I was telling my friend a story about some event in my life when she pointed to some flowers at the side of the road. “Look: they were not out just last week.” Having had the pause button pressed by her interruption, I did what I have become accustomed to doing with this friend: I immersed myself in the beauty of the flowers she admired. We were traveling in her car to the grocery store for supplies for dinner, and after a moment, she said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. Go on.” I continued to tell my tale until she pointed out the street where she was considering the purchase of another house. I stopped speaking. After some silent running, she again apologized and urged me to continue.
I’ve not found many times in recent years when I can have a “tennis match” conversation with my friend, where I serve the subject, she returns serve, and we continue in that vein. Perhaps we’ve never had one. As I review the sound of our voices over the years, I hear a lot of hers and some of mine, though in recent years, I have developed an affinity for vocal expression. A work associate once gently chided me that I “love the sound of (my) own voice.” It is possible that I have developed predatory listening habits, lying in wait in the bushes of a conversation for the opportunity to take down the subject and introduce my point of view. If that is so, then I have forgotten to practice the art of listening.
I gave this same friend a brief lament on a time in my life when I had written a lot of letters to someone with whom I had a relationship and who in turn, responded with very few. “What about all the letters you wrote to me,” she said. “I never wrote back to you.” Which is true, but the difference is that I did not expect a “conversation” to result from the letters I had sent to my friend. In fact, I had told her that I did not expect her to respond; I was just sharing my joy. All she had to do was to open the envelope and read. But as I thought about the conversation later, and layered onto my thoughts the jerks and stops of our conversations, I realized that I must be more economical with my words. I am limited to 600 in this space, a constraint that forces me into a more efficient organization and presentation of my thoughts. I have to practice that kind of concision in my conversations.
I have another friend who communicates with me in the “in-between” portions of a section of her life: when she is in her car, on the way to — or from — some thing she either chooses to do, or must. I am part of the multi-task, the call from the car. All communication in this circumstance must be accomplished within the constraints of the limits of travel time, which I never know. I listen, and she often has not time to tell me all that she wants me to know. She will reach her destination and say, “I’m here: I will let you go.”
Mike and the Mechanics sang, “we can listen as well as we hear,” a wistful belief. Our voices clamor inside us, searching for an opening to unmitigated expression. Listening is an art; the suspension of expectation, the anticipation of the pause, the urge to interject, must be quieted in the artist.
I plan on greater artistry.