Boy Wonder broke down in tears tonight over his bedtime. Well, not exactly over his bedtime, but over his inability to be heard. He fights sleep, always has, and that’s not going to change. The difference between babyhood and 10 is the ability to articulate his dissatisfaction verbally not just vocally. It comes down to syllables, really. Lots and lots of syllables.
He didn’t feel heard. He felt shut down and boy did he let his dad know. The anger and frustration was palpable from the other room. I was spared the tirade by some fit of mercy but I could hear it, and it wasn’t good. Hearing… from a distance is so much easier than in the midst of the heat brought on by fury.
To his father’s credit, the boy was in the wrong tonight. He’d pushed his bedtime too far, pushed us too far, and the time for negotiation had long since passed—even if he was negotiating for time to read. Which, you should know, is always his last attempt at gaining time. If he started there at bedtime, he might get further.
But the fact remains, despite IZ’s patience and cool head the boy was feeling under. And, unlike his mother, he’s going to tell you up front that you’ve pushed his boundaries—never mind that he’s pressing his own in the attempt.
His lament has me thinking, though. What does it really mean to be heard and conversely, what does it really mean to listen?
I’ve spent the greater part of my life doing the latter. People talk to me—and talk, and talk, and talk. Old people in the doctor’s office, little kids in the super market. Strangers on the street will stop me to chat. They tell me their secrets. They tell me their hopes. They tell me they like my hat and then launch into their life story. Most days I have the time to stop. And so I do. People want so desperately to be heard It seems a small gift, a small gesture toward giving back. These are the people I do not know.
The story isn’t much different with those I do know. It’s gotten to the point, though, that I dread play-dates. Inevitably I spend a couple of hours listening to the torrent of emotions and experiences and information the other parents feel driven to share. I come home and IZ always asks, “So, did you talk?†I don’t think people mean for it to be so one-sided, it just happens that way because I can listen. Like the strangers on the street, they too need to be heard. Sometimes, it’s hard to feel heard when you are surrounded by little people. When it’s your job to be the listener that parenthood asks us to be. All these emotions need someplace to go—and I can listen. I can brew you a cup of tea and sit and listen.
Lately, I have felt overwhelmed by the immensity of other people’s words. I guess I’m feeling under, too. I can’t shake this feeling that if I continue to listen to all these voices outside of me, that I might not hear the voice I’m waiting for… and that scares me.
It is silence I am trying to find. Silence of not doing, not being, not moving that can allow the universe a moment to whisper to me. Leaving Graduate school it seems so many people are invested in what I will do next. They are quick to fill in the gaps. Endlessly, I am presented with the viable options other people can see for me. It wasn’t any different in Graduate School. My Old Testament professor wanted me to go on to PhD work in Hebrew Scriptures, my Ethics professor thought the same for her field. My Pastoral counseling professor hunted me down at my job to inform me that I would be wasting God given talent if I didn’t go further in the field. The list goes on and on. All high praise, mind you, but to the one, I don’t know if I was ever asked what I wanted.
Not that I know. I don’t. I don’t know what I’m supposed to doing. I only know who I am becoming. And that person, she is screaming for the Universe to speak up! Get a megaphone, baby, because I can’t hear you. I can’t, I can’t. I SAID I CAN’T HEAR YOU!
And the Universe? She’s one for sultry whispers in the night. She prefers quiet chats to brazen dialog. She’s not interested in holding my hand in the process. And I’m having a hard time hearing her over the din. Maybe she’s tired of not being heard, too. Maybe all the voices shouting at her have got her feeling under.
But I can’t shut other people up. I don’t even know if I want to do that. I’m always going to stop and listen to the old men tell me tales of wars gone by as we wait to be poked and prodded by our eager phlebotomists. It is soothing for both of us. Even if I can’t hear the Universe in the process, at least someone is being heard.
I’m sorry, what did you say? 🙂 I hear you … I do. I snark because that’s what I’m best at … you listen because you’re good at that. But you’re being heard by all the people who read this blog. I don’t come here to snark … I come here to ‘hear’ what you have to say (the snarking just happens, like breathing. It’s a gift). I want to hear it because it’s interesting and important. And that’s as honest as I can stand to be so early in the morning. 😀
____________________________________
Heh…I love your snarking. As for “being heard.” There is little doubt that’s the flip side of listening and big motif in this piece. In fact, a larger part of it until I did some editing last night. I had a whole section on how I feel heard by certain people (including my blogging community). . . but I quickly realized that I was working with too much. So, I removed that section but apparently I missed that final line in the last paragraph about not being heard. Oops… I’ve since edited the line out in order to highlight what is my main focus here. This certainly was never intended as a statement about my blogging community. But a poor attempt at sharing with my online world what my real world looks like. Some times I succeed at that. Other times… not so much. ~W
Sometimes, I wish the little voices in my head would talk to each other and come up with one, consistent thread of advice that I could actually understand and follow.
But they’re usually cacaphonous and confusing, so I wander around the house wondering how to calm our own six-year-old munchkin’s misgivings about being misunderstood and ignored.
Then I give him a big hug. He seems to like it.
Love your blog, BTW. I’ll be back for more reads.
____________________________________
I love this comment… it’s so very fitting and true to my own experience as well. :DÂ Thanks for sharing! ~W
Um-hmm. And how does that make you feel? 🙂
After, literally, a (professional) lifetime of listening. I’m with you. It’s what I do and I think it’s something that comes naturally more than something I was educated to do. I also end up with some of the same issues and unfortunately they tend to come up around home. Sometimes my patience with listening to household chatter wears thin and I just want peace and quiet. The other thing that has happened over time is that I don’t like talking on the phone- at all. It feels all disconnected to me. I certainly know how Boy Wonder feels; it’s supremely annoying to feel as though your wishes or needs are being discounted. (As I type this Rich and Abby are talking loudly to each other, over my head, and I want to say HUSH!)
All of that being said, you do a wonderful job of expressing yourself. I could “listen” to you all day. ( Have you considered becoming a pastor?) (Lord! It’s noisy around here! I wish these two dynamic people in the room with me would HUSH!)
___________________________________
Oh, Lord, where to start? I’m not sure if I should ask you what you charge an hour or to remind you that you gave up this little “habit” of yours.
I hate the phone too… I am compelled by a need to stay sane so I speak to my Spiritual Director once a month on the phone for an hour. Otherwise, I avoid the phone like the plague. You like how I worked in a reference to seeing a professional? Have I allayed your worries yet?
As for becoming a pastor. Yeah, having just graduated from SEMINARY, the thought did cross my mind. As you’ve just started reading this blog and have NO idea what kind of angst you might have stirred up here, I will spare you my tirade. Let’s just say, I spent Seminary waging my own one woman campaign
to obliterate the need for clergy, er, emphasizing the importance of laity. Heh. Truth be told, I’m not cut out for the profession. The year I spent last year erased any niggling thought to the contrary. I don’t feel called to it.I’ve shied away from talking about my “call” and where I’m headed too much on this blog, because I think most people tune in for a different kind of story. (Usually, these sorts of posts from me clears the room and it all goes virtually silent. So, for that, thank you for your comment!) And, as this post kinda suggests, it’s probably too close to the surface for me to deal with in a grand sort of way in my writing. At least on my blog. If Cap hadn’t posted a comment this morning, I would pulled the post altogether… However, here it will remain. A testament to the cracks in my life that point to my transitions. Which, I’ve been told are holy spaces. ~W
See? I’m good for something. Besides, I am linking to this on my blog if I can ever get my post written. It did speak to me (despite the snark). See? You’re good for something too 😀
Wende–you DO have the most important gift in the world, and that is to be able to connect with people-through listening, through caring, and it IS a tough road to follow. I know this from experience. I will not give you any advice except to say that I think the perfect position for someone of your talents exists; you will find it. Right now, maybe it is mother, and wife, later on–who knows? People who can listen are rare. I am not as good at it as you are; blame my talkative Italian genes.
__________________________________
Thanks, Margaret… you are too kind. And for the record, I’ve always felt heard in our exchanges. I do recall you reading my most recent rant in email and proffering some very solid advice. For which, I am thankful. You listen more than you realize…even in your comments. :D ~W
so yesterday evening if my internet connection hadn’t crapped out i would have written something similar to this: apart from the kid part, were you writing this about me? why the hell do people tell us everything? they don’t know who the hell we are. i mean, apart from knowing all the gossip in town, do they not know that we are still judging them even if it only comes off on the blog? eh. i’m glad i learned at least a bit of new-york-leave-m,e-alone attitude.
and so it begins….
____________________________________
😀 ~W
The good news is there is a time for listening and responding and sleep in there somewhere – it always helps me as I sort through life’s puzzles (of which I have found many). Take care.