Listening as a Spiritual Practice
We engage in many daily activities that would fall under the label of spiritual practice,–generosity, prayer, worship, and service to name a few. But have you ever considered how listening as a spiritual practice can connect your soul with another’s or the divine?
Have you ever been with a friend or loved one who has suffered a recent loss and found yourself totally at sea about what to say?
I assure you, there are times when words are unnecessary, and the greatest need is to listen— to be fully present to them in their pain. I also know how difficult it is to shut off the torrent of questions and helpful(?) comments that the brain so faithfully generates.
There is both an art and a science to being present, with plenty of neurological research to explain the latter, so I will stick to the art.
I admit I am not much of an artist, especially with paint. I have a little more experience with music.
Both of these provide space for an expression of emotion without using words. Bold reds for passion, gentle melodies for sorrow. Shostekovitch understood chaos, as did Picasso on the canvas.
So why do we think our only medium is words when it comes to expressing our concerns for another’s pain? We ask, “How are you? How did this happen? Does it hurt? What can I do to help?”
Instead of providing a canvas for the sorrow someone is carrying, we step in with a paintbrush to create what we want to see. “Here, let me tell you how I would do it.”
I have often wondered how I can go to a symphony concert and sit in silence for a couple of hours, just absorbing what the musicians are pouring out from their souls, yet I struggle to sit for five minutes in silence with someone in pain.
I insert myself into their lament with what sounds good to me, yet I would never think of taking my fiddle and ‘sitting in’ uninvited with the orchestra.
Two approaches
Let’s look at the impact of these two approaches: joining in and quietly observing/listening.
When I join the conversation with my observations or advice, I assume I know who I am talking to and what the problem is. It’s as if, never before hearing a brand new composition by a well-known composer, I could join in and add my notes and my interpretation to his song.
If I were to do that in the creation of someone’s musical masterpiece, I would rightfully be ushered out and not invited back.
Yet, when someone I care about is having a difficult day, instead of letting her song emerge as it needs to, I hear myself say, “Do you think______would help? Or perhaps if you tried________ you would feel better.”
I totally forget that I am in the audience of her life and not expected to do anything but listen.
In silence.
So how do we do that when we are taught from an early age to “be helpful.”
How to be helpful
Let’s return to the concert auditorium for some ideas.
When a musician is pouring out her heart in song, she can tell in a minute if people are listening just by their facial expressions and attentiveness. She doesn’t need to hear comments or suggestions.
She will thrive with the energy she feels from a listening audience. Heads nod in affirmation, tears may fall in a moment of musical pathos, and joy may erupt with claps.
If we are truly present, we, the audience, offer our bodies for communication and leave commentary to the reviewers. I know I never go to a concert or the theater to be heard or seen. I just want to experience what the artist is experiencing.
I have noticed that when a passage is nothing but sorrow-filled, my heart breaks, but I am not destroyed.
When the orchestra erupts in chaotic dissonance, I feel waves of unease in my stomach and relax when the music eventually resolves, as it always does.
I need to keep this in mind when I listen to someone whose life has just been upended by a nightmare – a diagnosis, the loss of a loved one, bankruptcy, or the fear of these things.
This ‘music’ will also resolve. And the most important part for that person is that I am listening. I am not adding my 2 cents worth to resolve it faster.
I am not thinking about how I would do it. I am not walking away. No, I sit through the entire presentation, and my only ‘job’ is to listen.
Can you imagine performing a long 4-part concerto and looking up to see people on their cell phones, or chatting with each other, reading a book or dozing? That is what it feels like to someone who isn’t being heard.
How to really hear
So, how do we put away these metaphorical cell phones and really hear what someone is trying to say? How do I hear you when you really need me to?
I begin by acknowledging to myself that I don’t want to be doing this right now. I would rather be anywhere than in the middle of unresolved pain and sorrow.
I have an inner child (let’s call her Ardie) who is also scared. If I don’t acknowledge Ardie’s feelings that have been part of me for an entire lifetime, I will never be able to hear yours.
Of course, I don’t want to bring Ardie into the conversation, but she can be much more relaxed when she knows I hear her also.
Sometimes, it helps me to remember that I can write a letter to Ardie or journal. However, failing to acknowledge Ardie’s fears and conflicts will always prevent my hearing you.
I settle myself in, much like I would do at a concert.
I put down distractions, no matter how important they may be at the time, and prepare to do nothing more than listen.
To be present, to be still, to rest, whether it is at a concert, a museum of art, or to another person, invites continued practice. And a willingness to sit. In silence. And listen.
May the next person who is on center stage in your life receive the gift of your presence and the healing power of being heard.
Join us every Sunday morning for more food for thought?
