Some years ago, I think I was in middle school, I visited a reservoir in Upstate New York with Aunt Beth. We followed the path to the dam, where we could see the lake as well as the cascade. Water was gushing from halfway up the dam down to the river below, but at the top, behind the dam, the lake was still as glass. Beth pointed out to me the tiny stirrings, little whorls flirting, dancing, disappearing and reemerging on the water's surface. They were barely visible, lost in the noise and the presence of the waterfall. "You see those ripples?" she said. "That means that the current here is very strong."
Later, in high school, my English teacher read a story I'd submitted to the school's art and literary magazine. It was a stab at humor, and she read it with the right kind of amusement. "Wow, still waters run deep with you, kid."
I'd never heard that phrase before, "Still waters run deep," and I regarded it as a compliment of the highest order, as I do to this day. It surprises me, though, how often I fail to remember that the same applies to many other people as well.
I'm sorry for judging you too soon. You may not have realized it (or I hope you didn't), but all the same I wish I hadn't.