Showering with an Introvert

Standing naked in the shower after a hot day of biking on this tour, I tried to use one of the poles as a barrier to the mass of women mulling around on the tile. Laughter, bursts of conversation, and their contentment of their own bodies made this necessary bathing even more intolerable. I knew no one and was a true introvert.

I signed up for the ADVENTURE as I needed and wanted connection, to stretch myself beyond my zone of comfort, and yet, there I was - exposed and embarrassed. Why is shame an emotion you feel for being, what seems, the only one without a friend? 

I wanted to go home.

Memory – Middle School Group Showers. The physical education teachers lined a table by the entrance - waiting for the students to soap up and stand in front of them raising our arms and spreading eagle. They would make sure you soaped everything before we were let loose to rinse off and dress. BUT if you were on your period, you had to PROVE it to these women before being excused from the shower, then stand at the cold, wet sink basins for a "birdie bath" - washing up completely as girls came and went out of the room. At that time, shame, embarrassment, anger perhaps, and vulnerability, was intensified due to my being an introvert. 

Back in the camp shower, my poor exposed bottom, legs wobbly from the humidity, body burning with sandy sweat made the dread palpable, powerful and deep. I wanted to disappear. If I close my eyes, can I be invisible? 

Strange for me, this biking tour created in me a brutal exhaustion. Hours of biking over the years made me rather fit and healthy. But now, the chores of setting up camp, eating in a crowded and steamy cafeteria, and having an empty evening ahead to fill was overwhelming. As an introvert, you tend to lose energy in groups of people and am sure that was my issue.

I dreamed of home but the smell of DIAL soap burning my nostrils brought me back to the present in this sanctuary of young priestesses. How do you start a conversation with a naked bather? I almost laughed but remembered I was an introvert. 

I quickly pulled my wash cloth from the plastic bag and gasped as it plopped on the soapy and gritty floor. Knowing my next move was to bend over to pick up the cloth, I broke into a jittery mess. Best get to it, so in humiliation I exposed my cheeks to these teenyboppers to get the cloth and stuck it under my armpit as THERE WAS NO SHELF AVAILABLE.

Wrapping my hand towel around my body, I exited the tile floor only to run into a group of entering women. Scooting out to the lockers, my still wet body magically dressed in clean clothes, I left the building, holding my shoes, into the humid outdoors.

Group showers are the worst. Dislike, dread, dread, dread.

An Introvert Story. 

 

 

The Hardwood Walking Stick

All through my 30s onward, I’ve walked woods from the Appalachian and Smoky Mountains, along with the mountains, hills and valleys of Michigan - with a treasured hardwood walking stick I had discovered as it leaned against a tree. Its grasp was a perfect fit for my hands, the wood smooth and free of bark. What a find?

When resting, my stick leaned easily against a tree - my water bottle hung safely from a little nub near the top. I would lay out a special wool blanket - which was gifted to me from a priest-friend in the early 1980s. He was a peace-activist and purchased the blanket from a market crafter in Guatemala during one of his excursions. I loved that blanket - it traveled everywhere with me along with the walking stick.

The stick came into my hands when I found it leaning against a tree in an "Indian Cemetery" in a small town along Lake Superior's shores. What brought me to that place was what kept my Upper Peninsula grandmother and I close. We shared a nonfiction book, Lady Unafraid, passing it back and forth, reading it over and over. Upon her death, the book was given to me. The author wrote about this area from the 1800s during a time that Bishop "Father" Baraga* was traveling the region, visiting this Indian village on his route. She wrote about being a teacher to the Indian children , her experiences, concerns, travails, the beautiful views of valleys, the bay -- grandma and I adored the story. One year, mom and I visited this town and stopped at the cemetery to breathe in the essence of the entire area - to see what the author saw.

We slowly walked through the cemetery observing the care taken for the deceased with relics of their lives carefully laid around the burial plots: stones, pictures, work utensils. I was awed by the hush as we respectfully acknowledged each of the deceased. 

Large trees lined the perimeter but leaning against a hardwood tree within the grounds -- was the walking stick of my dreams. I had no clue the significance of this stick, only that the feel was so soft and sturdy, and it seemed to a random stick.

As I held the stick, a snake slithered from below one of the funeral huts making my mother scream and run from the area. I should have listened to her scream. 

On the 10-hour drive home, I was sick for the entire trip. 

Over the years, I matured and developed an understanding of Native Americans and their practices of honoring their dead. 

I felt the pull of my walking stick wanting to be returned to its home but kept forgetting to bring the stick with me to the UP - but do acknowledge that the connection between the stick and me had grown strong as my memories of adventures were entwined with it.

 Our family visited the cemetery years later … the tribal chief followed us down the dirt road to outside the entrance gate where he stood, patiently, watching us as we quietly walked around and even allowed for pictures. Asking some locals about his presence I was informed that the cemetery was being ransacked and tributes to family were being knocked down. The chief was protecting his people.

My heart ached with shame and guilt as I realized that I was ONE of those people who participated in this activity, too. 

Finally, and with the firm intention to return the hardwood walking stick "home" — our family, including cousins and an uncle, took the long trip along Lake Superior to the Indian Cemetery to humbly and with tears in my eyes, return it to the tree. 

Uncharacteristically, the chief did not follow us on this visit. I wandered around the grounds searching in my memory for the hut of the snake and large hardwood tree from where I took the stick. Change was evident in the cemetery - disarray, stones leading to the burial places were missing -- my heart broken, I found the tree where I took the stick in the early 1980s and, saying a silent prayer with an honest apology for my actions, and asked to be forgiven. I thanked the walking stick and spirits for letting me use it on my adventures and believe it carried these memories within its wood.

I placed this beautiful hardwood walking stick against the tree, where it seemed to stand tall and proud - it was home again.

(Please forgive my writing “Indian Cemetery” rather than Native American or Indigenous People Cemetery. I wanted to give the proper name, at times, but the cemetery was the “Indian Cemetery”.)

*Father Baraga (1797 to 1868) was consecrated to bishop in 1853 and was the first bishop in Sault Sainte Marie, Michigan. He was a missionary with the Catholic Church in northern Michigan along the shores of Lake Superior working with Ojibwe natives. Baraga was also known as the “Snowshoe Priest”.

Let me explain "who" I am

 If you were to ask who I am, I’d say that I’m an essayist focusing on life in Michigan, shared in this blog, but also a recorder of family stories shared through the years.

I came to love storytelling by listening to our family elders share their adventures in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan along with grand stories of life on the coast of *Lake Superior. Hilarious and colorful descriptions of the unique characters they met brought laughter - which just encouraged them to talk more. Cookies and milk, a seat on semi-comfortable couches, or splayed out on the hardwood floor were some of my favorite memories. 

I was enriched with the hours spent with my gentle maternal grandfather, affectionately named The Birdman of Small Acres Lane, by the local papers. We sat in his yard twiddling our thumbs, as he quietly shared his stories surrounded by flocks of birds brought in with bird houses and plenty of meal. 

Comic strip by Kim E. Perez

Writing down memories, stories, and experiences happens mainly in coffee shops and bookstores, although during the pandemic, my porch was my desk. Anyone who knows me, understands that I am always on the lookout for cozy places to piece together these essays. 

My ultimate joy is being outdoors, preferably in the woods, as whether I’m happy, down, troubled, stressed or contemplating a situation, a clarifying visit in nature is like a cool breeze on a hot day. A found bench provides a sitting post in which to bathe in the green and listen to nature, feels so much like I am participating in a Forest Bathing experience. I am then good to go.

I hope you find a glimmer of something positive if you are reading these blogs. Everything written is true -- at least that's what the family sailors and storytellers told me.

*Gichi-Gami (Great Sea) is the name the Ojibwe people called Lake Superior. The name Gitche Gumee was popularized through Gordon Lightfoot’s song, The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald and through the poem, The Song of Hiawatha, written by H.W. Longfellow.