On being out(going), and hiding out
Last weekend, as I was loading up my car on Saturday morning at the end of a short visit to west-central Iowa, I stopped to take in the peace and beauty of my surroundings: a historic Iowa farm on what is now called the White Rock Conservancy. I was the last one there — or so I thought — from the cohort of writers who had spent the previous day in a mini-conference a quarter-mile down the road. Our leader, Julie Gammack, has a nice description of what we were up to, and the historical significance of the land. (Key word: Khrushchev!)
We’d had the good luck of ending up at this scenic setting during what was surely the sweetest spot in the spring, in terms of weather (not yet humid) and bug activity (not yet murderous). Everything was lush and green, and I was surrounded by gently rolling hills, gravel paths between pastures, puffy white clouds. Before packing up, I’d just walked a loop around the farm pond, where a few geese seemed to float lazily. It was heavenly, and I was a little reluctant to leave.
Just as I started to pull away, I saw someone approaching, possibly out for her own walk: it was Winnie, a fellow member of the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative. So I wasn’t the last one. I rolled down the window. “Hey!” I said. “I wasn’t sure if anyone else was still here!” (Our group had planned to have an informal breakfast gathering as the final offering on the agenda, but I hadn’t gone.)
“Oh, you should’ve joined us!” she said. “It was just us bitter-enders. A small group of us, and…” She smiled. “You know, it was just really special.”
“Aw, dammit. I wasn’t sure if the breakfast was on, or not,” I told her. “But in all honesty, I also kind of purposefully chose to stay here at my little cottage. I wanted to sit outside in the breeze and just take everything in.” (What I didn’t add was, “Even though I also did the same thing last night at dinner.”)
The evening before, after we’d wrapped up our last session, I’d admitted to Winnie that I wasn’t sure I’d be joining the group for dinner, even though the location and the host sounded amazing. I’d had a wonderful day learning and connecting with other writers, but was feeling a little bit “peopled out.” I made the same cheesy joke I often use when I’m trying to explain my begging off: “I might seem outgoing, and I am! But I’m actually fifty percent social butterfly and fifty percent hermit crab.” It’s the truth, but because I’m female and a Midwesterner — raised to be a pleaser and worry what others think of me — I feel the need to explain and apologize when I hide away.
Winnie was kind enough to affirm my choice and say she completely got it, but that at the same time, the group had missed me. We wished each other well, she headed toward the farmhouse where she’d been staying, and I made the semi-spontaneous decision to head in the wrong direction in order to check out the little town of Coon Rapids and get a cup of coffee.
As I drove away, I was glad that I’d had that interaction with Winnie; happy to have had someone to wrap up with, even if just in a brief shared moment. But at the same time, it was starting to wash over me: I’d missed the final gathering with the group! (And on the morning after I’d purposefully chosen to skip dinner with them!) I’d isolated myself at an event that I’d attended, at least in part, to connect with other people.
I had retreated from a retreat.
“For God’s sake, Alison, you live alone,” I thought as I pulled into town. “You can be a hermit 24/7.”
This is a reccurring theme with me: It’s a good thing pay attention to my inner introvert… right? It means I’m learning to honor what I need rather than going along just to oblige someone else.
But I worry that when it comes to honoring my own needs, I’m being selfish. (See: female, Midwestern.)
And how do I trust that I’m even honoring the “right” needs? Is my desire to stay home (or in this case, stay “in cottage”), coming from a higher level, i.e., I have been around people enough for today, and I’m choosing to soothe my spirit and soul with some quiet? Or from the part of me that just has an aching back and kinda wants to lie down for a little bit and take a nap?
These are the questions of a privileged person, of course. I had plenty of time to ponder them as I headed out in a leisurely way, because I didn’t have to get back for a Saturday or Sunday of shift work, or to care for anyone dependent on me.
But even as I recognize the wealth of space, solitude, and quiet time that my solo life affords me, I often struggle with realities that come with choosing to live this way. Like returning from a trip, even if it’s just been across Iowa, knowing that I’m heading home to an empty apartment.
One of the exercises we’d done at the retreat had us analyzing our Substack bios and trying to craft a pithy but clear description, one that quickly gives readers a sense of what they’ll find when they subscribe to our work. Still thinking about it as I drove into town, I found myself rhyming: “no kids / no spouse / so what is life about? /trying to figure it out…”
I didn’t end up changing my bio to those words, but when it comes to where I am in life, it seems like a somewhat fitting theme.
Memoir in Motion
After a few minutes, I locate Jenna’s, the same small business that had catered our breakfast and lunch at the previous day’s learning session.
At first I’m puzzled and a bit concerned to see a police truck parked right in the middle of the street. Has the officer run inside the local bank to respond to a crisis, forgetting in his haste to turn the siren on? Thankfully, I notice two more cars (civilian, non-police) parked in the middle of the street at the other end of the main drag, so I assume all is well. Maybe there’s some kind of parade about to start? But it seems no one is around.
Inside, though, I find I have to wait in line. As I wait to place my order, I tap Google Maps to review my pathway home to Davenport, which will have me passing through a string of tiny towns along Iowa 141: Bayard, then Bagley, then… Jamaica. (Yep. Jamaica, Iowa. Population: 195.) I have to wait a little while — Jenna’s is hopping on a Saturday morning! — so I do a little chant in my head as I check them off, because I like how it sounds rhythmically, like naming the ROYGBV colors of the rainbow: Bayard, Bagley, Gardiner, Granger, Grimes.
Later, as I head out to my car with coffee in hand, I realize I’ve forgotten to ask the barista what the deal is with the middle-of-the-street parking. Ah, well, next time. (Next time I happen to find myself all the way out in Coon Rapids. Or … Jamaica.) I start the trip home for good this time, making sure to set my Spotify to a great playlist, so I can create some soundtracking for this particular moment of my life.
As I settle in, driving in some of the most gorgeous weather possible, I start singing along to a beautiful song called “Snake Plant: The Past Is Still Alive.” Approaching Bagley, I'm greeted by a “Save the Babies” billboard. I pass a Sinclair station that has the name “Sparkys” in red over the door. I study and appreciate a massive but shuttered (I think) grain elevator. I get into the groove of the drive, loving the sunshine, the scenery, the opportunity to really reflect on what I’ve learned at this writers’ mini conference.
Though the trip was only a Thursday evening through Saturday morning, I realize how much I’ve benefited from the change of scenery, not to mention some time away after a particularly hectic stretch at work— time to just sit out on a farmhouse lawn, sometimes reading and sometimes doing nothing, purposefully leaving my phone inside the cottage, to simply enjoy a moment of peace.
I’ve come away having met some new people and learned some helpful tips.
But the other thing that seems to emerge, as I get on I-80, still singing along to every song that comes on, is something one of the members said when we were in a session. I’d admitted to the group that I get stuck in analysis paralysis. That I draft column after column in my head (or sometimes on the page) but don’t finish them. That I often refrain from sending out posts because I fret about clogging up subscribers’ inboxes. My sharing had been met with some playful joshing about how maybe I could try therapy. But in a moment of seriousness, the writer Bob Leonard offered this: “When you’re thinking about the stream of all that’s out there and worrying about whether you should add yourself to it…I just really don’t think you should censor yourself that way.”
It certainly wasn’t the first time I’ve been encouraged to get out of my own way. But something about that phrase, not censoring myself, is sticking with me. I say a prayer of sorts that it will help me move forward.
I’ve been singing along to my “Liked Songs” feed for hours. I go back and re-play that one song about the past still being alive, and I love how it feels to sing along to the soaring chorus, a line of which says: “Nothing can stop me now.”
You can sing along with me, too:
Thank you for reading the Inquisitive Quad Citizen, in which I tell stories (and ask questions) about Midwestern lives, including my own.
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I think you would be surprised at how many of us are out there! Or in here!! 😄
Alison, even though we are from different generations, I get you! I get so worn out when I am in public situations and just have to retreat for some alone time. I'm also an outgoing introvert.
A friend of mine had her wedding at that location years ago, and I just loved it. Beautiful.