yep. yep. yep. yep.

So, I got to thinking about personality types. I had already taken the Myers-Briggs test, based off of Jungian theory, but I thought I'd take it again to see if I've changed. Not so much. My results show that I've maintained ultimate flaky-ness. Last time I took it, I remember barely being introverted...I definitely do "charge up" in solitude rather than in a group, but I think I've become a little more introverted with age. My "intuitive" score is up, too. Ever the flaky-er.

I'm curious about what some of you are, so please tell me! Maybe I will just go tag your quiz-taking asses. My little blogger "link-maker" is somehow gone, so you will have to copy & paste:

http://www.humanmetrics.com/cgi-win/JTypes2.asp

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Anyways, here is me:

Your Type is...

INFP
Introverted Intuitive Feeling Perceiving
Strength of the preferences %
22 100 75 67

Qualitative analysis of your type formula
You are:
slightly expressed introvert
very expressed intuitive personality
distinctively expressed feeling personality
distinctively expressed perceiving personality

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Famous INFPs:

Homer
Virgil
Mary, mother of Jesus
St. John, the beloved disciple
St. Luke; physician, disciple, author
William Shakespeare, bard of Avon
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Evangeline)
A. A. Milne (Winnie the Pooh)
Laura Ingalls Wilder (Little House on the Prairie)
Helen Keller, deaf and blind author
Carl Rogers, reflective psychologist, counselor
Fred Rogers (Mister Rogers' Neighborhood)
Dick Clark (American Bandstand)
Donna Reed, actor (It's a Wonderful Life)
Jacqueline Kennedy Onasis
Neil Diamond, vocalist
Tom Brokaw, news anchor
James Herriot (All Creatures Great and Small)
Annie Dillard (Pilgrim at Tinker Creek)
James Taylor, vocalist
Julia Roberts, actor (Conspiracy Theory, Pretty Woman)
Scott Bakula (Quantum Leap)
Terri Gross (PBS's "Fresh Air")
Amy Tan (author of The Joy-Luck Club, The Kitchen God's Wife)
John F. Kennedy, Jr.
Lisa Kudrow ("Phoebe" of Friends)
Fred Savage ("The Wonder Years")

precision.

I've been thinking about this poem lately. It is one of my favorites---I am working on seeing people with "the eyes of the heart" instead of the eyes of our rushed, goal-oriented culture. (Working on seeing myself that way, too!) I think this poem speaks to this. It is a long-time favorite; sometimes it even brings tears--not spill-over. Just wells. :)

Read it. I love that Lee doesn't grasp the difference between persimmon and precision in the eyes of his teacher, but he really and truly grasps the essence of persimmon and precision far beyond her assessment of him. I wonder how often our culture misses the essence of life experiences, as we forge ahead with all of the technically correct answers.

Any Meyers-Briggs geeks out there? I think this poem also speaks to ENSP's/INSP's experiences...I remember becoming so obsessed with some creative projects in college that I would choose to turn it in late because I hated the idea of not making it as creative or as special as it was in my head-- My disregard for deadlines in interest of my obsession with the "essense" of my project got me into some trouble...I'm still working on that balance in some ways...okay, a lot of ways. :)

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Persimmons

In sixth grade Mrs. Walker
slapped the back of my head
and made me stand in the corner
for not knowing the difference
between persimmon and precision.
How to choose

persimmons. This is precision.
Ripe ones are soft and brown-spotted.
Sniff the bottoms. The sweet one
will be fragrant. How to eat:
put the knife away, lay down the newspaper.
Peel the skin tenderly, not to tear the meat.
Chew on the skin, suck it,
and swallow. Now, eat
the meat of the fruit,
so sweet
all of it, to the heart.

Donna undresses, her stomach is white.
In the yard, dewy and shivering
with crickets, we lie naked,
face-up, face-down,
I teach her Chinese. Crickets: chiu chiu. Dew: I've forgotten.
Naked: I've forgotten.
Ni, wo: you me.
I part her legs,
remember to tell her
she is beautiful as the moon.

Other words
that got me into trouble were
fight and fright, wren and yarn.
Fight was what I did when I was frightened,
fright was what I felt when I was fighting.
Wrens are small, plain birds,
yarn is what one knits with.
Wrens are soft as yarn.
My mother made birds out of yarn.
I loved to watch her tie the stuff;
a bird, a rabbit, a wee man.

Mrs. Walker brought a persimmon to class
and cut it up
so everyone could taste
a Chinese apple. Knowing
it wasn't ripe or sweet, I didn't eat
but watched the other faces.


My mother said every persimmon has a sun
inside, something golden, glowing,
warm as my face.

Once, in the cellar, I found two wrapped in newspaper
forgotten and not yet ripe.
I took them and set them both on my bedroom windowsill,
where each morning a cardinal
sang. The sun, the sun.

Finally understanding
he was going blind,
my father would stay up all one night
waiting for a song, a ghost.
I gave him the persimmons, swelled, heavy as sadness,
and sweet as love.

This year, in the muddy lighting
of my parents' cellar, I rummage, looking
for something I lost.
My father sits on the tired, wooden stairs,
black cane between his knees,
hand over hand, gripping the handle.

He's so happy that I've come home.
I ask how his eyes are, a stupid question.
All gone, he answers.

Under some blankets, I find three scrolls.
I sit beside him and untie
three paintings by my father:
Hibiscus leaf and a white flower.
Two cats preening.
Two persimmons, so full they want to drop from the cloth.

He raises both hands to touch the cloth,
asks, Which is this?

This is persimmons, Father.

Oh, the feel of the wolftail on the silk,
the strength, the tense
precision in the wrist.
I painted them hundreds of times
eyes closed. These I painted blind.
Some things never leave a person:
scent of the hair of one you love,
the texture of persimmons,
in your palm, the ripe weight.

-- Li-Young Lee

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