The art of listening is one I'm currently discovering. As an external processor, I catch myself, dominating a conversation, thinking of what personal connections relate to the words spoken by the person in front of me. As a writer and a storyteller, I'm a bit ashamed to admit this, and have known it's an area I've wanted to change for quite some time. So at the turn of the new year, my mind resonated with the simple goal, to listen better.
Diving head first in a new form of journalism at the start of the year, audio-storytelling through podcasting, has helped kick-start this discipline, to listen, in challenging and invigorating ways. I've been working on the same story for nearly two months. Over time, I plan to get faster, but the full production of interviewing, capturing sound effects, story-writing, audio editing and self-teaching myself audio engineering skills, has created quite an extensive learning project. The words of my interview-ees are constantly running through my mind. I have played back their voices dozens of times , trying to really listen to the story in their words, rather than self-manipulating a story that fits my personal agenda. The breaking of their voice in moments, the pauses before answering certain questions, the extent to which they explain themselves, or don't. I find the story I had put together for this person, and how their life-events and actions fit into the pre-planned theme, is often proved wrong when I truly listen. A friend of mine recently finished an ultra-marathon, or a 100k. This isn't unusual for him, as his life is full of extreme sports and challenges. My pre-emptive assumptions could have written a story about him without ever sitting down and asking him questions, without ever listening. I would have gone on and on about how there must have been some huge, life shaping event causing him to be drawn to extreme challenges, and how the sense of accomplishment he attains from completing another long race, major thru-hike or epic rafting trip gives him a sense of empowerment and confidence to carry with him in the rest of life. That would have been my story. But after sitting down with him, and intentionally listening to his recording over and over again, my assumption makes me feel small, and wrong. Instead of my preconceived notions, I find that this man isn't even looking for a sense of accomplishment in completion with these ventures, but quite the opposite. He chooses to enter into these extreme activities in order to experience the grit it takes to get through it. He finds that part- the rigorous task of facing uncomfortability- that part is where his character is built, that is what he intrinsically craves- not because it sounds thrilling, but because it is a necessary evil of life he would like to grasp with a trained grip. It's his story. Not my own. I've almost felt a block in my writing pursuits since discovering my subject's story versus my own, because I wonder how many other times I have been guilty of doing this. This podcast has taken me on a trail of sounds. The sound of water trickling over rocks, the sound of feet squeaking against concrete slabs, the sound of sandals crunching crisp leaves on a gravel trail. Breath- both calm and at work, dry sticks on a fresh fire, human-to-human banter, every-day conversations, the sound of acoustic guitar strings strummed by rusty but eager fingers. The Sound of Wonder is what this podcast will be called. Because that is the hope. Even the most mundane sound, should make us wonder, should draw us in, should cause question. If we ever get to the place where we know everything, assume it's meaning and decide it's destiny, then we have officially lost the chance to wonder. Why are the rocks silent? What brings a person to pause their speech, and why is it so hard for others to catch a breath? How can a substance as clear as water create such weight, power, sound? I am being challenged to listen. Not just in creating art, but in every-day life. The world around me is filled with messages. My co-workers, performing mundane tasks next to me at work, slip little pieces of their life story subtly into casual conversation. I can so easily be in my own head or solely focused on the practical task in front of me that I can miss a significant slice of shared vulnerability from one life to the other. Something like this can seem so small, but can actually be the foundations of a trusting relationship. Our nation is in a place where women are speaking out against sexual abuse, children are asking for their safety in schools to be a national priority, and immigrants are on-edge wondering their destiny in our land. When I listen, I hear desperation, I hear voices eager to matter, I hear people with natural human desires to be valued, accepted and safe. Nature itself speaks, if I allow it to be heard. Sometimes I can almost hear the disparity in my personal garden, grueling in expression when it's thirsty, over-watered, over-heated or mistreated. When I retreat to the wilderness, away from city lights, industry production and fuel emissions, the air almost tastes different, like it's crisper and more refreshing. The trees and plants are rich in color, and the sounds of bugs, birds and small animals are vibrant and busy. It's inviting, almost to reveal the wonder of what could be. If only we respected the earth with the majesty it gives to us. And there are words. Words shared, or not shared, from a loved one to another. There is meaningful, ancient content scribed in the books of the Bible, not meant to be read at a glimpse and with personal agenda, but to be meditated, conversed and digested in it's entire context and mystery, with the ability of surrender, knowing that we may not have all the answers. There are powerful words from those who've seen and experienced more than myself. Astronauts who have looked back at earth, wish the whole world could see from their perspective- this one earth, this shared solar system, this need to work together. How important is it to truly wonder about the message behind these wise words, these pleas from nature, these human cries? How easily it can all be missed, and what a tragedy that is. What are the consequences if we are too busy to listen to the voice behind the words, the ache behind the beauty and the message within the story? We might live satisfied out of our own righteous entitlement, gleaming in the sound of our own voice, but I'm afraid we might just live our life completely missing the point.
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AuthorKatie Elizabeth: Writer, Wonderer, Wanderer. Archives
July 2019
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