Outside Versus Inside
We left the Hike & Bike Fair at dusk to discover that it had snowed in the course of the afternoon. The temperatures were just above freezing, and almost all of the snow had melted again already, leaving big puddles of ice water across our path.
There was a strong wind and I was not wearing any gloves. Since I had promised my son I would buy him a snack at the hotdog stall at the entrance on the way home, we waited in the draught. I soon felt my hands growing numb with the cold. We ate our hotdogs on the way back to the car, where my husband was dismantling the recumbent trike we had to take with us. By the time we got there, my hands were aching and so stiff I could barely flex my fingers.
I know this kind of pain. I feel it every time I plunge my hands into the freezer, and keep them there longer than ten seconds if I can’t immediately find some particular box or bag I’m searching for.
I couldn’t quite shake the cold, not even after my painful fingers thawed in our heated car on the way back. All I wanted to do when I got home, was immerse myself in a hot bath.
“Hot and cold are really an external influence for you, aren’t they?” my husband asked me. “For me, it’s completely the opposite: they’re internal.”
That is an interesting statement, moreover because it’s really true.
As long as he is active and moving, Chris is alright. He can cycle with his velomobile (carbon-covered recumbent trike) when it’s freezing, or work in the garden for half a day with a chilly wind blowing: he almost never gets cold. But lying in bed all night, quietly and without moving, will drain him of all his warmth and by dawn he will be cold and shivering, no matter how thick we pile the blankets.
I, on the other hand, will be accosted by the outside temperature, and have it influence my bodily warmth. Slowly sometimes, agressively at others. But once I’m cold (or too hot) all the way deep down to my core, it’s not that easy to shake the feeling and reach a more balanced level immediately. The opposite temperature will have to work its way through my layers for a while before things even out.
How fascinating, I thought. This might actually be a perfect metaphor for how we function emotionally.
I am unable to keep stuff out. People acting agressively, in emotional pain or from some other source of discomfort, will breach my boundaries very much like a train coming to a screeching halt will pierce my eardrums. It’s physically painful, and there’ s no way to keep it from penetrating if it catches you unawares. By the time you realise it’s happening, it’s already inside of you, and it is causing you pain.
I often had a hard time with my stepsons’ behavior when they were younger, because there was so much of that electrically charged emotional behavior filling our house, laced with every possible kind of acting-out. I tried never to blame them for it. But it was very hard to live with, because I was only able to keep their energy at bay when I was well-rested and very much aligned within my own core. And who can say that this is a default position? Sometimes I would count the hours until they were gone, while at the same time I wanted nothing better than to be a loving person they could trust.
My husband, on the other side, is very good at keeping things out. His walls are very thick, and very well-constructed. If he lets them down, he risks being flooded by all that comes in, more so even than me. So instead he has developed a knack of keeping stuff out, and that what lives within him, is what he uses for fuel. The moment he stops moving is the moment the world catches up with him.
I simply can’t stop marvelling at how intricate physical and psychological features are entwined.
And perhaps, one day, if we understand enough about ourselves and how we function, we will have an easier time dealing with the world we live in.
That would be nice indeed.
