Listening

Listening

I spent this past weekend at Powell House, a Quaker Retreat Center in nearby Old Chatham. The theme of the gathering was blending faith, daily life, and activism. It was led by J. Brent Bill and based on his book, Hope and Witness in Dangerous Times.

Perhaps we have always lived in dangerous times. We certainly live in them now. Though I think of myself these days as more of a retired activist than an active activist, recent events in our country and elsewhere suggest that the time may not be too far off when I will need to place myself in danger again.

I have never wanted to join Edith Piaf in proclaiming, loudly, Non, je ne regrette rien.  I am tempted to say, Moi, je regrette tout. But that would just be another example of my penchant for hyberbole.  Nevertheless, I have many regrets from past commissions and omissions. Sometimes, out walking with Sara, I will flinch, involuntarily. “What is the matter,” she will cry, and I will answer, “Just another regret.”

I regret most particularly that I did not maintain my Quaker faith and practice during my years as an academic. I understand why, Sunday morning being my only unscheduled time, and I am tender with myself, but I still regret it. I do believe I would have made fewer mistakes, and so had fewer flinches, had I kept to both my faith and my practice.

The Quaker testimonies serve me like the poles I recently drove into the ground along the road serve the snow plows that keep the roads in my neighborhood open in the winter — they show me the way. They remind me that if I want peace, I must work for justice; and that if I want justice, I must work for equality. This is integrity. It is that simple.

At the workshop this weekend, however, as those of us gathered there struggled with how to reach across the divisions that currently define our body politic, we began to articulate an additional testimony, the testimony of deep listening.  Frankly, I would be satisfied with just ordinary, perhaps even shallow listening.

Sara and I spent a few days in New York City this past week celebrating my birthday. Having some time between our afternoon event and our evening train, we decided we would just hang out in the new food hall at the Moynihan section of Penn Station. I envisioned a quiet, restful experience after our busy day, a cup of coffee perhaps and a pastry to accompany it, both of us reading or gently talking.

What planet do I live on? I have rarely heard such noise as arose from the food hall – an endless pounding of male voices over an endless beat of drums, all at the highest possible volume. The message seemed both loud and clear – thou shalt not talk, thou shalt not communicate, thou shalt not connect, thou shalt not lift thine eye from thy cellphone. We opted for beer, more than one.

Sara and I rant  – and yes, I notice the contradiction – about the level of noise we encounter at restaurants whenever we eat out. Waiting in a doctor’s office we are subjected to the endless noise of the TV set. In stores, especially this time of year, music is everywhere, outside and inside. It makes you wonder what is so threatening about silence that it must be constantly drowned out.

How many times have you sat in a group and noticed how quickly someone jumps in to speak after another has ceased, as if they are just waiting for the noise to end so that they can say what is on their mind?  Is it possible that we only listen for the noise to cease, so that we can make some ourselves?

How often do we say, “Tell me more?” How often do we simply sit in companionable silence, certain that another has more to say and will eventually share it? How often do we create the quiet that might allow us to hear what is underneath or behind or embedded in the utterance of another? How often do actually listen each other into speech? Is it possible that if in the beginning was the ear not the word, things might have gone differently in Eden?

Quakers, of course, value silence, and not just for its capacity to settle the mind.  Equally important is the conviction that only through silence can we actually hear what matters. This conviction frames for me the testimony of listening.  We have to quiet ourselves if we want to truly take in what someone else is trying to tell us.  And we have to offer our silence to others, perhaps for some time, because it is unlikely that truth will arrive in the first rush of words.

Of course, there must be limits. Since listening is a form of respect, when the speech of the other becomes deeply disrespectful, it is necessary to disconnect, hopefully with gentleness and grace.  And if listening is a testimony, so is speaking. Listening activism implies learning how to speak one’s own truth in such a way that it might be heard.

At the workshop this weekend, I met a woman who, with a group of other Friends/friends, spent each weekend this summer going to neighborhoods other than her own, knocking on doors, making a simple statement and asking a simple question: “I am concerned about the divisions in our country. Are you concerned as well?”  With rare exceptions, a fruitful conversation ensued.  She called it “deep canvassing” and referred me to a link that provided information about its origin and practice.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xN6O5LTaGyg&t=15s

I think about the effect of such an activism were it to be carried out all over the country. Might it make a difference in how we treat each other in every realm?

Perhaps not. But still I wonder: in a country so divided, why is so much energy devoted to keeping us from connecting?  Why is it impossible to have a conversation in the Moynihan Food Hall?