A soft, swirling mist lingered over the lake. A gentle breeze whispered, only to me, its secrets from ages past. Then, I heard it – echoing eerily through the pre-dawn stillness – the long, mournful wail of a Great Northern Loon. It was a sound felt as much as heard. A sound my soul has never forgotten.
As a child, I spent a lot of time by myself exploring the shores of Blue Waters Lake in Minnesota. It was a more innocent time then, a time when a young girl could venture off on her own without the fears of today.
I often walked the narrow, rock-strewn path down to the lake to watch the sunrise. I loved to sit on the beach in the early morning hours and just listen to the sound of the world before mankind made its imprint on the new day.
Those quiet mornings alone were times of magical discovery for me – cultivating my imagination, my dreams, my love of nature.
One morning, when I was about five years old, I watched as the colors of the sunrise began to paint the sky with delicate brush strokes of pink and orange and yellow. It was so beautiful! Then, out of the soft, swirling mist it came, its small red eyes, like rubies, faintly glowing. The loon’s drawn-out, doleful cry sent a wave of chills up my spine.
Not wanting the moment to be lost, I began to quickly sketch the scene in the sand with my fingertip. I drew and drew and drew! I drew the water, the sunrise, the loon – all of it! And, in my five-year-old mind’s eye, it was beautiful, magical!
I don’t know how long I had been drawing when someone touched my shoulder from behind. I looked up from the sand, startled, and noticed for the first time there were now about a dozen people on the beach with me. There were children running and laughing and playing in a whirlwind of activity. The woman with her hand on my shoulder looked at me with friendly, but concerned, eyes. “Why are you playing over here all by yourself? It’s okay. You don’t have to be shy. You’ll have more fun if you come and play with the other children.”
The woman’s eyes were filled with loving and caring intent. But her eyes were also filled with something else – a look that seemed to me to go beyond compassion to pity. When I looked in her eyes, I saw her heart reaching out to me, wanting to help me. But I didn’t understand why. I was having the time of my life! I was in awe of the delicate grandeur of the sunrise; enthralled by the haunting call of the loon.
Before I could say anything, the woman took my hand and guided me over to the other children. With the cry of the loon still beckoning me, I reluctantly joined in a game they were all playing. As soon as it was over, I ran at breakneck speed back to the spot that, just a few hours earlier, had been my own private paradise on the beach. The waves had swallowed up my drawing in the sand. The delicate colors of the sunrise had given way to the glare of the near-noontime sun. The loon had disappeared with the mist.
As I look back on that day, so many years ago, I see the beginning of a turning point in my life. While I didn’t understand it at the time, the word that began to define my life that day on the beach was this: introvert.
From grade school, through college, and into the workforce, a single word began to follow behind me like a loyal Pitbull – quiet.
Many of us are familiar with the basic personality traits of introverts and extroverts. But, did you know that at least one-third of the people you know are introverts? As a leader, or one who does leadership training, or simply as a human being, this is an important fact to consider.
Susan Cain, in her New York Times Best Selling book, “Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking,” suggests that “Introverts are to extroverts what women were to men in the early 1960’s – second class citizens with gigantic amounts of untapped talent.”
While Cain’s words may seem a bit dramatic, I do believe they hold a certain truth. Many of you may have uttered, or been on the receiving end, of phrases similar to these: “I’m sorry, my daughter is just shy,” or “You should learn to speak up,” or “He should be more social.” These comments, as with those made by the woman on the beach so many years ago, are normally made with good and kind intentions; however, on a subtle and deeper level, they seem to imply there is something wrong with a way of “being” that recent research suggests is, at least partially, innate and has biological roots.
In our group-think society, I believe the “Extrovert Ideal” has led to an unintended “Introvert-as-Unfortunate” mentality – one that business leaders and, society as a whole, may benefit from rethinking.
Consider, as does Cain, that many of humanity’s greatest innovations, and most profitable ventures – from the Theory of Evolution, to van Gogh’s Sunflowers, to the personal computer, to Chopin’s nocturnes, to Peter Pan, to Google, to Microsoft – came from introverts; quiet and cerebral people who preferred working, creating, and living, in solitude.
In the workplace, “Introverts thrive in environments that are not over stimulating – surroundings in which they can think deeply before they speak,” according to Cain. “This has many implications. Here are just two to consider: (1) Introverts perform best in quiet, private workspaces – but unfortunately we’re trending in precisely the opposite direction, towards open-plan offices. (2) If you want to get the best out of all your employees’ brains, don’t simply throw them in a meeting and assume you’re hearing everyone’s ideas. You’re not; you’re hearing from the most vocally assertive people. Ask people to put down their ideas in writing before the meeting, and make sure you give everyone a chance to speak.”
Throughout human history, the yin and yang qualities of extroverts and introverts have been debated. I believe each offers the world their own unique kind of beauty, richness and benefit.
As I reflect back on that early morning, nearly a half century ago, at Blue Waters Lake, I still get chills as I remember the long, mournful call of the loon. Unlike most birds, whose bones are hollow and light, The Great Northern Loons have solid and dense bones. The density of their bones makes their bodies heavy relative to their wing size, so they need up to a quarter-mile “runway” to take off from a lake. This extra weight also allows them to be powerful, agile underwater swimmers. They can dive as deep as 250 feet. Once below the surface, the loon’s heartbeat slows to conserve oxygen, allowing them to stay underwater for up to five minutes. Their ruby red eyes help them to see clearly underwater.
As a now confessed introvert, I think perhaps our natural affinity to quiet, to solitude, acts in a similar way to the extra weight of the loon, allowing us to dive more deeply into the rushing waters of humanity. And – not with ruby red eyes, but with reflective eyes – we peer beneath the surface, and offer a unique and valuable view of the world.
Look and listen carefully – out of the swirling mist of stillness may come wonders never before imagined.
“People are just as wonderful as sunsets if you let them be. When I look at a sunset, I don’t find myself saying, “Soften the orange a bit on the right hand corner.” I don’t try to control a sunset. I watch with awe as it unfolds.” ~ Carl Rogers