"That was my favourite walk, ever. It's the best in the twilight." Carefree joy of a boy with new words on his lips. Twilight. Dusk.
He listens to me and the ideas I speak build expanding concepts in him. Now he can name twilight, and he delights in doing it.
Keep listening my son, listen, learn, grow.
Stillness. At the end of the bumpy road. Valley like a bowl cradling fog.
Sit and listen in the stillness.
“Be still, and know that I am God!I will be honored by every nation.I will be honored throughout the world.”
Neuron by Roxy Paine at the MCA (Sydney Biennale, 2010)
Listen. An impulse runs along stretching, linking cell projections. A single instrument in an orchestra of radiating sensation. Somehow these neurones can perceive, collate and interpret the sound around me. In milliseconds I respond. I can shape an appropriate thought, vocalise it and be understood by the one who listens to me. Miraculously, earth-shatteringly, simply, effortlessly brilliant.
Listening takes me into messy places. Again and again I hear pain. I hear the terrifying, hopelessly trapped results of an unplanned crime. I hear the wish to die because life is too hard or too hopeless. I hear language blurred, marred and tumbling out tossed into salad. Memories fading, perceptions tricked as unbodied voices scare psychotic people.
Maybe listening is my gift. I lay it unwrapped in the lap of the broken. Maybe I share grace by really listening, by the inefficiency of stopping and listening. Listening to the story I don't need to sit for because I already know what needs doing. It can wait, you need to be heard.