A lesson in kindness...introvert style

By Lisa A. Eramo

You enjoy observing others.
You are much more comfortable listening than talking.
You usually need to think before you respond or speak.
You feel drained after social situations.
Other people give you more credit than you give yourself.
You are creative and/or imaginative.
You notice details that many people don't see.

What does this make you? It means that like me, you're most likely classified as the dreaded "I" word: INTROVERT. I say 'dreaded' because most introverts are completely misunderstood and oftentimes misjudged. Unlike the majority of extroverted society, introverts remain a mysterious bunch. We are the quiet thinkers who prefer to remain in the background and who would much rather be categorized as the 'people watchers' rather than the center of attention or the life of the party.

For me, what complicates matters is that not only am I an introvert, but I am also an INFJ, according to the Myers Briggs personality test. INFJs are the rarest personality type. In fact, we make up less than 1% of the total population. Being an INFJ means that I am nut when it comes to order and logic (I'm a self-proclaimed list addict!), and that my life is ruled by internalized conflict and criticism.

But who wants to dwell on the negatives? You could also look at the flip side of the argument, which is that introverts and INFJs are extremely warm, giving, and above all, creative. As a writer and editor, my personality type certainly comes in handy. When I interview sources, I'd like to think that I am an impeccable listener, that I ask thoughtful questions, and that I am sensitive to others' needs and opinions. As a writer, it means that I leave no stone unturned and that my stories are detailed, analytical, and balanced.

I was recently reading about the power of the introvert in The Introvert Advantage: How to Thrive in an Extrovert World by Marti Olsen Laney, Psy.D. The book has made me realize that introverts are very capable of offering unique contributions to society. We are the thinkers, the creative minds, the feelers, and the artists. We notice things. And if the introvert is like me, we write about what we notice.

For example, I was recently reading and writing at one of my favorite local bookstores. In between stories, I was doing what I do best: people watching. And because of my keen observation skills, I noticed another customer who taught me something about kindness.

I was sitting in the cafe section of the store with a my trusty laptop, a chocolate chip cookie, and a venti black iced tea to keep me company. I was surrounded by people--the perfect writing environment. As far as I'm concerned, the louder, busier, and more bustling the place, the more rapidly my creative juices start flowing...as long as I can keep to myself and hide behind the glow of my monitor, that is.

There was one man, in particular, who drew my attention. He was probably at least 80 years old, and his glasses falling off the tip of his nose. His shirt was slightly untucked from his pants, and his head shook slightly as he read. He was sitting in one of those comfortable overstuffed chairs reading a biography of some sort. However, like me, he kept looking up from his book to watch others pass by.

A younger woman sitting next to him unknowingly dropped a piece of paper as she voraciously read her book. The man slowly got up out of his chair and shuffled over to where she sat. He bent down to pick up the paper and handed it to her with a smile. This simple act initiated an introduction followed by a handshake, a conversation, and a few smiles and laughs.

What a wonderful exchange between two strangers, I thought. I continued to watch them engage in conversation while other customers swirled around them, ordering coffee, answering cell phones, booting up laptops, or throwing change onto the counter. I smiled and reveled in the fact that I was probably the only one who noticed.

On worn out shoes, running, and turning 30...

By Lisa A. Eramo

It was 1999. I was determined to run the longest race of my life: 9.3 miles of asphalt road, my pumping heart a compass to guide me. The Boilermaker (a fitting name considering its duration) was held in the sultry summer heat on July 11--one of the sunniest and warmest days of the year in upstate New York. There were throngs of observers to cheer us on, hand us cups of chilled water, and serve up oranges to hydrate our thirsty bodies. Race veterans would say that if you could get to the six mile mark, the crowd would carry you through the rest. They were right.

Upon the race's culmination, I was the 6,997th person to cross the finish line, a computer chip in my shoe lace marking the exact moment. I was 20 years old, my body still new and young, taking the road less traveled.

There were 7,359 runners that year. We each trained, toiled, toned, and taught ourselves to find a pace. Though I'd never been an athlete growing up, I was set on finishing the race. I practiced for months on winding country roads, a backdrop of farmland surrounding me. I ran along the Erie, watching suns rise and fall, the smell of freshly cut grass seeping into my skin.

I ran the race in honor of my Calculus teacher who'd passed away the year before from a brain tumor. He was most definitely one of the most brilliant persons I'd ever met.

Although I don't run anymore, I still feel that pang of freedom when I see someone else doing it. I become distracted by their muscles contracting and moving like pistons in a machine. I see their sweat leaving a stain on sun-ripened shirts. I see the look on their faces that says 'I am running away from fear--stand aside or join me.'

I thought about running the other day when I came across the pair of sneakers I'd worn the day of the race nearly ten years ago. I took them out of the closet and tugged at the laces still folded neatly in a bow. For the most part, the shoes still looked brand new--I'm not sure how. Only the bottoms showed their age, soles that were weathered and cracked from use. These shoes had carried and cushioned me, supported my flat feet and helped to soften the blow on my weakened knees. I felt a sort of love for them--for the care they'd showed me during that time.

This July, I will turn 30 years old. I will enter a new decade of my life. I haven't really put those shoes on at all since the race. They've remained in the darkness of my closet among other forgotten belongings. Yet their importance still speaks to me when I take the time to listen: You can do it, Lisa. You can do it.

Perhaps I will don them when the clock strikes midnight on my birthday. Perhaps I will lace them up and parade around the room or go for moonlight stroll. Perhaps I will start walking and never stop. Perhaps I will take a step for every year I've lived and one for every dream I still have. I will make this phase even better than the last and let my shoes propel me forward to the next leg of the race.