Because I grew up in a tiny rural town, I spent a lot of time in my head. Not much was happening: the sun came up and went down, millions of stars lit the night sky, the palm tree grew, the chickens scrabbled for worms, lizards basked in the sun, my brother and I ran around naked in the mild summer rains, we watched out for snakes and scorpions. This was Cave Creek AZ in the late 1940s. Phoenix was 30 miles away (now it’s next door) on a dirt road. There were 300 people in Cave Creek, and none of them lived within view.
So I found activities inside my own mind. I watched the earth and its scrub plants, felt the sun on my back, petted the wire-haired dachshund when she was around — and daydreamed, either alone (mostly) or with my brother, who made up stories with me.
I’m now 71, and just realizing why I’ve always watched people who live in-the-world as if they were a different species. I live in my thoughts and give sporadic attention (as required) to “the world.”
Of course I get less done. My life is nothing to be ashamed of — it’s been interesting, reasonably successful, and it isn’t over yet — but I wonder what would have happened if I’d being “doing” instead of mulling, daydreaming, wondering, turning things over and over (like the fascinating patterns on a lizard’s back).
I’m sure the mental habit was reinforced by my position in the family: second child (less important), girl (less important), and aware that my greater safety and approval depended on being as non-intrusive as possible.
Anyway, at my advanced age I’m realizing I have this way of being, and I don’t have to. It’s familiar; it feels “normal;” but I want to get my books finished and published; I want to play the violin better; I want to move my body more.
Part of this shift in awareness comes from my odd but compelling urge to get Italian citizenship. My father was born in Trieste, and I’m applying to the Italian government on that basis. Lots of hoops to jump through, but the process means I’m reading a lot of documents about my father and feeling closer to him He went through various versions of hell — and, I’m realizing, he never complained. He was a do-er; each day was a new day, and he liked it. That’s where my brother learned it, and finally, I guess, I’m going to learn it, too.