On The Fine Art of Listening

Last night on the train I read Tell Me More On The Fine Art of Listening by Brenda Ueland. It's assigned reading for my ESL teacher trainer course, and I certainly didn't expect the jewel that I received, but I'm thrilled because it gives voice to an idea that pulls together so many of my recent thoughts.

First, some excerpts, so you will be able to follow my rambling.

"I want to write about the great and powerful thing that listening is. And how we forget it. And how we don't listen to our children, or those we love. And least of all--which is so important too--to those we do not love. But we should. Because listening is a magnetic and strange thing, a creative force. Think how the friends that really listen to us are the ones we move toward, and we want to sit in their radius as though it did us good, like ultraviolet rays.

This is the reason: When we are listened to, it creates us, makes us unfold and expand. Ideas actually begin to grow within us and come to life. You know how if a person laughs at your jokes you become funnier and funnier, and if he does not, every tiny little joke in you weakens up and dies. Well, that is the principle of it. It makes people happy and free when they are listened to. And if you are a listener, it is the secret of having a good time in society (because everybody around you becomes lively and interesting), of comforting people, of doing them good.
...
When we listen to people there is an alternating current, and this recharges us so that we never get tired of each other. We are constantly being re-created. Now there are brilliant people who cannot listen much. They have no ingoing wires on their apparatus. They are entertaining, but exhausting, too. I think it is because these lecturers, these brilliant performers, by not giving us a chance to talk, do not let us express our thoughts and expand; and it is this little creative fountain inside us that begins to spring and cast up new thoughts, and unexpected laughter and wisdom. That is why, when someone has listened to you, you go home rested and lighthearted.

Now this little creative fountain is in us all. It is the spirit, or the intelligence, or the imagination--whatever you want to call it. If you are very tired, strained, have no solitude, run too many errands, talk to too many people, drink too many cocktails, this little fountain is muddied over and covered with a lot of debris. The result is you stop living from the center, the creative fountain, and you live from the periphery, from the externals. That is, you go along on mere willpower without imagination.

It is when people really listen to us, with quiet fascinated attention, that the little fountain begins to work again, to accelerate in the most surprising way.

I discovered all this about three years ago, and truly it made a revolutionary change in my life. Before that, when I went to a party I would think anxiously, "Now try hard. Be lively. Say bright things. Talk. Don't let down." And when tired, I would have to drink a lot of coffee to keep this up.

Now before going to a party I just tell myself to listen with affection to anyone who talks to me, to be in their shoes when they talk; to try to know them without my mind pressing against theirs, or arguing, or changing the subject. No. My attitude is, "Tell me more. This person is showing me his soul. It is a little dry and meager and full of grinding talk just now, but presently he will begin to think, not just automatically to talk. He will show his true self. Then he will be wonderfully alive."
...
She goes on to talk about how she thinks women have this faculty more than men and why she thinks this might be. She also gives an example of how she couldn't appreciate her own father when he was an old man because he couldn't listen and she wasn't patient enough to listen to him well. And then later, she spent time with another old man. A friend of her father's and she experimented with listening to him with great effort. It took a few days, but he did start to ask her questions, and he trusted her because she had listened for so long, and eventually she helped him to heal a broken relationship with his family by teaching him to listen. OK, back to her words.
...
"But the most serious result of not listening is that worst thing in the world, boredom; for it is really the death of love. It seals people off from each other more than any other thing. I think that is why married people quarrel. It is to cut through the non-conduction and boredom. Because when feelings are hurt, they really begin to listen. At last their talk is a real exchange. But of course, they are injuring their marriage forever.
...
And so try listening. Listen to your wife, your husband, your father, your mother, your children, your friends, to those who love you and those who don't, to those who bore you, to your enemies. It will work a small miracle. And perhaps a great one."
--Brenda Ueland from the book Strength to Your Sword Arm

This idea struck me so powerfully, because I've been thinking about the storytelling experience of last week. I've been reflecting on the power of the exchange. Seven of the eight stories I heard were personal. People shared moments from their lives that they might mention to friends. However, the experience felt sacred. I think this is in part because the storytellers took the time to reflect and craft the story. But I also think it's because the audience sat around and listened with rapt attention and delight. We leaned into those people and coaxed out their stories. There was an unspoken exchange. The storyteller was saying, "there's meaning in my life, and I want to share with you one slice of that." And we the audience were responding, "there is meaning in your life! Thank you for bringing it to my attention."

But I also loved this article, because I can point to so many moments in my life where listening has been that miracle that she mentions.

I think of my best friend, someone known for her listening skills. Conversations with her absolutely create me. And I believe I do the same for her. We come away from our long conversations with fresh new ideas and a creative spark for living.

I think of meeting my husband. We met when I had just moved to NYC, and on the surface, we have very little in common. But the first time we went out to dinner (before we were dating), he asked me numerous questions and teased from me my life story. I felt renewed by his listening ear and fell quickly in love with that quality in him. And I still consider that to be the creative spark in our marriage--the times when focus and listen to each other.

I also really like that she talks about listening to your enemies and to those who bore you. And I like that she mentions the fact that by listening well, you will see a person's soul. And I think it's an interesting observation that old men have often lost this skill from a long life of putting things out into the world. And I think it's interesting to think about why this does often seem to be a gendered issue.

But mostly, I just like noticing how I have been healed and renewed by listening ears. And I would like to work on my own ability to listen and receive from those I love and those I don't.

Overheard at the Russian/Turkish Baths

"These American women don't want to raise children or clean houses anymore. That's why they hire all these nannies you see everywhere." - a middle-aged immigrant woman from Germany
"I always say, what's the use of having children if you're just going to give them to someone else to raise!" - a middle-aged woman living in NYC for the last two years. (Probably from the West Indies)
"I agree. And you know, I think that's what's wrong with Americans these days."

These two women went on to discuss the evils of children not playing outside, spending too much time in front of TV and video games
"I remember when I first came to this country, I thought something is strange, and then I realized, children aren't playing outside. It was eerily quiet."
"You know when my daughter used to play with the neighbor boy, he was always so wound up and crazy. But she would say, 'you know Mom, he's always playing those video games.' It's no wonder he was wound up. That's what those games do."

And then the lack of respect young people now have for the old.
"In my country, if I'm carrying groceries, a young person will offer to walk me home and carry them for me." - said the woman from the unknown country
"It was like that in my country too, when I was growing up! Because we lived in a village. And you know, when I was little, if one of us did something stupid, the neighbor would set you straight. And if our parents found out about it, we'd get in trouble a second time!"
"But kids these days..."

And then they moved on to the adults in this country.
"And now with the Iraqi war, people are crazy."
"Oh, I know."
"Do you know I heard on the subway the other day that the police can just search a person's bag!"
"I know, it's like the Third Reich!"

And the conversation went on. After all, there's so much that's wrong with those Americans.

Storytelling

Today I went to a gathering of storytellers in NYC. I found them on the internet - it's amazing what can be found if you think to look. It was an informal story swap, about 20 people attended and 8 shared stories. We brought food and ate before the story time began. Then we all sat in a circle and enjoyed the gift of each performance.
I would like to tell stories in such a setting. I have decided to start working on some stories - probably personal ones to start.

PS - I did finally publish a new entry, but since I started it back in March, it was published back a ways.

My Grandpa

I recently read Tuesday's with Morrie on the recommendation of my father-in-law. It chronicles the last days and lessons of Morrie as his body withers away from ALS. My grandfather is also engaged in a slow death, but it's the opposite of Morrie's process. His mind isn't trapped in an increasingly useless body; his body is the strong, healthy home of his increasingly crippled mind.

If it were happening the other way around, my grandfather wouldn't be like Morrie. He was never a scholar, and he wasn't one to philosophize about life. Even when my grandfather was in perfect health, I didn't have long conversations with him. He would talk for a long time about the importance of purchasing life insurance for myself. He would tell me a select few stories about his life -- usual stories that revealed his shock and gratitude for how well his life had turned out. But mostly when I was with him at his home, he would watch TV and play solitaire.

He did love people and he was every bit as social as Morrie. But he always loved people with his body, with his hands. His hands are very large, swollen with arthritis, and shaky for the last ten years. But one of the ways I watch my grandfather calm his shaky hands is by reaching out and enfolding another hand, or by wrapping his arm around someone's shoulders and then squeezing their bicep. Grandpa stayed busy after retirement by being of service. He would serve my grandmother by doing many of the house chores, he would serve at in his Sunday School class, as a church usher, making coffee every Sunday morning, delivering things that needed to be delivered. He was a frustrated junk collector married to a woman who spring cleans four times a year, so he found other ways to recycle. He went to the Wycliffe offices every week and shredded confidential files and then drove all of their paper and cardboard to the dump. He called on people who were sick and helped in whatever way he could. And he would always remind people that things were going to be OK with one of his hugs and gentle smiles and simple stories.

How alive are you if you can't remember? What does life feel like? I have been keenly aware lately of how my life is fed and nurtured by story. All humans are like that. We want to listen to stories, we organize our memories into story, we learn through stories. So what is happening to grandpa as his stories unravel? The present is jumbled and confused, since he can't hold short-term memories at all. He doesn't like to watch TV anymore, because he can't make sense out of the stories. He can't interact with my grandma's storytelling. There was a period of time in his illness where he would make up stories. He would tell people complicated stories about the lives of the construction men working next door. But he no longer does this. He's just become quiet.

But I think the thing that bothers him the most is that he's not of service. My mom told me last night that he said to her, "You're my daughter right? Well I want to do something. Please let me do something." And amazingly he still has one way to be of service. He works for Meals on Wheels. He accompanies a volunteer and delivers meals, mostly to 90 year old women on his retirement center. And he listens to their stories, and hugs them, and they love it! My grandfather's last thesis.