Let Your Inner Weirdo Out

I’ve encountered and known thousands of people. I’ve never met a ‘normal’. Everyone’s weird in their own way.

‘You're such a weirdo!’ was the first label I remember receiving. It was dished out by two older brothers, days before my 5th birthday. They wouldn’t tell me what a weirdo was so I ran inside to look it up in the dictionary. Our parents trained us to do this, it was a family habit.

I ended up agreeing with my siblings. It even thrilled me. I was a weirdo, a witch and quite pleased to be one.

Here’s the Merriam Webster definition I read all those years ago:

WEIRD [adjective] 1: of strange or extraordinary character 2: of, relating to, or caused by witchcraft or the supernatural: Magical

WEIRD [noun] 1: FATE, DESTINY 2: SOOTHSAYER

I continued on, reading the definition of WEIRDO: a person who is extraordinarily strange or eccentric.

This explanation applied to my brothers as well, so I ended up confused.

Today I decided to check out the Urban Dictionary, modern take on WEIRDO:

‘Someone who is different from everybody else but that’s okay because they're being themselves and they aren’t like the fake bitches you see nowadays. It’s okay to be a weirdo and if someone tells you otherwise…Tell them to shove a cactus up their ass.’

Wow! I realized 65 years had slid down the pike since I first checked out the term. This modern, graphic version not only summoned a burst of laughter, it made me cringe too. I had a butt ‘encounter’ with cactus spines once and can tell you I wouldn’t want them anywhere near my private parts, thank you.

Tender parts aside, there’s more than a grain of truth in the modern explanation of someone considered to be weird. I’m a person who outed her weird in childhood and never had a problem being seen as different. As a result, I’ve been a magnet for shy weirdos all my life. I’ve often wondered if there’s a stigmata on my brow, broadcasting how open to the weird I am.

Here’s my definition of WEIRD: Weird is a compliment. It means you have found your voice and feel free to express it. It is a sign of personal growth, autonomy and creative nature.

Most everyone I communicate with eventually ends up describing their own version of weird. They look at me semi mortified after their confession. ‘Was that too weird? I can’t believe I told you that! I’ve never shared it with anyone else.’

Oh, how I love these communions. I always hastily reassure them. ‘No, please continue, your story makes total sense to me’. It’s all the encouragement these wayfarers need to continue revealing their eccentricities. They are hungry for an open listener.

My practice in the healing arts provided ample opportunities for unlocking the weird in clients. Once they realized how weird I was, there was no hesitation and the dams spilt. They knew personal integrity was immensely important to me and I wouldn’t gossip about their weird. Trust was vital. I worked with a lot of couples and connected friends since my career was built on references.

I never advertised nor needed to. My schedule was always full, with a waiting list, although my rates were high. That’s an indicator of how many people longed to be accepted for who they are.

One of my favorite lines for clients was ‘You can share your weird freely here. I can assure you I am quite weird as well.’ This permission sent their stories streaming, sometimes to the point I had to shoo them out the door because another weirdo was waiting in the wings.

In honestly sharing our stories, we begin to comprehend we aren’t so weird after all. Many others have had the same experience or thought as yourself, no matter how bizarre.

We conjure a self-created myth about how people are perceiving us. It’s impossible to know another’s mind, but that doesn’t stop us from fantasizing we know how they feel.

Being a weirdo means you can relax this false vigilance. Stop being a cop, constantly policing your own beat.

A high profile client, a public figure with an image to uphold, summed up our sessions quite well. ‘I really enjoy coming here. You’re one of the few people I can talk to who doesn’t judge me if I say what I really think, instead of babbling false platitudes. Don’t tell my wife I said that, she might be offended.’

His wife was a client too and I had to restrain my eyeball roll. Nothing he ever confided was half as weird as what his wife came up with. I adored both of them, just because they were so kindly weird.

I had many spiritual experiences in childhood and adolescence. I was shut down pretty fast when I tried to talk about it. A typical moment occurred when I was 7 years old and lying in the grass with my best friend. We were both staring into the deep blue sky on a sweltering summer day. I falsely assumed she was astral traveling, like I often did.

‘Hey Vicki, isn’t it cool to go way up into the sky, then look back and see your body lying on the grass?’

‘What are you talking about? That’s so creepy! Are you pulling my leg? You’re so silly.’

‘Huh? Don’t you do that? Are you afraid to do it? The first time it happened to me was scary, but now I like it. I feel like a bird up there. It’s fun! I’ll teach you how.’

‘Don’t tell your mom about that okay. She might think somethings wrong with you. Never, ever tell your brothers either! And no, I don’t want to do it!’

She gave me a dubious look, making me wonder if we’d remain friends.

Global wanderings showed me how the concept of weird was societally and culturally defined. I couldn’t find a reference to weird the ten months I spent in India. Everything held weird potential there and it was openly played out on the street. The only difference was my western overlay, creating a kaleidoscope of a perpetual presentation of the weird.

After adapting to the culture, I didn’t find anything unusual or the slightest bit weird. It was simply India, a different continent, with values relating to the culture. Nothing weird about it or everything was normally weird.

Either way, it was a fascinating and stimulating country where I crossed paths with several mystics who shared similar versions of reality. They were members of the international tribe of weirdos.

If we lock up our inner weird, we will not uncover the unique gifts we can offer to the world. We’ll lack confidence in our ability to walk and act freely in the wholeness of we are. It’s so much more than we allow ourselves to express.

We try to fit ourselves into some ill-suited, preconceived structure, fruitlessly jamming square pegs into round holes. The more we open to our weird, the fewer fears we’ll project onto other’s weird. The richer the tapestry becomes, as we weave our own world.

The plague has certainly influenced our weird at home. Last week I had an in-depth conversation with my espresso machine. I was a barista many years ago and still make some pretty fine coffee. I have a fancy machine and was pulling perfect shots for two years until it broke down.

After a long, entertaining call with a company rep who relayed repair instructions for close to an hour, we both gave up. I lugged the monster down to UPS and shipped it off to headquarters for refurbishing.

It was delivered back in a claimed pristine condition and was still malfunctioning. I stood in front of my badly behaving machine and launched in on a possessed monologue. Fortunately, I was alone.

‘What do you want from me? I’ve done what I can. I even sent you back to the mother ship! All I want is some high quality, dark espresso and you produce this pathetic, watery brown dribble over and over. What the hell!’

Should I put the damn thing out on the curb with a sign, Worked for years, had a makeover. I remain clueless. Heave ho?

I was on track with this thought stream. I could feel my little grey cells perking up with new possibilities. Neurons lit, intuition began flowing. Inner weirdo was coming to the rescue.

I heard my machine speak, telepathically of course. ‘Pack my portafilter full to the brim honey. Tamp it to the max. Stand back and admire how my pressure gauge zooms into the espresso range.

’I’ve already done that’ I whined.

‘Well shut up and do it again, I’m willing to cooperate now.’ Was this the coffee Goddess speaking or the machine?

Instead of considering I might be losing my cookies, I paid attention to inner weirdo and tried a new batch of grounds. It worked! A gorgeous stream of double shot, deep brown, espresso crema flowed freely into my cup. Hallelujah!

I fluffed up my feathers in self-congratulation, relished my latte while feeling gratitude for small pleasures and hustled out the door for a vigorous morning walk. My machine, now regarded as little precious, has continued working like a champ ever since we had our ‘dialogue.’

Are you weirder than that? Maybe more, maybe less, but I’m betting you’re a weirdo too. Our weird is our muse, our magician, our alchemist and a vibrant link to our spirit. When it knocks, please have mercy on yourself and answer the door.

I leave you with knowledge of the greatest gift bestowed, after claiming and embracing your weird. Weirdos end up with very few regrets if any, at the end of life. That little secret is imparted to you from a lifelong, still going strong, bona fide weirdo.