Being Seen and Heard

60: (September 2022)

Worries, dreams, hopes, musings. How often do we share our thoughts? Moreover, how often do we truly listen to what others have to say? To listen deeply, to really discern what is at the heart of someone else’s words, takes more conscious intention than just ‘hearing’ what someone has to say. Feelings can live deep inside, so sometimes the best way to listen may be to search beyond the words in order to understand the genuine meaning of what’s being said.

Humans long for connection, for communion with others. This is readily apparent in today’s world, where people scramble to be seen and heard in a society that is increasingly distracted. People who practice the art of listening can be valuable mediators — healers in a world that needs healing — because listening shows caring. It takes time to listen, it takes letting someone else be important enough to warrant one’s full attention. Maybe true listening is the first essential step in creating a bridge to someone with different views, a valuable skill indeed in our divided country.

On the other side of the coin, attempting to be heard means taking a risk — believing that what you feel or know is worth sharing. I wonder if there are people in my life who have veiled their true selves, who no longer risk being heard. For that matter, I’m sure I occasionally shield my true self from others out of wariness of being seen or heard for who I am.

Yet sharing who we are doesn’t always require words. There are times when composing instrumental music expresses as much or more of myself than anything else, saying what I can’t easily put into words. Do we all ultimately long to be heard, to somehow say something that proves we are alive? Perhaps the longing to connect and be heard is to prove that we are not alone, to prove that we all share a common bond deep within. There is no disputing the fact that we are all experiencing life together at this particular point in time; that’s a bond in and of itself.

I have a quiet nature, so maybe it’s no surprise that the musical piece I composed that best expresses my deepest self is called “The Whisper”; you can listen to it here. 😉

40: (September 2002)

My daughters and I have had the good fortune to get to know a group of people with developmental challenges who live in a residential home in our community. My younger daughter recently remarked, “All the world would be a better place if everyone was like the people who live there — they’re friendlier, nicer.”  I knew what she meant; the residents of the home seemed so unabashedly eager to befriend people.

I have had the opportunity to play the piano for movement classes at this home and have likewise been charmed by how straightforward and loving most of the residents are. One day in class, I was particularly struck by a resident who looked me directly in the eye when I glanced up from the piano.

Generally speaking, people in everyday life look quickly away when one catches another’s eye by surprise. It is a culturally established code; look at someone for two or three seconds, then turn away, or risk feeling awkward and invasive. But this man continued to hold his gaze and smiled the gentlest smile. I smiled back, expecting that after a brief acknowledgment, we would break eye contact. I caught myself in this assumption just before I began to avert my eyes, so I held them steady instead of turning away. We looked at each other and smiled for well over the time that would be considered ordinarily acceptable.

It was such a sweet moment. I reflected on what my daughter had said, and thought about how the world would be a better place if we could all live without the self-conscious guard that is too often part of everyday life. What if we could be comfortable smiling and looking at each other with no time limitations, no mask? Why are we afraid to look at each other? What is it we are afraid of discovering? What is it about our own selves that we fear revealing?

In that gaze there was acceptance of who I was and who he was. We could all do with quite a bit more of that in our world.

60-40:

I was at my town’s fall festival this past weekend when I recognized a man who has been living in the residential home that I wrote about 20 years ago. We waved at each other across the town common. His eyes held mine, just as his housemate’s did two decades ago. No hidden agendas. No self-consciousness. Just two souls smiling at each other, happy to be seen.

And then we turned and listened to the town band play a John Philip Sousa tune, joined together by the sounds of a good old-fashioned marching band.