A Sense of Adventure
I couldn't help wondering why my photo album isn't full of pictures of me dangling from a cliff in Montenegro or riding a camel in Cairo. Where are all my adventures? When I look at my photos, they are filled with flowers and rivers, horses, dogs, sheep on English hilltops and many, many thatched cottages. It made me wonder whether I have been missing out on the real beauty in life, the life that is lived out there.
Wanting to get out there and share the adventure with other people is something that I believe everyone shares. Even highly sensitive people feel a yearning to explore the world and to share those experiences with others. But the world can be an overwhelming place. Most HSPs are introverts, which means that we get energy from being alone, with our own thoughts. Being around other people, out in the world, while it may be fun, drains our energy. When we spend time in the world, we need to retreat to a place of solitude and quiet to recharge our batteries. It's often difficult for people to understand because they feel slighted, rejected or assume that HSPs are unsociable, shy, insecure, or just plain weird.
While spending time alone at home is often a relief and a necessity, it can seem like we are missing out on something wonderful. At least, that is my impression. That all the fun is happening out there, somewhere else, if only I would get out and socialise and, well, be like everybody else. It's an extrovert's world. The more, the merrier, as they say.
And yet I find that being alone for a few hours or even for a whole day is not lonely, but a sanctuary. Coming home after a stressful shopping trip last weekend, I sat outside in my garden by myself, reading my book, listening to Bach and sipping a glass of chilled Pinot Grigio, while little brown wrens played in the hedgerows. And it felt like a warm bath on a cold day, a sense of peace rushing through me in a feeling of euphoria. Ecstacy, I've found, can be a quiet thing.
The next day, I went for a walk in the countryside, wandering through woodland paths and following a stream into a meadow, climbing stiles and strolling across rolling green hills, where the sheep stopped to watch me and a cottage gardener waved, as if recognising me. On the way back, lines of trees on either side of a grassy lane formed an avenue and as the wind picked up, leaves from the trees showered down on me in a ticker-tape parade. There is clearly something here worth celebrating.