The Quiet Path
The Quiet Path
Can you pay for insight?
It's difficult to see differently. To know you are different. There's a deep desire to refuse this truth, matched only by an equally powerful urge to find others like ourselves. No one wants to be chosen last for the kickball team, but this is true - not all are good players. Learning you don't belong in a group cuts deep.
Hard truths create great people. Or, so I have believed my entire life.
If you walk the path of difference you also understand it is paved with both isolation and insight. Except insight comes at a cost, one most won’t pay. When you do pay the ferryman his due, others don’t believe you. This reveals their journey. Some rivers have, obviously, not been crossed.
Many creative minds throughout history have seen the world through unique lenses, often to humanity's profound benefit. Van Gogh saw swirling stars in static night skies. Temple Grandin's different perception revolutionized animal welfare. Their differences, while isolating, became their greatest gifts to the world.
Walking this solitary path, I've watched my perspective diverge from the mainstream in ways both subtle and profound. This change has nothing to do with the obviousness of P.T.B. agendas: false race divisions, voting choices, or even how to keep the bio-suit in good condition. You, dear reader, (I hope like me) are not interested in the obvious. The gap widens slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, until one day you realize you're standing on a different shore entirely and most of your friends have abandoned you. The first thought, to any rational mind, “am I wrong?”
The next thoughts, “Am I being logical? Am I the one who strayed off the path?”
Once, while I was in a week long workshop, we were asked to do a trust fall. The object was to stand on a ladder and fall backwards, relying on strangers to keep you from bashing your head on the cement floor. This wasn’t my first rodeo. I had fallen with trust before, but never at that height. This time, as a result of my questions, I could sense the group did not like me. My resistance to this fall wasn’t about anyone else. Do I cave to their insistence, replacing my will with theirs?
The group told me to go away and “meditate on it”. So, I did.
Upon returning, I still refused. That was when the group turned on me - even my husband and friends. I stood quietly and listened to their reasonings. During meditation I had paid the ferryman and saw what they could not.
This lesson has stayed with me for the last thirty years. I’m not always right, but the trick is, isn’t about being right. Oh, and make no mistake, this is a trick.
My ferryman dues brought these questions to the surface: Will the group be there in times of personal strife? What, then, will I rely on when the group is gone? Do I have an unshakable belief in my unseen connection?
For the past decade, I've increasingly embraced a stoic approach, keeping my unique viewpoint largely to myself. Like a pressure valve releasing steam, I've allowed these perceptions to emerge in controlled but potent bursts - often to my detriment. This measured restraint wasn't born from fear or reluctance, but from a thoughtful choice to observe and understand. My books have become bridges - careful constructions of words that might reach across the divide to others who see the world through similar lenses.
Yet lately, I've found myself questioning this carefully constructed solitude. Why do we, as different thinkers, creatives and oddballs feel that magnetic pull toward connection? What drives us to seek out others who share our unconventional lens on the world? Where do we find each other?
Maybe, it's not just about validation, but about the powerful alchemy that happens when different minds meet and recognize each other.
Being taught you're special is a concept that can become a mind virus, distorting self-perception and hindering genuine growth. I wasn’t given this delusion. Quite the opposite. I learned not all should be on the kickball team, the circumstance of life required us participate in the social order: all must earn and therefore must interact with others.
The quiet path isn't about isolation for isolation's sake. It's about finding the delicate balance between honoring your unique vision and remaining connected to the world you hope to understand, at least a little bit. How do I interact with others when the difference is vast?
I’m sorry to say, I don’t have answers. What I can say is that to lose your version of the world is to take a thread from the tapestry of life, muting the colors of this existence.
Perhaps, in reading these words, you've felt that subtle shift of recognition - that moment when someone else's truth mirrors your own. Perhaps you’ve paid your personal dues. If you've ever felt the weight of being different, of walking that quiet path alone, know that you've found a waystation here. A place where your unique way of seeing isn't just acknowledged, but you’ll find others to laugh with and shake your heads at the insanity of the world. In sharing these thoughts, I've opened a door, and in reading them, you've stepped through it. Welcome.