the miracle emotional

I wasn't always what I am now. For a while I was a Social Anthropologist. I ran experiments and wrote observations in notebooks, sometimes I even drew diagrams. I read extensively on topics such as modern applications of first century pagan rituals; Madonna: ancient beliefs to post modern pop star with an ex husband or so. I was a collector of rare facial expressions and took a special interest in violent sibling rivalries in the late 20th century. I was 12 years old at the time.
In my mid thirties I've pared it back, thank goodness, to an odd tendency to wonder what the postal carrier listens to in his headphones as he delivers the mail and a puppy love for muscle cars or really, anything with a slant 6. In short, I've given up most of my junior high tendencies for a different kind of musing.

But the impulse is the same: I am still watching others for clues about who they are and why they are, say, kind or indifferent. Why you hold me at arms length or can't stop hugging me. When you tell me who you are I want to believe you. But this is difficult, arduous.

It requires organizing my thoughts in a way that would give Martha Stewart's staff a run for their money. Otherwise I'd just be a hoarder of experiences. Not healthy. How does one quiet her emotions to the extent required for this task?

If the goal here is to offer a helpful comment, a hopeful idea about the next challenge or a bona fide listening ear, then I have to create categories that don't truncate the meaning of a gesture or limit the definition of your smile. My study of humans has required a turn toward other animals and their habitats now.

How does one tame a lion heart? How do you teach a whale to hum when she wants to sing?
My only hope is in the fact that even mean dogs have to sleep; they need no training for this. They have to lie down and when they do we let them lie. They do not seem mean at all as they snore and whimper in their dreams. It's somewhat dishonest of them but it does create a balance. And the fruit trees that seem to blossom and shed their fresh petals sloppily like pubescent adolescents, the rivers that swell like the veins of a runner in the final mile, the vines reaching, climbing, clinging to hillsides like so many toddlers to their mother's limbs.

So the animal and wild nature of emotions in me that want to fight or fly do know how to rest. The fears climbing my windpipes, the tears welling up could very well follow the cues of the seasons-which is really to say they respond to the sun and moon or the earth spinning quietly.
So I am turning the observing eye inward and becoming able to slow the pace of conversations and keep ballast in the torrent of confusion just a little.

I've read that it's possible to understand emotions and manage them-both mine and yours. They call this process emotional intelligence. I call it a miracle of the human condition. That I could face a fear or forgive a friend in spite of my instincts to cut losses, turn and run is quite a wondrous idea.
Let's not pretend it isn't.
In the daily mess of life we are expected to make these little miracles happen and then pretend they are not miracles because they are constant-what a sad sad life that would be!
Well, I'm not in junior high anymore which is to say, it's expected that I have a good deal of this intelligence at my disposal. But that doesn't make it any less miraculous.
So there you go, permission to expect the miracles-but also the hope that you will celebrate each one. Thank you.