If I Could Dig a Hole to China

I have rightfully earned the nickname “Quiet Dan.” I’m known to generally hang near the back of things and to keep my mouth shut. I prefer to listen to conversations than to attempt to interject my own thoughts. I feel no need to be the center of attention. Of course, anyone who knows me well enough knows that I’m fully capable of coming out of my shell (often with the aid of a pint or two). If I’m comfortable with my company and surroundings, I’m much more likely to participate in discussions. My sense of humor comes into play as well, as it tends to be at its best (which isn’t saying much) when I’m riffing off others. I don’t know if these contradictions make me a man of complexity and paradox, or if this simply makes me confused.

We’ve all heard the phrase “Still waters run deep.” I’d like to think that’s the case with me. I’d like to think that I don’t have time to talk because I’m busy observing people and pondering the world around me. I’d prefer to be known as the guy who doesn’t say much, but when he speaks, everyone listens. I want to be known for the profound wisdom only found in those who take the time to listen and observe. Unfortunately, I don’t have any evidence of any of this actually being the case.

There’s also an old adage that says something like, “Better to be silent and thought a fool, than to speak and prove it.” I’m pretty sure this is the saying that more accurately describes me. Silence became a defense mechanism for me as a child. I was incredibly sheltered, and many times as a kid in school I’d make comments off hand that would have everyone staring at me aghast. I would be promptly informed that people just don’t say those things out loud. Ever. I’d cower away, bewildered and humiliated. And in a community as small as the one in which I grew up, reputations don’t change quickly, even when they are no longer warranted. So I learned to just keep my mouth shut and try to disappear—at least disappear as best one could in a class of sixteen.

Silence then—for me at least—is the result of insecurity rather than wisdom. And I really am trying to bust my way out of this habit of quietness. I’ve grown in confidence so much over these last few years—honest! If you think I’m quiet and shy now, you should have seen me eight, four, even two years ago. But I still have so far to go. When I’m lacking confidence I still naturally retreat into my shell, though maybe not as far. In the past, if I was not feeling particularly confident socially, I would stay home alone. Now, I will go out, and merely limit my conversation to one-word responses if I’m not in the mood to push myself. Baby steps. Baby steps.

A funny thing happened, though, when I began to learn how to be more comfortable around other people. I began to become less comfortable on my own. I began to need the company of others in order to feel some semblance of normalcy. If I was alone too long, I’d feel like there was something wrong with me. And I’d begin to force things. My mouth would open a little more often, and a little more often I’d find my foot buried deep in it. What would I do then? I’d force myself back into silence. I’d retreat back into my shell, and I’d be right back almost where I started. It has really become a pattern in my life. (I’d call it a vicious cycle, but I hate that phrase.)

But looking back, each time hasn’t been full regression. It might have been ten steps forward and nine steps back, but at least I would net a step each time. This whole process of falling down and getting back up has at least gained me some ground over time.

By this point, I’ve made enough progress to have the confidence to reach out to new people in my community and attempt to get to know them, at least if I think we might have common interests (this is a fairly recent development). I have a desire to expand my circle of friends, and I’m finding it easier to do this. (I have to make sure, however, that I’m not basing my security and identity in the amount of friends I have. On the whole, though, I think it’s a healthy thing, and good for my self-esteem.)

So recently I began this process of trying to get to know a new friend. I’ll spare the details, but I completely ignored a major part of this individual’s personality, and ended up driving them crazy with my attempts at conversation and my honest interest in them as a person. I totally missed the fact that they were suffering from an acute case of Dan Wright overkill. They preferred solitude, and I continued to assume they’d want company.

Naturally, once I realized this I began to deride myself, and I had to quickly bring this under control. I wanted to tell myself that my personality was obnoxious, that I was being a jerk—and maybe this was partially true, at least from their perspective. But the truth is, I simply misinterpreted the situation and made a fool of myself. It was a forgivable error. I now understand them better, and myself.

Nevertheless, I still retreated into my silence. I had great respect for this person, and I’d just gone and made a fool of myself by opening my mouth. I felt humiliated (of my own doing), and I wanted to dig a hole all the way to China, where I could just disappear into anonymity.

But what good does it do to retreat? Yes, I did something stupid. Yes, this person probably thinks me a fool. Yes, it might take some time to repair my reputation with them. So what? I’ll just dust myself off and keep going. This is one more step I’ll net in the grand scheme of things. This is one more lesson learned. Failure makes the man, after all, much more than success does. How many people in the Bible blundered about long before they found success? Moses suffered eighty years of failure before he was ready for God to use him, and that was even still with much protest and trial and mistake. Paul had to overcome his shame at having murdered so many Christians before he could be used to speak truth and wisdom to a fledgling religion. Jacob had a full history of error and deception, and still God used him to father a mighty nation.

So, if I could dig a hole all the way to China, and disappear, would I? I’d probably try. But the dirt would get mashed up under my fingernails, and my hands would stream blood. I’d wear out, and ultimately give up. I’d learn the hard way that the best thing to do is just to lift my eyes to the stars at the mouth of my pit and climb out. Keep going. Keep netting that one step every ten. Failure makes the man.