If you built it, they will come.

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Random

Leaves dawdling in the autumn breeze, streams trickling by, here I find myself once more, alone by the riverside. Oh, how the fiery leaves blaze, a glorious prelude to harsh winter’s bane. But who will remember until the branches are bare as autumn wanes. Once was I young, with many a dream. Old have I become, my radiance but a gleam. Perhaps it must be so, in my absence shall the essence of my presence be made known.

Treading the lonely and forgotten path; passing through unrecognized. Yonder I go, dare I linger? Oh, my life but a fleeting blip, my achievements like sand on stone. I am but a shadow, who shall notice? Yea I have labored, and much have I tried to give, but what is there to give when none sees the merit. Alas, I go, in search for something that I may never gain. My youth I have squandered, but willingly I stride forward, hoping perhaps to meet the one who will understand my troubles and lighten my way.

And here I will be, the lonely wind that blows gently. You shall know that I am here whenever you see the leaves rustle, the water ripple. I will be here, caressing the tips of grass as I pass through, swirling up the dust. Perhaps, then you shall remember me. Don't try to catch hold of me for I appear without a trace and leave without a sign. I am a free spirit, coming and going as I pleased. Like sand, you shall not contain me with your fingers, like water I linger not in one place too long.

Reflection on Listening

It was not too long ago that I shadowed an aging Monsignor as he made his daily rounds to visit those who are in need; primarily to be there, to listen as they share their stories with him. Late into the evenings and onto the darkest hour of a new day, I would follow him as he went from home to home, hospital bed to hospital bed; whatever the hour, however inconvenient. Always with a slight incline of his head, a knowing smile on his face, he would sit with fierce intensity and listened attentively as the person across regaled him with anecdotes of the day. Often times, they were hackneyed tales told many times before; yet, the monsignor never seemed to mind. Conversations were never hurried. Time stood still when he sat.

I have often found myself mesmerized by the way he listens. The monsignor plays the role of a transfixed audience with absolute ease. He knows when to nod, and when to nudge. His eyes never wavering, his body language always engaging; the monsignor can coax a dialogue from even the shyest of persons. When there are those who paced the room nervously as they spoke, the monsignor would get up and join them. Hand on the shoulder, heads close together, the two would walk together like old friends sharing a secret. That level of human contact, the connection that can exist between two people through conversation is awe inspiring.

The monsignor can be soothing and encouraging without trying. Perhaps it is the numerous years of sitting in confessionals, but no one is better at taking away the shame, the embarrassment, and the guilt that comes with revealing oneself through conversations. No one is ever vulnerable, or better put, no one ever felt uncomfortable with being vulnerable in the presence of the monsignor. Such was the greatness of his listening skill; he softens all edges, and removes all traces of defensiveness. Simply, through being sincere and creating an ambience of unconditional positive regards, the monsignor allows for conversations to flow. Following him, I have heard tales of humanity that spans the spectrum of human experience otherwise unheard of, unwritten, and would have remained unknown.
What is amazing is his skill to be still. I have known the monsignor to be a gifted orator, and conversationalist. He was a true erudite, well versed in arcane knowledge, up to date with current affairs. There was no shortage of wisdom in his words, and people gravitate towards him when he speaks. Yet, in those moments, when he is sitting across from a person, the monsignor never felt the need to interject. There was no urgency, no need to impress his intelligence upon those present; it was as if he had no personal agenda.

To an untrained ear it might appear at times that the monsignor is allowing others to dominate a conversation. If one is to listen closely, however, the monsignor is actually guiding without being imposing. A well timed comment now and then plants a seed that a person going off on a tangent would use to direct themselves back on track. As a result, people rarely stray far from point when speaking with the monsignor; he always manages to curb them back.

I remember asking him the secret of being a great listener, and his respond was, “Humility”. He said too often we go into a conversation expecting we have something better to offer. We elevate and insert ourselves with the notion that we are active participants who have been blessed with some amazing insight. In reality, a consummate conversationalist should be someone with true humility who would be willing to consider the possibility that God hadn't chosen him for that kind of honor. Listening is like going to a tea party with your own cup. That cup better be empty and ready to be filled, otherwise if you bring your own brew you may as well drink by yourself.

I don’t know what kind of listener I am. I know as a doctoral student, I am inclined to jump in and fix things. Perhaps that is the ego that the monsignor is warning me about. True humility then becomes a product of true confidence that stems from never having the need to be validated oneself through insertion into others’ stories.