At the Hospice, toward the end of our training, we are asked what comes when we think of Deep Listening. We speak, passing around a heart-shaped bean bag:
Rob says, “I remember as a kid dropping stones into a well. It’s the interval between when a stone is released and when it hits the water.”
Heather receives the heart and says, “It’s standing under a choir of liquid static falling from the aurora borealis, science says it’s an auditory hallucination, but I’d challenge that.”
Gloria says, “I see a mom at her daughter’s piano recital. The daughter poised, lifts her hands above the keys, no one dares to clear their throat.”
Miyo holds the heart and says, “A room, not a square room, a room the size and shape of earth, with rivers and trees full of birds, white-throated sparrows, for example — oh, such singing!”
Stephanie says, “I live close to a forest trail, you’ll often find me there. Sometimes I put my arms around an aging hemlock, place my ear on the rough bark and go still — up through the roots … the pulse of the sun.”
I say: “I’m in grade nine and my French teacher is explaining how nouns ending with double consonants are feminine, as her flaxen hair — that old kind, the flaxen you can still find under Romance at a used book store — falls over a partially exposed shoulder.”
Wendy says: “I read that a coral reef needs fish to keep it clean and healthy and it plays a kind of crackly wooing song. The fish listen with their whole colourful bodies and come to the reef. Music. Survival.”
Aaron says, “There was a time we had to call an ambulance. I heard the siren go right by our yard and fade over a hill; I knew they’d correct themselves, turn back, still, I stood at the approach like an antenna pitched to the siren’s frequency.”
Holly says, “Sitting beside moving water, any water, a spring, a brook, a tide or a trace of tributary tumbling over pebbles, congregating in eddies then spilling down a stone ledge, released into a turquoise lake.”
Lois says, “I love lakes like that. I remember stepping out of the camper early in the morning before anyone was up, the lake’s surface was a giant mirror with mountains in it and everything was so quiet I could hear water dripping off a canoeist’s paddle.”
Nadia receives the cloth heart, closes her eyes and breathes. We wait and wait … then understand. She says, “I see our hearts with ears attached.”
Cornelia and Lisa, our trainers, say, “Anywhere there is listening at depth, love is present.”
This is such a beautiful collection of insights. I would love to share it with my chaplain colleagues. Would you give me permission to do so, Stephen? And I am excited about the opportunities before you in this setting. Profound moments await your witness and companionship. My heart is singing it!
Hi Wenda, thank you so much for your kind words and gracious encouragement. And of course you can share it.
Listening in that tiny space between words that is only big enough for one.
Thanks Marcia. I like that.
Incredibly insightful and beautiful.
Thank you so much Kellie!
When dewy eyes deprived of speech squeezes with the remaining responsive hand.
I feel this Ray. Can see you listening to your beloved to the end. Still listening. More than memory.
It seems you are surrounded by kindred souls. These are all so beautiful and evocative.
Thank you Teryl!
So I come to the end – about the hearts with ears – and tears come…. Thanks.
Thanks for that Sam. That means a lot!