"Autobiographies of great nations are written in three manuscripts – a book of deeds, a book of words, and a book of art. Of the three, I would choose the latter as truest testimony." - Sir Kenneth Smith, Great Civilisations
"I must write each day without fail, not so much for the success of the work, as in order not to get out of my routine." - Leo Tolstoy
I have never believed that one should wait until one is inspired because I think the pleasures of not writing are so great that if you ever start indulging them you will never write again. - John Updike
"The life of every man is a diary in which he means to write one story, and writes another; and his humblest hour is when he compares the volume as it is with what he vowed to make it." - J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan
Poetry is the shadow cast by our streetlight imaginations." - Lawrence Ferlinghetti
[Note - If any article requires updating or correction please notate this in the comment section. Thank you. - res]
Lake District England | Panasonic AG-AC90 (Click 720p)
William Wordsworth, Poet
The Daffodils
William Wordsworth, 1770 - 1850
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A Poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
- William Wordsworth
Daffodils Song (Wordsworth's poem)
Daffodils by William Wordsworth | Music by Amanda Tosoff
On April 7, 1770, William Wordsworth was born in Cockermouth, Cumbria, England. Wordsworth’s mother died when he was eight—this experience shapes much of his later work. Wordsworth attended Hawkshead Grammar School, where his love of poetry was firmly established and, it is believed, he made his first attempts at verse. While he was at Hawkshead, Wordsworth’s father died leaving him and his four siblings orphans. After Hawkshead, Wordsworth studied at St. John’s College in Cambridge and before his final semester, he set out on a walking tour of Europe, an experience that influenced both his poetry and his political sensibilities. While touring Europe, Wordsworth came into contact with the French Revolution. This experience as well as a subsequent period living in France, brought about Wordsworth’s interest and sympathy for the life, troubles, and speech of the “common man.” These issues proved to be of the utmost importance to Wordsworth’s work. Wordsworth’s earliest poetry was published in 1793 in the collections An Evening Walkand Descriptive Sketches. While living in France, Wordsworth conceived a daughter, Caroline, out of wedlock; he left France, however, before she was born. In 1802, he returned to France with his sister on a four-week visit to meet Caroline. Later that year, he married Mary Hutchinson, a childhood friend, and they had five children together. In 1812, while living in Grasmere, two of their children—Catherine and John—died.
William Wordsworth, Poet
Equally important in the poetic life of Wordsworth was his 1795 meeting with the poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge. It was with Coleridge that Wordsworth published the famous Lyrical Balladsin 1798. While the poems themselves are some of the most influential in Western literature, it is the preface to the second edition that remains one of the most important testaments to a poet’s views on both his craft and his place in the world. In the preface Wordsworth writes on the need for “common speech” within poems and argues against the hierarchy of the period which valued epic poetry above the lyric.
Wordsworth’s most famous work, The Prelude (1850), is considered by many to be the crowning achievement of English romanticism. The poem, revised numerous times, chronicles the spiritual life of the poet and marks the birth of a new genre of poetry. Although Wordsworth worked on The Prelude throughout his life, the poem was published posthumously. Wordsworth spent his final years settled at Rydal Mount in England, travelling and continuing his outdoor excursions. Devastated by the death of his daughter Dora in 1847, Wordsworth seemingly lost his will to compose poems. William Wordsworth died at Rydal Mount on April 23, 1850, leaving his wife Mary to publish The Prelude three months later.
There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight
To me did seem
Apparelled in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore;—
Turn wheresoe’er I may,
By night or day,
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.
The rainbow comes and goes,
And lovely is the rose;
The moon doth with delight
Look round her when the heavens are bare;
Waters on a starry night
Are beautiful and fair;
The sunshine is a glorious birth;
But yet I know, where’er I go,
That there hath past away a glory from the earth.
Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,
And while the young lambs bound
As to the tabor’s sound,
To me alone there came a thought of grief:
A timely utterance gave that thought relief,
And I again am strong.
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep,—
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong:
I hear the echoes through the mountains throng.
The winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
And all the earth is gay;
Land and sea
Give themselves up to jollity,
And with the heart of May
Doth every beast keep holiday;—
Thou child of joy,
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy
Shepherd-boy!
Ye blesséd Creatures, I have heard the call
Ye to each other make; I see
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;
My heart is at your festival,
My head hath its coronal,
The fulness of your bliss, I feel—I feel it all.
O evil day! if I were sullen
While Earth herself is adorning
This sweet May-morning;
And the children are culling
On every side
In a thousand valleys far and wide
Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm,
And the babe leaps up on his mother’s arm:—
I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!
—But there’s a tree, of many, one,
A single field which I have look’d upon,
Both of them speak of something that is gone:
The pansy at my feet
Doth the same tale repeat:
Whither is fled the visionary gleam?
Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting;
The Soul that rises with us, our life’s Star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting
And cometh from afar;
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home:
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
Shades of the prison-house begin to close
Upon the growing Boy,
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,
He sees it in his joy;
The Youth, who daily farther from the east
Must travel, still is Nature’s priest,
And by the vision splendid
Is on his way attended;
At length the Man perceives it die away,
And fade into the light of common day.
Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,
And, even with something of a mother’s mind,
And no unworthy aim,
The homely nurse doth all she can
To make her foster-child, her inmate, Man,
Forget the glories he hath known,
And that imperial palace whence he came.
Behold the Child among his new-born blisses,
A six years’ darling of a pigmy size!
See, where ‘mid work of his own hand he lies,
Fretted by sallies of his mother’s kisses,
With light upon him from his father’s eyes!
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,
Some fragment from his dream of human life,
Shaped by himself with newly-learned art;
A wedding or a festival,
A mourning or a funeral;
And this hath now his heart,
And unto this he frames his song:
Then will he fit his tongue
To dialogues of business, love, or strife;
But it will not be long
Ere this be thrown aside,
And with new joy and pride
The little actor cons another part;
Filling from time to time his ‘humorous stage’
With all the Persons, down to palsied Age,
That life brings with her in her equipage;
As if his whole vocation
Were endless imitation.
Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie
Thy soul’s immensity;
Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep
Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind,
That, deaf and silent, read’st the eternal deep,
Haunted for ever by the eternal Mind,—
Mighty Prophet! Seer blest!
On whom those truths rest
Which we are toiling all our lives to find,
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave;
Thou, over whom thy Immortality
Broods like the day, a master o’er a slave,
A Presence which is not to be put by;
To whom the grave
Is but a lonely bed, without the sense of sight
Of day or the warm light,
A place of thoughts where we in waiting lie;
Thou little child, yet glorious in the might
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being’s height,
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke
The years to bring the inevitable yoke,
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?
Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight,
And custom lie upon thee with a weight
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!
0 joy! that in our embers
Is something that doth live,
That Nature yet remembers
What was so fugitive!
The thought of our past years in me doth breed
Perpetual benediction: not indeed
For that which is most worthy to be blest,
Delight and liberty, the simple creed
Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest,
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:—
—Not for these I raise
The song of thanks and praise;
But for those obstinate questionings
Of sense and outward things,
Fallings from us, vanishings,
Blank misgivings of a creature
Moving about in worlds not realized,
High instincts, before which our mortal nature
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised:
But for those first affections,
Those shadowy recollections,
Which, be they what they may,
Are yet the fountain-light of all our day,
Are yet a master-light of all our seeing;
Uphold us—cherish—and have power to make
Our noisy years seem moments in the being
Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake,
To perish never;
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,
Nor man nor boy,
Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
Can utterly abolish or destroy!
Hence, in a season of calm weather
Though inland far we be,
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea
Which brought us hither;
Can in a moment travel thither—
And see the children sport upon the shore,
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.
Then, sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song!
And let the young lambs bound
As to the tabor’s sound!
We, in thought, will join your throng,
Ye that pipe and ye that play,
Ye that through your hearts to-day
Feel the gladness of the May!
What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;
In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.
And 0, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,
Forebode not any severing of our loves!
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
I only have relinquish’d one delight
To live beneath your more habitual sway;
I love the brooks which down their channels fret
Even more than when I tripp’d lightly as they;
The innocent brightness of a new-born day
Is lovely yet;
The clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober colouring from an eye
That hath kept watch o’er man’s mortality;
Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
- William Wordsworth
Ode: Intimations of Immortality, by William Wordsworth
About the Author
William Wordsworth, who rallied for “common speech” within poems and argued against the poetic biases of the period, wrote some of the most influential poetry in Western literature, including his most famous work, The Prelude, which is often considered to be the crowning achievement of English romanticism. - poetry.org
Wordsworth's magnum opus is generally considered to be The Prelude, a semiautobiographical poem of his early years that he revised and expanded a number of times. It was posthumously titled and published, before which it was generally known as "the poem to Coleridge".[1] Wordsworth was Britain's Poet Laureate from 1843 until his death in 1850.[2]
Biography
On April 7, 1770, William Wordsworth was born in Cockermouth, Cumbria, England. Wordsworth’s mother died when he was eight—this experience shapes much of his later work. Wordsworth attended Hawkshead Grammar School, where his love of poetry was firmly established and, it is believed, he made his first attempts at verse. While he was at Hawkshead, Wordsworth’s father died leaving him and his four siblings orphans. After Hawkshead, Wordsworth studied at St. John’s College in Cambridge and before his final semester, he set out on a walking tour of Europe, an experience that influenced both his poetry and his political sensibilities. While touring Europe, Wordsworth came into contact with the French Revolution. This experience as well as a subsequent period living in France, brought about Wordsworth’s interest and sympathy for the life, troubles, and speech of the “common man.” These issues proved to be of the utmost importance to Wordsworth’s work. Wordsworth’s earliest poetry was published in 1793 in the collections An Evening Walkand Descriptive Sketches. While living in France, Wordsworth conceived a daughter, Caroline, out of wedlock; he left France, however, before she was born. In 1802, he returned to France with his sister on a four-week visit to meet Caroline. Later that year, he married Mary Hutchinson, a childhood friend, and they had five children together. In 1812, while living in Grasmere, two of their children—Catherine and John—died.
Equally important in the poetic life of Wordsworth was his 1795 meeting with the poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge. It was with Coleridge that Wordsworth published the famous Lyrical Balladsin 1798. While the poems themselves are some of the most influential in Western literature, it is the preface to the second edition that remains one of the most important testaments to a poet’s views on both his craft and his place in the world. In the preface Wordsworth writes on the need for “common speech” within poems and argues against the hierarchy of the period which valued epic poetry above the lyric.
Wordsworth’s most famous work, The Prelude (1850), is considered by many to be the crowning achievement of English romanticism. The poem, revised numerous times, chronicles the spiritual life of the poet and marks the birth of a new genre of poetry. Although Wordsworth worked on The Prelude throughout his life, the poem was published posthumously. Wordsworth spent his final years settled at Rydal Mount in England, travelling and continuing his outdoor excursions. Devastated by the death of his daughter Dora in 1847, Wordsworth seemingly lost his will to compose poems. William Wordsworth died at Rydal Mount on April 23, 1850, leaving his wife Mary to publish The Prelude three months later.
How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you are?
~Satchel Paige
There is a special kind of person in our world who finds himself alone and isolated, almost since birth.
His solitary existence isn’t from a preference or an antisocial temperament – he is simply old. Old in heart, old in mind and old in soul, this person is an old soul who finds his outlook on life vastly different and more matured than those around him. As a result, the old soul lives his life internally, walking his own solitary path while the rest around him flock to follow another. Perhaps you’ve experienced this in your own life, or have witnessed it in another person? If so, this article is dedicated to you, in hopes that you will come to define yourself, or understand another better.
The “Old Soul”
Robert Frost, Eckhart Tolle and even Nick Jonas have been called them. Perhaps even you have? I did. Like many of them, this self discovery was made upon meeting Sol, who told me about his childhood as a precocious, intelligent boy who would befriend the teachers instead of the students, just because they were too different from him. As he related his inability to find interest in and connection to the people his age, I discovered that I felt the same, and still do.
If you have not yet discovered whether you’re an old soul, read some of the revealing signs below.
9 Signs You’re An Old Soul
1# You tend to be a solitary loner.
Because old souls are disinterested in the pursuits and interests of the people in their age groups, they find it dissatisfying to make friends with people they find it hard to relate to. This is one of the major problems Old Souls experience. The result is … old souls tend to find themselves alone a lot of the time. People just don’t cut it for them.
2# You love knowledge, wisdom and truth.
Yep … this seems a little grandiose and overly noble, but the old soul finds himself naturally gravitating towards the intellectual side of life. Old souls inherently understand that knowledge is power, wisdom is happiness and truth is freedom, so why not seek after those things? These pursuits are more meaningful to them than reading up on the latest gossip about Snooki’s latest boyfriend, or the latest football scores.
3# You’re spiritually inclined.
More emotional old souls tend to have sensitive and spiritual natures. Overcoming the confines of the ego, seeking enlightenment – as modeled by the Awakened Souls – and fostering love and peace are the main pursuits of these young-in-body Mother Teresa’s. To them it seems the wisest, most fulfilling use of time.
4# You understand the transience of life.
Old souls are frequently plagued with reminders of not only their own mortality, but that of everything and everyone around them. This makes the old soul weary and at times withdrawn, but wisely dictates the way they live their lives.
5# You’re thoughtful and introspective.
Old souls tend to think a lot … about everything. Their ability to reflect and learn from their actions and those of others is their greatest teacher in life. One reason why old souls feel so old at heart is because they have learnt so many lessons through their own thought processes, and possess so much insight into life situations from their ability to quietly and carefully observe what if going on around them.
6# You see the bigger picture.
Rarely do old souls get lost in the superficial details of getting useless degrees, job promotions, boob jobs and bigger TV’s. Old souls have the tendency to look at life from a birds eye view, seeing what is the most wise and meaningful way to approach life. When confronted with issues, old souls tend to see them as temporary and passing pains that merely serve to increase the amount of joy felt in the future. Consequently, old souls tend to have placid, stable natures as a result of their approach to life.
7# You aren’t materialistic.
Wealth, status, fame, and the latest version of iPhone … they just bore old souls. The old soul doesn’t see the purpose of pursuing things that can be easily taken away from them. Additionally, old souls have little time and interest for the short-lived things in life, as they bring little meaning or long lasting fulfillment for them.
8# You were a strange, socially maladaptive kid.
This is not always the case, but many old souls exhibit odd signs of maturity at young ages. Often, these children are labelled as being “precocious”, “introverted”, or “rebellious”, failing to fit into the mainstream behaviors. Usually, these children are extremely inquisitive and intelligent, seeing the purposelessness of many things their teachers, parents and peers say and do, and either passively or aggressively resisting them. If you can talk to your child like he/she’s an adult – you’ve probably got an old soul on your hands.
9# You just “feel” old.
Before putting a name to what I felt, I experienced certain sensations of simply being an “old person” inside. The feelings that accompany being an old soul are usually: a feeling of world wariness, mental tiredness, watchful patience, and detached calmness. Unfortunately, this can often be perceived as being aloof and cold, which is only one of many Old Soul Myths.
Just as some old people describe themselves as being “young at heart”, so too can young people be “old at heart”.
Are you an old soul? I’d love to hear your stories below.
Beyond the unlit bound; There had gone out a star And a great world was drowned, Since birth and death and birth Were hers, upon the earth.
For she had robed anew Time and time out of mind; And, as the sphere of dew Unshapes into the wind, Her raiment oft had cast Into the wasting past.
There was no dizzying height She had not sometime trod, No dungeon known of night But she had felt its rod; The saint, assoiled from sin — And saint's arch-foe — had been!
At cruel feasts she sate, Where heartless mirth ran high; Through famine's portal strait Had fled her wailful cry; All human fates had proved, And those from man removed.
Yea, she had worn the guise Of creatures lashed and spurned — Even of those whose eyes May not on heaven be turned; No house too dark or base To be her tarrying place!
The Old Soul came from far; And, all lives having known, She nowhere touched a bar, But all was as her own: And this could none forget Who once her look had met!
The Old Soul came from far, Moving through days and ways That are not — and that are! She turned on all her gaze — Illumed, — deceived, — illumed; Yet still the road resumed.
The Old Soul came from far, And toward the far she drew. " Turn home, mine avatar! " That voice, long lost, she knew; She heard, she turned — was free — No more to dream, but Be!
Words can do incredible damage, but they can’t hold a candle to silence.
Often it is those words that have been withheld which leave the greatest scars upon us. It is in that terrible absence that we are dealt the harshest blow by those who claim to love us.
Somewhere along the line you were denied something you needed to live; something destination-altering and hope-giving that you deserved.
At some point on your path, someone should have encouraged you, but refrained.
They should have defended you, but did not.
They should have released you, but chose not to.
They should have said something—instead of nothing.
Someone should have told you that you were beautiful far beneath the surface, so that you didn’t grow up believing that you were defined by your waistline or by the scale or by the affection of someone else who may have cared far too little for you.
Someone should have told you that you were more than your worst mistake, so that you weren’t still imprisoned there in the spot of that momentary failure so long after it; still stuck trying to undo something that could never be undone and believing it made you less than.
Someone should have told you that God was not angry with you, so that your faith was allowed safe passage to grow and fearlessly move toward the One who made you and adores you without caveat or condition; the One who delights in you as you are.
Someone should have told you that it wasn’t your fault, so that you were relieved of the wasteful, crushing burden of what you were never meant to carry or deserve to still be saddled with; all the guilt and regret that unfairly declare you culpable.
Someone should have told you that you were a bona-fide, freakin’ miracle; a once in history collection of atoms and color and sound, so that you never doubted for a second your inherent worth, and the beautiful mark you’ve made in the places where your feet have landed.
Someone should have told you that you were forgiven, so that you didn’t cling to a vicious grudge against yourself which pronounced you dirty; so you were not tried for the same crime again and again in the court of your own head.
Someone should have told you that your sadness wasn’t a sickness, so you could have allowed yourself to grieve fully; to feel and speak the depth and breadth of your pain, instead of daily burying it beneath a brittle facade of okayness and pretending you weren’t devastated.
Someone should have told you that your best was good enough; that the honest desires of your heart and the diligent work of your hands regardless of the results, made your efforts successful. If they had, you may not have felt failure in anything less than perfection.
Someone should have told you that you were not what people said you were. That might have emancipated you from the expectations of a million voices judging you from a distance, which you believed as gospel. You might have found your identity independent of the shouts from the crowd or the cutting words of the critics.
Someone should have told you that you were loved as you were; not because of anything you did or won or achieved or made, but simply because you were lovable. It may have saved you from so restlessly striving to earn what you already deserved.
I can’t undo the brutal omissions you endured in the past, or the time you’ve squandered or the peace you’ve surrendered as a result.
I can only give you these words now, as a firm and steady spot to plant your foot and pivot as you begin again down another road, one with far fewer demons hiding in the shadows to ambush you.
So stop to listen to the whisper in your ear, that breaks the long and heavy silence and says that you are free. Feel the lightness that only love brings.
Somewhere along the road someone close to you should have told you all this, but they didn’t.
So you just found out you’re an introvert. Now you have a new way of understanding yourself and how you relate to the world. You can’t get enough of your new identity, so you’re reading every listicle and blog post about introverts that graces your Facebook news feed. Some articles describe you with frightening accuracy: you like spending time alone, you prefer calm environments, you often think deeply and reflect, and you’d rather text than call.
Yet other articles don’t resonate with you at all: you don’t sit home alone every weekend watching Netflix in your pajamas and you actually enjoy the occasional party. You start to wonder, am I really an introvert?
Bottom line: if you need downtime after socializing, you probably are an introvert. What you actually are is an outgoing introvert.
Introversion and extroversion are not black and white. Think of a continuum with introversion on one end and extroversion on the other. Some people fall closer to the introverted end, while others are near the middle. There’s actually a word for these middle-of-the-road people: ambiverts. An ambivert is someone who displays characteristics of both introversion and extroversion.
Are you an outgoing introvert (or an ambivert)?
Here are 10 signs that you might be:
1. Your energy level is closely tied to your environment. You’re sensitive to how your surroundings look, what kind of music is being played, how many people are present and the volume level of the room. The ambiance of a bar or restaurant can either energize or drain you, depending on if the place fits your preferences. Likewise, a loud rock concert in a crowded stadium might be overwhelming but an up-close-and-personal acoustic set at your favorite local music club relaxes you.
2. You find people to be both intriguing and exhausting. People watching? Yes. Meeting new people and hearing their life stories? Fascinating. Spending every weeknight hanging out with a different group of friends? Not a chance—as much as you enjoy people, you can only endure so much socializing before you need downtime. After a busy weekend or a long day at work, you feel the need to disappear and recharge by being alone or with just one other person (a best friend, a trusted roommate or your significant other).
3. Certain people and interactions drain you while others actually recharge you. You have a few friends who you could hang out with for practically forever. It seems like you never run out of things to talk about and being with them is just easy. You actually feel better after spending time with them, not drained. Other people eventually tire or bore you and you need to get away. Being alone is better than settling for second-rate company.
4. You can be charming but also deeply introspective and reflective. You make small talk when it’s expected of you because you know it can lead to deeper, more authentic conversation. People feel comfortable around you, and you easily get others talking and opening up about themselves. When you’re out on a Saturday night, you make sure your friends have a good time. However, most people don’t realize how “in your head” you really are. Although you appear easy-going and chatty, inside, your mind is always going.
5. When you feel rested and recharged, you reach out to others. Often you’re the one who gets all your friends together on the weekend. Or maybe you organize the weekly after-work happy hour or throw parties at your house. Playing the host allows you to socialize on your own terms. You get to set the parameters, like what time the event starts, where it will happen and who is invited. But when you’re feeling drained, like a true introvert, you go silent and hibernate at home. This is when the Netflix + pajamas thing makes sense.
6. You need time to warm up in social situations. But once you feel comfortable with someone, you have no trouble chatting. Likewise, you won’t spill your entire life story to someone within the first half hour of meeting them, but you will reveal personal details when trust is built up. The more someone gets to know you, the more your quirky personality (and your cherished inner world—the part of you that feels most authentic) comes out.
7. It actually takes less energy to say what’s on your mind than to make small talk. Introverts like talking about ideas or connecting authentically. Fake small talk bores you and drains your life force.
8. You’re selectively social. It’s hard to find people you click with, so you only have a few close friends. But you’re okay with that. You’d rather make your limited “people” energy count by investing it into relationships that are truly fulfilling.
9. You have no interest in trying to prove yourself in a crowd of strangers.“Working the room” isn’t your thing. Nor do you feel the need to draw a lot of attention to yourself. You’re content hanging out at the edges of the party, talking to just one or two people.
10. You’re often confused for an extrovert. Your friends and family don’t buy that you’re an introvert because you’re just so social. In fact, it may have taken a while for you to realize you’re an introvert because you play the extrovert so well. Now you find yourself constantly having to explain your introversion and how you get your energy, but people still don’t get it.
Keep in mind there’s no wrong way to do introversion. It’s all about understanding your needs and honoring your own style—even if that means being the life of the party one night then binge watching Netflix alone the next night.
Are you an introvert? What’s your personality type? We recommend this free, quick test from our partner Personality Hacker.
In the opening moments of Maya Angelou and Still I Rise, Hillary Clinton says it would be sad if the poet, thinker, and performer were only to be remembered for one thing, alluding to her classic work I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. But this documentary – put together by Bob Hercules and first-time film-maker Rita Coburn Whack, shows the varied, creative and often brutal back story that created one of America’s finest writers.
Starting with her upbringing in Stamps, Arkansas, the directors use Angelou’s unmistakably raspy narration to weave a story of abuse and neglect. Her mother leaves home, and a seven-year-old Angelou is raped by her mother’s new boyfriend when they are reunited in St Louis. After she tells people about the rape, her attacker is arrested and released before his corpse is found: seemingly, he has been beaten to death. It’s a moment that profoundly affects Angelou, who not only has to recover from the assault but also the fact that she now believes her words were responsible for his death. She decides not to speak for five years. The thought of Angelou being mute is shocking, not least because the film is so much better thanks to her voice. She could read a shopping list and make it thrilling.
Angelou finds her voice again when learning poetry – she reads every book in the black library. It’s from here we learn about her developing into a performer. She moves to San Francisco and begins a career onstage; she also gives birth to her son Guy Johnson (there’s an amazing moment when she describes losing her virginity and how underwhelming she found the whole process). Johnson steals the show. His accounts of their life together (and apart) are heartbreaking and tinged with anger. He talks about the time American entertainer Pearl Baileystopped his mother from being her understudy because she considered her too ugly. It was a decision that meant they’d be separated again because Angelou would have to go back on the road in a touring company. There’s a mix of fury and pride as he tells the story of Bailey getting a lifetime achievement award and choosing Angelou as the person who should give it to her. His mother did it happily, without mentioning the pain she had caused.
It’s their relationship that drives the action again as Angelou becomes involved in the civil rights movement, spending time with James Baldwin, Martin Luther King Jr and Malcolm X, as well as operating on the front lines of protest despite the dangers. Throughout everything she is outspoken and defiant, refusing to be cowed by past mistakes or indiscretions. The only times she is withdrawn is when discussing her son’s accident in Ghana, during which he broke his neck and almost died.
What Coburn Whack and Hercules do so well is capture Angelou’s power and elegance, which seems to have increased as she got older. An important figure throughout the 60s, in the 70s and 80s she developed into a maternal figure for black America, ushering in the period of Oprah and black female empowerment. It’s that longevity and creative drive that the film celebrates. No hagiography, it paints a portrait of a life lived to the full and dedicated to being true to oneself.
Maya Angelou was an author, poet, historian, songwriter, playwright, dancer,
stage and screen producer, director, performer, singer, and civil rights activist.
Maya Angelou was born Marguerite Johnson in St. Louis, Missouri, on April 4, 1928. She grew up in St. Louis and Stamps, Arkansas. She was an author, poet, historian, songwriter, playwright, dancer, stage and screen producer, director, performer, singer, and civil rights activist. She was best known for her autobiographical books: Mom & Me & Mom (Random House, 2013); Letter to My Daughter (2008); All God’s Children Need Traveling Shoes (1986);The Heart of a Woman (1981); Singin’ and Swingin’ and Gettin’ Merry Like Christmas (1976); Gather Together in My Name (1974); and I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings (1969), which was nominated for the National Book Award.
Among her volumes of poetry are A Brave and Startling Truth (Random House, 1995); The Complete Collected Poems of Maya Angelou (1994); Wouldn’t Take Nothing for My Journey Now (1993); Now Sheba Sings the Song (1987); I Shall Not Be Moved (1990); Shaker, Why Don’t You Sing? (1983); Oh Pray My Wings Are Gonna Fit Me Well (1975); and Just Give Me a Cool Drink of Water ‘fore I Diiie (1971), which was nominated for the Pulitzer Prize.
In 1959, at the request of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., Angelou became the northern coordinator for the Southern Christian Leadership Conference. From 1961 to 1962 she was associate editor of The Arab Observer in Cairo, Egypt, the only English-language news weekly in the Middle East, and from 1964 to 1966 she was feature editor of the African Review in Accra, Ghana. She returned to the United States in 1974 and was appointed by Gerald Ford to the Bicentennial Commission and later by Jimmy Carter to the Commission for International Woman of the Year. She accepted a lifetime appointment in 1982 as Reynolds Professor of American Studies at Wake Forest University in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. In 1993, Angelou wrote and delivered a poem, “On The Pulse of the Morning," at the inauguration for President Bill Clinton at his request. In 2000, she received the National Medal of Arts, and in 2010 she was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom by President Barack Obama.
The first black woman director in Hollywood, Angelou wrote, produced, directed, and starred in productions for stage, film, and television. In 1971, she wrote the original screenplay and musical score for the film Georgia, Georgia, and was both author and executive producer of a five-part television miniseries “Three Way Choice.” She also wrote and produced several prize-winning documentaries, including “Afro-Americans in the Arts,” a PBS special for which she received the Golden Eagle Award. Angelou was twice nominated for a Tony award for acting: once for her Broadway debut in Look Away (1973), and again for her performance in Roots (1977).
Angelou died on May 28, 2014, in Winston-Salem, North Carolina, where she had served as Reynolds Professor of American Studies at Wake Forest University since 1982. She was eighty-six.
Here is a great online help for any writer wishing to develop their craft and/or profession. The Main Home Page link will explain who and what the organization is and the Online Courses Link will direct you to the most current classes which are meeting. Enjoy! ~ R.E. Slater
