Sometimes I wonder what life would be like if we would all take the time to listen to each other. I am not referring to what often passes for listening: the person talking trying to keep up with the listener who keeps on walking; the interrupted conversation that begins while watching television, and pauses for the commercial break so that it can continue; or the dreaded phone conversation in which each person is doing everything from checking email to using the bathroom.
We listen when it matters to us. I was recently introduced as a preschool teacher to a business woman who had no interest in anything I said . . . until I told her that I really was a writer, and then she could not stop talking to me. Though she works in a career that helps her to provide adequately for her family, she secretly longs to write. We were able to dispense with the mindless chatter of small talk and engage in a real conversation once she heard me say who I really am.
We listen out of politeness. The fixed, compassionate-like look; the continued silence at intervals when a response would be more appropriate, but is not forthcoming because the person has fallen mentally asleep; the sudden attempt at closure possibly before anything of note has even been discussed--all indicate one thing: communication is not happening.
My endocrinologist is pleasant enough and yet when I share with him my symptoms and he looks at the numbers on the lab report, he only hears the science speaking and not my voice. How poorly I am reacting to a new compounded medication I have been prescribed does not seem to carry the same importance as the recorded levels of thyroid stimulating hormone detected in my blood. The result is normal; therefore I am fine. In theory.
When I ask my husband if he is listening and he says that he hears me, I know for certain that he is not listening. I may employ old journalistic techniques of re-asking the same question in different ways, but until he repeats back to me pretty much what I have wanted to express to him, I may as well be talking to a wall. And even after all of that, misunderstandings are common.
I have witnessed others not communicating much better. The potential for ideas being understood falls flat on the proverbial pavement and people who had the chance to get along with each other instead make decisions not to, based on faulty information. In the meanwhile, we all get our exercise jumping to conclusions. But what if we took a couple more minutes to take a deep breath and intentionally listen to what the heart of another is speaking?
Finding a way to communicate requires more than words. It is an act of giving of ourselves that is time-consuming and sometimes impractical. It is dancing a dance that does not step on toes, and pausing long enough to consider a way of thinking that is not one's own. Though we may be speaking the same language, the voice of our hearts is as individual as we are.
We cannot assume to know what another is thinking. Appearances are deceiving, especially when we learn how to hide what we really want to say for fear of saying the wrong thing. But giving it another go may be just what is needed for the long awaited understanding. Perhaps we are closer to communicating than we think.
If we would just take the time to listen.
We listen when it matters to us. I was recently introduced as a preschool teacher to a business woman who had no interest in anything I said . . . until I told her that I really was a writer, and then she could not stop talking to me. Though she works in a career that helps her to provide adequately for her family, she secretly longs to write. We were able to dispense with the mindless chatter of small talk and engage in a real conversation once she heard me say who I really am.
We listen out of politeness. The fixed, compassionate-like look; the continued silence at intervals when a response would be more appropriate, but is not forthcoming because the person has fallen mentally asleep; the sudden attempt at closure possibly before anything of note has even been discussed--all indicate one thing: communication is not happening.
My endocrinologist is pleasant enough and yet when I share with him my symptoms and he looks at the numbers on the lab report, he only hears the science speaking and not my voice. How poorly I am reacting to a new compounded medication I have been prescribed does not seem to carry the same importance as the recorded levels of thyroid stimulating hormone detected in my blood. The result is normal; therefore I am fine. In theory.
When I ask my husband if he is listening and he says that he hears me, I know for certain that he is not listening. I may employ old journalistic techniques of re-asking the same question in different ways, but until he repeats back to me pretty much what I have wanted to express to him, I may as well be talking to a wall. And even after all of that, misunderstandings are common.
I have witnessed others not communicating much better. The potential for ideas being understood falls flat on the proverbial pavement and people who had the chance to get along with each other instead make decisions not to, based on faulty information. In the meanwhile, we all get our exercise jumping to conclusions. But what if we took a couple more minutes to take a deep breath and intentionally listen to what the heart of another is speaking?
Finding a way to communicate requires more than words. It is an act of giving of ourselves that is time-consuming and sometimes impractical. It is dancing a dance that does not step on toes, and pausing long enough to consider a way of thinking that is not one's own. Though we may be speaking the same language, the voice of our hearts is as individual as we are.
We cannot assume to know what another is thinking. Appearances are deceiving, especially when we learn how to hide what we really want to say for fear of saying the wrong thing. But giving it another go may be just what is needed for the long awaited understanding. Perhaps we are closer to communicating than we think.
If we would just take the time to listen.
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