of the buildings. We learned about the time periods, relevant history, and how and why certain buildings were converted to the style of the day. For example, many of the colonial homes became Victorian homes with the addition of porches and gingerbread and others became Greek revival with the addition of grand pillars. It was a fascinating day, but not without some controversy, as our town is in the midst of a revitalization project that this architect disparaged, much to the chagrin of the woman who sponsored the tour and serves on the historical commission responsible for the new construction.

Local drama aside, at one point we learned about a building on the opposite corner that had a non-working clock tower. The speaker wished the owners would have the hands reinstalled, even if the time would only be correct twice a day. And then he uttered these words that I immediately jotted down in my phone. He said that the structure had no real purpose when not a timepiece because it “did not communicate to the interior.” I think he noticed my head swing around to him, because he went on to explain that it did not allow light to the floors below.

I was smitten by his phrasing. Why did it resonate? Because it put a positive spin on a trait that for so long made me feel different, alien, “other,” and sometimes just plain crazy. I always knew that I felt and thought about things more deeply than my friends throughout childhood. I think my family might have, too, but it was never discussed, so it wasn’t part of our identity, which might have felt nice, but rather this “overthinking” and “overfeeling” (note the pejorative use of over) was something that set me apart, and not in a positive way. It always seemed like others were lighter, happier, relaxed, more open, and got over things way quicker than I did.

But with this sentiment, communicating to the interior, I felt a validation and confirmation of what I have actually been doing all these years. Unlike the defunct clock tower that neither tells time nor allows light in, I have spent a lifetime communicating to my interior. I have hurt, rejoiced, puzzled, reasoned, deduced, shared, listened, questioned…in essence, allowing light into my interior. I am a thinker and a feeler and I experience both strongly, boldly, and deeply. It is not always easy, but it has brought me places I couldn’t have arrived at any other way. Today, I am a stronger conduit than ever, frequently checking in with myself and making adjustments as needed, emotionally or physically, and I value this gift.

For some who are in pain, especially dirty pain, there is resistance to letting the light in. There is a pushing down of feelings, numbing, running away, living in denial. Consciously or unconsciously, there is little communication with the interior, but instead dark shadows that go unseen, unfelt, unexplored. When a bit of light makes it way in, the discomfort is too great and it is extinguished.

Those open to clean pain know that experiencing hurt in life is unavoidable. By communicating with their interior, they transform themselves, expanding from the growth and insight.

I learned a great deal on that tour, but that statement is what stayed with me for days and confirmed the work I have done since I was a little girl, trying to make sense of the world around me and my place in it. Once labeled and sadly self identified as an overthinker, I now embrace my willingness to dig in and heal the wounds inflicted in the course of a life.