I am a collector of other people’s stories, I realize this when a friend comments the other day. I am asking her about her silver jewelry. She has a wide prominent ring on each finger on both her hands. I learn that she has loved silver since she was eight years old and that her mother was from New Mexico and the silver is a nod to the Southwest where much of her identity lies. My husband adds into the conversation reminding me that I had interrogated a waiter in a restaurant recently because he had so many interesting gold chains and medallion’s around his neck. How we ornament ourselves tells stories. He seemed so pleased that I asked and a long tale ensued. He has loved gold since he was 12. He started getting jobs so he could buy himself jewelry. This is when the friend commented about how I seem to love stories. I listen to stories all day long from my clients. In the 25 years I have been at this job I have heard a lot and lived a lot of stories with my clients. Some stories are acutely painful, the repercussions of suicide, abandonment, and loss. Tragedies of decades ago are talked about it like it was yesterday. And then there is all the abuse. Real abuse, creepy abuse. “He never touched me but… there were no locks on the door.” And always the loss, real or imagined. Mothers barely clinging to sanity, hardly able to cope with parenting as their children secretly invent ways to compensate to try and make the family they need. Sad stories, human stories. Stories like mine.
Seriously, kids need to feel like their parents are going to stick around. Everyone needs to feel like everyone is going to stick around. These stories stay with me. Some of my clients are amazed at how well I remember things about them. That is one of the greatest gifts that I bring to my practice. I listen and remember. And it is easy for me. I honor stories — our stories. But few people are good listeners. We have become a society of talkers with podcasts and followers. But are the followers really listening? Listening feels like it is becoming a lost art. Reactivity is replacing it. I was speaking to someone at a party last weekend. I was telling her about the extraordinary coincidence of selling the office building that housed our business for many years to a non-profit organization where Tom, my husband and I worked when we met over 40 years ago. To me it is one of my most poignant stories, a full circle in my life, almost magical. But this person went off on a rampage about non-profits owning real estate. I had to move my chair away from hers a few inches for a little more space. She prosecuted her case about this for a long time, way beyond my understanding of the intricacies her lawyerly thought process took her.
I am an imperfect listener as well, often looking for ways to move the conversations to myself or jumping to a solution when what is needed is pure listening. Just to listen and help the other person feel heard.
I have the most trouble listening to myself. With all these stories bouncing around in my head and all the other noise in our culture how do I cultivate the art of listening to myself? It is so much easier to binge a TV series.
I recently learned a new word – Yield. Not the inverted triangle with the a red boarder and white background displaying YIELD in red letters but one of the earliest developmental movements we make. Here is what AI says:
- Infant Yielding
This first developmental movement involves relaxing the body into the support of a caregiver or environment, fostering a sense of safety and independence. - Trust and Connection:
A healthy ability to yield to trusted individuals indicates the development of a secure relationship, allowing for connection and the acceptance of support without bracing oneself.
I realize I did not learn to yield. There was something in my story, my mothers severe anxiety and ambivalence at being a mother that taught me to brace. I know this is everywhere in my body — unnecessary tension. And it is in my psyche. I long, long, long for closeness while not knowing how to yield. What a bind!
A friend sent me an interesting article. It says how everyone is taking restorative yoga, doing sound baths and trying various breathing techniques to the point that we are performing relaxation. But do we really know how to relax? Can we feel the subtle layers of bracing?
Lately I have been hearing a No in myself where there used to be a Yes. I wanted to do everything, be everything and now I don’t. It feels very confusing to cancel things and not go for it — push and shove for it — as I would in the past. I recently gave up what I wanted to do to follow my husband because I wanted to be with him. It is a very new feeling to go along with him or anyone without all my strong opinions and wants. I am surprising myself daily in letting go, calming down. I heard the words to a song yesterday playing in my head. It is a Christian hymn turned folksong, and begins like this:
My life flows on in endless song
Above earth’s lamentations
I catch the sweet, tho far-off hymn
That hails a new creation
I have also stumbled into water coloring. I love the ones with flowers. There is some essential listening going on as I mix colors, add water and dab here and there on the paper. And it is also quiet inside. There is no story about the flowers, who owned them, what they meant to them, what they felt when they died. Just pure color and form. Here is my favorite one so far.
