I remember writing in my journal some time in the 70s: ‘I keep listening to people not listening to each other’. I was in my early 20s and on my first OE and was becoming a keen observer of human interaction. When I noticed how people would talk to each other, seemingly not really listening, it bothered me. Still does.
As a news reporter I’d listen back to my tapes (old-school, I know) after the interview and hear where I’d missed an opportunity to ask a follow-up question because I was intent on asking the next one. And I’d think to myself: ‘Listen, girl’. Much later I became a therapist and learnt the gentle art of reflective listening. This involves reflecting back part of what a client has just said so they know they’re being heard. Sometimes a therapist might be the first person who’s really listened to them if they’ve been in active addiction for a while.
So back to the not-really-listening conversations, what I often hear goes something like this:
Person #1: I’m really struggling with this lockdown; I’m so lonely.
Person #2: I’m so pissed off I can’t go to McDonald’s any more!
We’re so intent on telling each other what’s going on for us, we sometimes forget to actually hear what the other person is saying – let alone acknowledging their vulnerability. It’s a weird kind of fear of intimacy. Maybe we’re too scared to get too close to each other because the vulnerability might be catching in some way. Gotta man up – or as Kiwi women say ‘put your big girl pants on’.
In this time of isolation I’m seeing a craving for connection. I see this in myself, as well. When I first went walking during the lockdown, I would try to make eye contact with others out pounding the pavement and when they did actually look at me, I would say hi or gidday or something. And I had to stop because I saw that it wasn’t going down well at all. Some people looked scared and surprised. Who was this crazy woman? So I put an end to it and kept my head down. Now, three weeks later, as I venture out for my daily walk I notice that more people are initiating eye contact with me and saying hello. The difference three weeks makes! Even that brief connection, a smile and a greeting, gives me a sense of belonging. We’re all in this together and we’re getting through it, one brief connection at a time.
In these weird times I believe we need that connection more than ever.
As a news reporter I’d listen back to my tapes (old-school, I know) after the interview and hear where I’d missed an opportunity to ask a follow-up question because I was intent on asking the next one. And I’d think to myself: ‘Listen, girl’. Much later I became a therapist and learnt the gentle art of reflective listening. This involves reflecting back part of what a client has just said so they know they’re being heard. Sometimes a therapist might be the first person who’s really listened to them if they’ve been in active addiction for a while.
So back to the not-really-listening conversations, what I often hear goes something like this:
Person #1: I’m really struggling with this lockdown; I’m so lonely.
Person #2: I’m so pissed off I can’t go to McDonald’s any more!
We’re so intent on telling each other what’s going on for us, we sometimes forget to actually hear what the other person is saying – let alone acknowledging their vulnerability. It’s a weird kind of fear of intimacy. Maybe we’re too scared to get too close to each other because the vulnerability might be catching in some way. Gotta man up – or as Kiwi women say ‘put your big girl pants on’.
In this time of isolation I’m seeing a craving for connection. I see this in myself, as well. When I first went walking during the lockdown, I would try to make eye contact with others out pounding the pavement and when they did actually look at me, I would say hi or gidday or something. And I had to stop because I saw that it wasn’t going down well at all. Some people looked scared and surprised. Who was this crazy woman? So I put an end to it and kept my head down. Now, three weeks later, as I venture out for my daily walk I notice that more people are initiating eye contact with me and saying hello. The difference three weeks makes! Even that brief connection, a smile and a greeting, gives me a sense of belonging. We’re all in this together and we’re getting through it, one brief connection at a time.
In these weird times I believe we need that connection more than ever.
I remember writing in my journal some time in the 70s: ‘I keep listening to people not listening to each other’. I was in my early 20s and on my first OE and was becoming a keen observer of human interaction. When I noticed how people would talk to each other, seemingly not really listening, it bothered me. Still does.
As a news reporter I’d listen back to my tapes (old-school, I know) after the interview and hear where I’d missed an opportunity to ask a follow-up question because I was intent on asking the next one. And I’d think to myself: ‘Listen, girl’. Much later I became a therapist and learnt the gentle art of reflective listening. This involves reflecting back part of what a client has just said so they know they’re being heard. Sometimes a therapist might be the first person who’s really listened to them if they’ve been in active addiction for a while.
So back to the not-really-listening conversations, what I often hear goes something like this:
Person #1: I’m really struggling with this lockdown; I’m so lonely.
Person #2: I’m so pissed off I can’t go to McDonald’s any more!
We’re so intent on telling each other what’s going on for us, we sometimes forget to actually hear what the other person is saying – let alone acknowledging their vulnerability. It’s a weird kind of fear of intimacy. Maybe we’re too scared to get too close to each other because the vulnerability might be catching in some way. Gotta man up – or as Kiwi women say ‘put your big girl pants on’.
In this time of isolation I’m seeing a craving for connection. I see this in myself, as well. When I first went walking during the lockdown, I would try to make eye contact with others out pounding the pavement and when they did actually look at me, I would say hi or gidday or something. And I had to stop because I saw that it wasn’t going down well at all. Some people looked scared and surprised. Who was this crazy woman? So I put an end to it and kept my head down. Now, three weeks later, as I venture out for my daily walk I notice that more people are initiating eye contact with me and saying hello. The difference three weeks makes! Even that brief connection, a smile and a greeting, gives me a sense of belonging. We’re all in this together and we’re getting through it, one brief connection at a time.
In these weird times I believe we need that connection more than ever.
As a news reporter I’d listen back to my tapes (old-school, I know) after the interview and hear where I’d missed an opportunity to ask a follow-up question because I was intent on asking the next one. And I’d think to myself: ‘Listen, girl’. Much later I became a therapist and learnt the gentle art of reflective listening. This involves reflecting back part of what a client has just said so they know they’re being heard. Sometimes a therapist might be the first person who’s really listened to them if they’ve been in active addiction for a while.
So back to the not-really-listening conversations, what I often hear goes something like this:
Person #1: I’m really struggling with this lockdown; I’m so lonely.
Person #2: I’m so pissed off I can’t go to McDonald’s any more!
We’re so intent on telling each other what’s going on for us, we sometimes forget to actually hear what the other person is saying – let alone acknowledging their vulnerability. It’s a weird kind of fear of intimacy. Maybe we’re too scared to get too close to each other because the vulnerability might be catching in some way. Gotta man up – or as Kiwi women say ‘put your big girl pants on’.
In this time of isolation I’m seeing a craving for connection. I see this in myself, as well. When I first went walking during the lockdown, I would try to make eye contact with others out pounding the pavement and when they did actually look at me, I would say hi or gidday or something. And I had to stop because I saw that it wasn’t going down well at all. Some people looked scared and surprised. Who was this crazy woman? So I put an end to it and kept my head down. Now, three weeks later, as I venture out for my daily walk I notice that more people are initiating eye contact with me and saying hello. The difference three weeks makes! Even that brief connection, a smile and a greeting, gives me a sense of belonging. We’re all in this together and we’re getting through it, one brief connection at a time.
In these weird times I believe we need that connection more than ever.
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