Skip to main content

Lessons In Listening, Healing in Hearing

Sometimes there comes a moment in life where you just need to listen.

Listen without preparing a reply, listen without being defensive, listen without justification.

The process is not easy, it is actually hard, because each of us has an ego, an ID that is waiting for its "see me, hear me" moment.  This is especially true when your voice has been snuffed out through all the isms that plague everyday life. The many controls and manipulations that threaten to snuff out your existence can make the walls go up and the living thwarted.

Hearing, truly stepping outside oneself and stepping into the heart of the speaker to hear the words, thoughts, and intents they are sharing requires a sacrifice many are not willing to pay.  It is gutwrenching painful to listen to someone share their story, it is even more painful to learn that part of their story involves some damage that what done to them by someone they trusted.  Hearing is therapeutic and triumphant.

Life stories are all everyone has.  Everyone has that one pivotal event that could make or break their existence.  One of the things that differentiates those who overcome is that they were able to be heard, to get the toxic waste of that offense out of them and release it to the world.

It is a lot like that wonder African ceremony where when someone has done wrong, the village elders all the way down to the youngest baby surround them to sing to them their birth song.  In so doing, they are hearing the soul of that person who then releases the toxin of their offence.

Hearing takes many forms, Listen, truly listening is active and engaging.  It can be reading the account of someone who can not utter the words, it can be listening to their composition on the piano or violin or gazing upon their artwork that simply takes your breath away.

Humanity would be a little further along if we stopped listening to respond and start listening to receive.  It is not easy, the ego must be squashed and we must stand firm to be able to send back strength to the speaker.  The speaker can be nervous and a little fearful in sharing their truth, but as they speak in first a whisper and then gain confidence, their cadence becomes stronger and with each word, their heart begins to soar.

When life presents an opportunity to listen and hear, do it, it is healing for both the speaker and for the listener.  To be heard is one of the greatest gifts to give.

There are lessons in listening and healing in hearing.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Hannah's Song

We came together last night and sang Hannah's song. Family from California was in town, it was the night before Aunt Hannah's Home Going Celebration. We met at my house late in the evening to fellowship, remember, hug, eat, and laugh. Thom felt the love in the room and I'm sure his mom would've appreciated us doing what she did all her life - love. Aunt Hannah was a gracious woman. Her gentle spirit, sparkling eyes, and constant smile will be remembered. She has left us physically, but never spiritually. The laughter was like music in Thom's ear. For the first time in weeks I saw my cousin relax. He has been in a tornado for the past four weeks from his mother's diagnosis to her death. Even in her final stage, Aunt Hannah was granted her desire. She asked to not suffer long when it was her time to go, she had been a caregiver her whole life and I'm sure her prayer was for her son. In the last days of her life, she still greeted well wishers with a wa...

Brothers, Can we Talk?

 I'm a Black woman, born of a Black woman and a Black man. When my mother died, it was my father who nurtured me and instilled in me a sense of pride of self, of my race, of my abilities to do whatever I put my mind to do. He never imposed limitations on me as a Black woman. The only caution he ever gave me was to not burn my candle at both ends and to be mindful of my health, I am an asthmatic. He never stopped me from trying anything and always encouraged me. Daddy was a strong Black man who introduced me to Shirley Chisholm when I was a little girl. He reminded me of the fortitude of my late mother's quest for gender equality in the workplace and of the namesake who marched at Selma.  He is the one who gave me my pseudonym, TayĆ©. Daddy was a strong tower of empowerment and fought all the way to his last breath for social, gender, and racial justice. It is in remembering my father this morning that I'm asking the brothers, can we talk? What is it, especially those of my g...

Ashes to Ashes

 This is Ash Wednesday. For a lot of Catholics and Anglican Christians, it begins the holy season of Lent. We remember we are but dust and to dust we return, ashes to ashes.  It is a somber reminder of our humanity and the finality of life. We are a mere breath. Today, as a Hospital Chaplain Resident, I am imposing ashes on patients, family, and staff. It is a visible marker of a shared faith and belief. We look with anticipation to the finished work of salvation on the cross and in eager hope of the resurrection. As my day progressed, I noticed how much hope was in the eyes of the ones giving and receiving this reminder of our existence. It was both a somber moment and a joyful moment. Two things can exist at the same time. Like the world we find ourselves in. Even as it seems like the darkest, certainly the darkest I’ve known in my six decades on this earth. Completely imperfect as a nation, there was still a glimmer of light until the nightmare became reality. We wonder abo...