on listening

That infamous Verizon commercial that is inevitably & unintentionally quoted once a day (at least) around the world is echoing in my head lately.

Can you hear me now?

But I guess really, my question is maybe a bit more cutting than that:

Are you listening?

Does anyone know how to reallytrulydeeplymeaningfullypresently listen anymore?

Is that even a thing?

Is the art the gift of listening dead?

Sometimes I feel like I’m living in the computer.

The world of posts & shares & likes & Podcasts & TEDtalks: in other words… a person’s uninterrupted & uninhibited output.

Like, duuuuuuuuuude, take. a. beat.

Breathe.

If you know me, then you know my love language is listening. If you don’t know that, then you don’t know me.

If you want to get in my heart’s pants, then shut up and listen.

OMG, and if you ask a deep question & then poise yourself to reallytrulydeeplymeaningfullypresently listen… ugh, let’s just say I’m a whore for ears.

Woo, is it getting hot in here or WHAT?!

I’m lonely.

–There, does that cut all that awkward listening-as-sex talk?–

I’m ashamed to admit I’m lonely.

I don’t know why. Brene Brown & I are working on that. (Not personally, but a roundabout-way-of-me-financing-her-books.)

What’s so wrong about being lonely?

Does it show a failure on my part?

Does it show a lack of lovability?

Does it show a selfishness?

Does it show a bitter & brutal introversion that will triumph, sadly, no. matter. what.?

And how does it connect to this decay in societal standards of listening?

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I am a good listener. I am empathetic. I can 100% ensure a conversation is 100% about you through sexy follow-up questions (see what I did there?!).

And, I am wondering, if my loneliness might be a consequence of this. Do I hide behind being a good listener? Is my empathy a perfectly-crafted, looks-good-on-the-outside, vulnerability-avoidance technique? Do I make it 100% about you so that it is 0% about my shit?

I’m reading this amazing book that fell into my recommended list from the library-sky, at the perfect time. A tiny miracle really. I didn’t know I needed it.

But, gosh, it’s got me. It gets me. I feel seen.

And challenged.

Right now, I’m sitting with & listening 🙂 to this:

So, that’s it for today.

Thanks for listening…

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If you really knew me…

In some ways, the 2020 quarantine has been way too easy for me.

Dave & I, just living that home life: games, day drinking, comfy pjs, throwing money at our lemon-puppy Maya, porch conversations & Netflix marathons.

Naturally, it has also been a time of reflection.

And all this alone time in my head got me thinking about friendships & my relationship to friendship.

My therapist told me this week that the reason I might have such a hard time connecting with people is because what I project is not what I really am.

Well, f*** you very much.

But…

she’s right.

Damn it.

& ouch.

Ever since then I’ve been thinking about the profoundly powerful practice from Challenge Day: if you really knew me.

If you know me, you might think that I am the life the of the party. But if you really knew me, you would know I am one of the most socially awkward people I know.

If you know me, you might think that I am brave & confident. But if you really knew me, you would know I am plagued by insecurity.

If you know me, you might think I am good with my words. But if you really knew me, you would know I hide behind them.

If you know me, you might think I am a good listener. But if you really knew me, you would know I am deeply desperate to be listened to.

If you know me, you might think I ask great questions. But if you really knew me, you would know I use them to redirect from my own vulnerability.

If you know me, you might think I am full of compassion & love. But if you really knew me, you would know how suffocating my judgmental nature is.

If you know me, you might think I am funny. But if you really knew me, you would know I use humor as a control mechanism.

If you know me, you might think my voice is fierce. But if you really knew me, you would know how petrified I am of conflict & confrontation.

I process these tensions with equanimity. I hold both the light and the shadow.

I do not know where I lost myself, or if I ever had myself, or if this is myself.

And that is ok.

All I know is, right here, right now, this is my full truth.

gates and guardians: a reflection on the state of a sorrowful heart

Dave and I have spent the last seven days in silence.

No, we’re not in a fight.

Well…

Not with each other at least.

Rather, we have spent the last week at a six-night meditation retreat. I did something similar a few years back and wrote about here (in prose) and here (in verse).

This retreat was a completely different experience and style, but no less impacting. Reflecting with Dave on the way back (finally out of silence!), I remarked on the oddest thing: to see forty people sitting in various states of stillness–some on cushions, some on chairs, some on benches–all poised like little perfect, quiet, quaint Buddha statues. But beneath that serene image, a war wages! Thoughts, “come back to the breath,” distractions, “be here now,” stories, “just breath,” narratives, “what am I aware of?,” memories, “inhale, exhale,” plans, “damn it, just stop thinking already,”–oh my! It is like this most placid, peaceful lake, but below the still surface, sharks are devouring triathletes piece by latex-laden-one-piece swimsuits (oh, can you see what I’m worried about…).

I spent a lot of (uncomfortable) time sitting at this retreat with these questions:

How is the quality of my heart? How open is my heart?

It wasn’t pretty.

After an emotional meltdown the final day of school, for some reasons fathomed and others only felt, I have been thinking a lot about a sense of deadening I have had lately. My highs aren’t quite as high and my lows aren’t quite as low. I wondered if this is a result of my solidifying meditation practice? I mean, that can be a good thing, right? But what I know to be true about my most authentic self is passion: rip-roaring laughter followed by belly-aching bawling (not to mention a few pants-splitting farts; did I mention this retreat was vegetarian and I’ve had a lot of roughage lately?!).

Anyway, back to the matters of the heart. Literally (how about that transition?).

I also reflected on the quality of my relationships with people. After all, isn’t this the sign of an open heart? I care for people–it’s my job after all–but all too often, it is on my own terms and when I can control it. I’m not very good at accepting gestures of kindness or affection (as demonstrated on this retreat, where I felt guilty and lazy [“I must not be working hard enough,” she thought to herself, “oh wait, stop thinking…”] because it just felt too nourishing–what IS that?!).

And though I’m still sitting with it (yep, trust me, my butt hurts, and brain, and heart), I can only explore the answer to these questions (at least at this point) through the lens of grief. My mere third decade of life has been defined by the razored edges of loss and grief. Prepared, but no less heartbroken, I lost my dad in 2011. Unprepared, and all the more heartbroken, I lost my mom less than two years later. Then our very old cat. Then our very young dog. (Which, really, come on, pets? What does that matter? But when the wound is open and raw, even a faint breeze stings deeply. Not to mention the odd parallels between my parents’ and pets’ deaths [read about that bizarre connection here]).

Who am I?

I am grief.

And so, I coped. I’d like to say pretty well. I have not lost the roots of gratitude nor faith to the black hole of bitterness.

But I come back to the questions at hand:

How is the quality of my heart? How open is my heart?

How could I not, on some level–hidden, deep, essential, true–close my heart after all that heartbreak?

Perhaps the loss-womb birthed a Guardian who stands at the entrance with an iron grip on the pulsing blood-veined gates.

He is fierce. He is loyal. He is protective.

But maybe it’s time I bid him farewell. In peace. In gratitude. In honor.

Dear Guardian of my heart, you came unbidden, but ached for.

Thank you for the gift of one sure, slow step at a time in the dark, tear-damp forest of the grieving soul.

Thank you for the preservation of what is good while so. much. bad. gnawed at my bones.

I bow to you. But, alas, it is time I send you on your way.

May you protect another vulnerable heart.

But for now, it is time I open the gates.

I open the gates.

I open my heart.