How much do you listen?

10: Stop entertaining us, speak to us. On listening and speaking, on sharing and storing.

For a whole year, I stopped talking. Then the year turned into more years, and now I can’t remember talking. I expressed this concern with my therapist, Andrea if you’re reading this thank you, and she just listened. That might’ve been the longest I’ve gone to speak without being interrupted.

4 minutes. Surely I could do better. Surely you could do better. 

Mary: I can’t express how I feel, I sometimes have to write things down to fully articulate it all. 

Andrea: Before we talk about expressing how you feel, tell me, how much do you speak at all?

Mary: Of course I speak

Andrea: You go out with friends, you stir conversations a lot. But how much of it is you speaking. Saying something. Sharing your experience. 

Mary: …

Andrea: Being a listener is wonderful. You’ve told me how much you love hearing people talk about their lives, express themselves. You have heard more stories than you’ve told. The reason people feel so comfortable around you is because you listen admirably. But don’t deprive them of your thoughts. Your feelings. It turns into an unbalanced conversation. You’re not a jester, only there to entertain people.

Stañczyk by Matejko

Here’s the strange thing, I love telling stories, but it takes a giant wave of energy for me to speak- especially when the other person isn’t all that interested in what I’m saying. I know what it’s like to be somewhat deprived of the pleasure to speak freely, so I give space for people to speak. I was told to sit with people and try to measure the interactions I had with them.

How much are they speaking, how much are they listening. Put it into percentages, see what that comes out to. Ideally the numbers shouldn’t have that drastic of a difference, but circumstances could also play some role into it. Look at your interaction over time.

Are you saying anything? Are you listening enough?

“We have two ears and one mouth, so we should listen more than we say.”

Zeno of Citium

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Over the course of my entire life, I’ve learned to listen. I’ve learned to read people, to analyze what they felt, I became so good at it people often felt strangely drawn to me. Especially men. 

You often stay quiet because you worry the other person won’t be as great of a listener as you are. Or maybe they glance away for one second, and suddenly you feel as uninteresting as a random twig on a muddy road. 

Being a listener, especially a good one, is a talent that I’ve possessed since I’ve learned to speak. Ironic isn’t it, being so great at speaking that you remain silent when you have nothing to say. Nothing of value to contribute. Strangely, I’ve come across people who’ve told me they can’t speak. But within the hour, like black magic or an unnatural power, I conjure it out of them. I have mastered the art of making them speak, sometimes without doing anything at all.

This is a poem I came across written by Mark Hastings, read the full poem here.

‘I usually listen to people more, it’s not that I have nothing to say, I’m just used to it’ he says. 

I nod and sip my coffee, and in my head, the clock starts. How soon will it be before he tells me his darkest secrets and vows?

It sets a timer, to see if I can beat my last score. I do gain a lot of insight when doing this trick, and it gives me plenty of material to write about, but it also is quite emptying.

There are two sides to everything, and in this particular talent, I usually leave the table having only gained knowledge about their lives. I have no one to pass my stories to because I haven't unleashed them out of my hand. There is nobody that can tell you my favorite philosopher or dearest passage of romantic writing. Who will keep the memory of me alive if no one knows me? But when he says he can’t speak. I say, I’ll make you. 

I lean, I smile, I also share an anecdote then slowly, I watch this balled up jumble of words form in his throat. 

It’s working. I’m going to set him free.

This lump starts to get bigger, and he drinks, but it doesn’t go down. His eyes widen a little, he stares at me, and then at my smile. I welcome this jumbled up piece of him, and he is terrified to speak because he knows that once he does, he will not be quiet again.

To dismiss his fear, he talks about empty things. His job, college, his buddy who has an impressive talent. His old job at a PizzaHut, the car he sold. He doesn’t realize it yet, or maybe he does and he’s terrified, but soon enough he will tell me what’s in his soul and not his mind.

Then I say something sweet. Then I ask him something. He answers. He may try to ask me things, but they don’t matter because he couldn’t care less to know the actual answer.

And like a kitten, he coughs up the ball, and he rambles. His words untie and spill everywhere, and I take it all in. He lights up. Sometimes, if you pay close attention, his lips curve up so slightly. He may run out of breath because he’s not used to the sensation, he may even sip water, but I don’t interrupt him. 

After a while, he’ll say, ‘I’ve never told anyone that before’. But he’ll say it in amusement. In disbelief. I want to say;

I know.

But I tell him how much I loved his words. And I don’t lie about that, after all I’m a writer, what’s more beautiful than words? He stays a little quieter and then he takes a deep breath, and when we leave, and he comes back again, a jumble ball of words isn’t in his throat but in his hands. He is ready to unleash it, he knows how to do it now, but only with me. Only with me is he prepared because I’m a master and he is my subject. 

Speak your mind, tell me your stories, and I will play music to it and you will think I’m a woman who possesses the power to touch your soul. In reality, it’s not that I’m a special reader who can understand you, it’s you that’s so terrible at trying to understand me.

I love to hear you speak, I love to hear you run out of breath because you love to say everything, but I love it more when you hear me. I love it when you stop halfway and look at me then ask ‘Don’t you think so too, my darling? Tell me what you think’

Tell me, how much do you listen, how much do you say? Are you speaking when you have nothing to say, are you silent when someone looks away? Does their attention feel too distracting, do you flourish or break under their eyes that peel you like clay? Stop sweating, don’t bite your lips, don’t untangle your hair, and don’t fumble with the hem of your sweater. Can you speak without fear, into the entire night and day? 

Do they want to hear you as much as you hear what they say? 

Let people speak, let your tongue rest. You have a lot to say, but you have more to hear. Let them say what they think of your art, bad or great, welcome all of it. Don’t look away and give them your attention like an amused child watching fireworks for the first time. 

I’ve collected stories from a hundred lives, but no one knows how many tales I’ve got. How many words I wish to say, if they’d put down their distractions and tell me to go on.

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When hitting 500 subscribers, I put out a little note asking for some poetry submissions from all you wonderful people. To the ones who submitted beautiful writing, thank you. I loved every single one of them, and you are all incredibly talented.

Here is my favorite one, written by Paul R. Pace; (

P2

)

An Ode to Max

An Antidote or a Crutch?

Which one is it?

A Youthful Delusion

When you can snowboard through life with the supreme confidence of captain clutch:

demanding the rock in the 4th QTR

with the deck stacked against you,

glistening with sweat,

double-teamed, pivoting & takin’ it on the chin,

fade away baseline jumper……

SWWISSSHHHH. Nothing but Net.

A Youthful Delusion

Don’t let it creep into adulthood or perhaps it’s best to keep it on the back burner while you blaze a trail.

Or keep it front & center and let it guide you.

It’s a jump ball.

Use it to find yourself because it reminds the world of who you are.

A ferocious swing for the fences

Circle the bases

Run like a Freight Train to Home

Use it when you hitch your wagon to an insurmountable love.

A love so big it hurts.

You feel it in your bones.

Passion?

Hell son. Pack your passion in a sack and bring it with you.

Be willing.

Be able.

Do the hard thing 1st.

Don’t start a fight but make sure you finish it.

Laugh, Cry, and Think every god damn day.

A Youthful Delusion

Something to regard because no one can take it away from you but you.

Don’t squander.

It’s organic, don’t abuse it.

Ride out your days

With your cackling laughter

Shit eating grin

Devil’s Charm

and Capacity to Love

- The Dad

Love,

till forever and a day,

MaryT.