The Art of Being Heard

Garrison Keiller performed at the Keene Colonial Theater this spring, to a packed and enthusiastic crowd.  He sat alone on the stage, with nothing but a stool and bottled water.  There he sang and spoke for 120 minutes.  No television, no phones, no media, no conversation… just this man and his stories.  People paid up to $100.00 for the experience.

I recently finished Hospice Volunteer Training in Brattleboro.  The first few sessions involved sharing stories with a partner.  Each person shared for ten minutes.  They spoke while the partner listened– without interrupting, mentioning a similar experience, or judging.  The listener offered their full presence, with appropriate body language—facing toward the storyteller, eyes alert and focused, sitting still and remaining quiet.  Then, they would switch, and the listener had the chance to be heard.

What happens when you tell your story?  What changes occur through the act of listening wholly?

It’s difficult to quantify the experience.  How do our bodies change?  Does heart rate relax, cortisol decrease, oxygen increase, and breathing expand?  Do pleasure-regulating chemicals like Oxytocin or Dopamine rise in the brain?  Does saliva normalize, becoming less acidic?  Do T-cells and IgA levels change?  How about glucose and adrenaline?  Does the blood sugar stabilize?  Do neurons fire more rapidly?  Does blood flow increase and stimulate the memory areas of the brain?   Research has demonstrated positive results with these and other physiological changes.

It’s also difficult to qualify the experience.  How do our minds change?  Do people feel better?  Do moods alter?  Does depression subside?  Do our attention spans lengthen?  Do we learn empathy?  Do we strengthen our connection with another being?  Are we inspired?  Do we gain the motivation to persist?  Do we choose life over death?

Again, research has been conducted, studying the effects of storytelling on both the teller and the listener.  All of these factors have been documented.

Artist Karen Becker said that the only thing a human being needs is Recognition.  It is the Meaning of Life, so to speak.  So, does the story offer us recognition?  Are we able to be seen—and in this way—become alive?  As we hear someone’s story, we identify with some of their experience, realize our own stories are shared, and in this way, gain a communal recognition.

Indigenous cultures have known for thousands, religion for hundreds, and psychologists for dozens of years that storytelling is integral to the human experience.  It’s how we transfer information, influence the tribe, and honor god.  It’s how we make sense of our world around us, so we can live in it.

Today, Recognition is alive and thriving.  We play “Show and Tell” through YouTube and MySpace.  Social networking sites proliferate by offering the opportunity to be heard, even one sentence at a time.  Facebook and Twitter ask us the simple question:  What’s on your mind? And from that, an entire paradigm shifts.

The Art of Being Heard is powerful.  As I sat with the audience, listening to Garrison Keiller weave his tales—offering simple and graphic details in a kind of PG-13-Rockwell painting come to life—I felt connected to him and everyone in the room.  All of us giggled away as he poked and prodded at religion and regaled simple details like the majestic, steamy arch of a 12 year-old boy’s urination.

I wondered what it must have felt like to be heard in this way.  To hold a room silent and still, as you open yourself up and reveal your truth.  To captivate an audience of a thousand by telling others who you are.  To be recognized by not only one, but by a thousand souls.  How would my mind and body shift, in that situation?

Next time you are with a friend, try it. Bypass the shallower subjects like the weather.  Avoid the typical gossip or complaints about money, job, and spouses.  Ask them to share a story that holds personal meaning:  a story of loss, triumph, or inspiration.  A time they were smart… or stupid.   Ask them about their hero.  Ask them to reveal themselves to you.

Allow your dear ones the opportunity to be recognized.  One story at a time.

Printed in the Pioneer Valley News, July Edition

www.pioneervalleynews.com

Writing

 

Writing—seriously writing—I see it as Julie Andrews.  I am Mary Poppins, and I’ve entered an orphanage, filled with dozens of shy, scared kids.  They are all hiding in the corner, crouched down, arms covering their heads, with their eyes barely showing.  But, their eyes follow me around the room, watching my every move.  They want to know if I’m for real, if I’m going to stay or if I’m going to turn around and leave.  I stay for a while, not asking or expecting the kids to come and interact.  I sit in the middle of the room and I speak to other adults, and when the adults leave, I remain in the room and hum a tune and doodle on a canvas.  I’m hanging around, in no hurry.  The kids remain in their positions, and a few eyes are a bit wider in their hidden stance. 

I do leave—they watch me leave—but I return the next day, and the next, and each day, I do the same thing.  I show up, place myself in the middle of the room, and allow but do not ask and do not expect the kids to come over.  The kids begin to realize that I come; I do leave, but that I return.  They can now count on that.  They can expect me to return.  And, one day, when I do return, one or two of the bolder ones will gently, slowly rise up, shake out their bodies and venture toward me—to see what I’m doing.  And, then, the next day, they remain far away, watching again.  And, this continues, and then another day they come up and join me, and maybe a few others follow the bold ones, and they stand around me, some next to me, and watch me doodle.  Maybe they talk amongst themselves, but not yet to me. 

If I ask the children a question at this point, they clam up—they avert their eyes, and their energy flows back inward, self-protecting.  They are curious and feel a bit safe, yet they don’t trust me. 

This happens for a while, until one day, I am in the middle, quiet and patient, and a few children come up to see what I’m doing.  A bold and curious one will ask me a question— what I am doing?  If I answer too strongly—giving too much explanation—the child will shut down again.  So, I mirror the answer– answer in the way I am questioned.  The child is silent, contemplating.  I continue, and although I am more excited now, I contain the excitement, for if I shout my thrill at being approached and interacted, the children will flee, frightened and annoyed. 

For a while, we play with this dance.  Some days I am approached and questioned—now by more children—and some days, they remain in the corners.  Some days, no one pays any attention to me at all.  Some days they come out and play with toys and talk amongst themselves.  Some days I don’t notice the children, focusing on my art. 

But slowly, and without even noticing, the questions and answers increase, and sometimes they melt into a conversation of sorts.  We forget to be scared and just simply interact with each other.  They know I’m not going to harm or leave them.  They know I will listen to their questions, and I will answer them.  And I know that I am going to continue to return to them, regardless of the outcome.  Being There is the outcome.  It’s as good as it gets; it has to be, or else it all falls apart. 

Then, one day, something magical happens:  we all suddenly, somehow, stop taking ourselves so goddamned seriously.  We cannot control each other—they can’t make me return and I can’t make them interact—but suddenly we suspend caring about that, and for a brief second, we just… laugh.  Something funny happens—I spill a jar of paint, someone farts—something funny happens, and we all burst out and giggle!  Except the shier ones.  They still look on, with wide eyes.  And, of course the shiest ones, who are still hiding near the wall. 

But, we laugh!  Even the shy ones who are not laughing are enjoying the moment—perhaps they are laughing inside.  And, in that moment when we all laugh at some silly little thing, we have done something we have not yet done—we are enjoying the moment, together.  And, nothing happens afterwards.  We just laugh, and afterwards, everyone can go back to safe corners.  And I leave. 

Except that the next day– post-laughing day– when I come into the room, my eyes scan the room.  I meet the eyes of some of the braver, and I look with love at the shier—I gather them in, with a smile.  Some smile back.  I don’t do anything else; I don’t talk about the laugh, I don’t invite them up, I just return to my table and I continue my process.  Maybe they come over and maybe they don’t. 

After the laughing day, though, it is easier.  Children come up and ask questions.  We have conversations.  Some children offer ideas on what to draw.  The shy ones look on, and once in a while, from the wall, one of them will ask a question, and I will answer them.  Or, they’ll ask something and I’ll invite them to come see.  And, once in a while, they will.  Some of the bold ones will ask if they can try—so I hand them some art supplies and they play with the pastels and the canvas.  Sometimes they draw something that causes the others to giggle or speak animatedly.  A few more bold ones will ask to try.  Some of the shy ones are now raising their heads, wiggling their necks a bit, to get a better view.  They are squeezing in a bit tighter, to see more of the picture.  And, one day, I feel two tiny fingers gently—ever so gently—touching the palm of my free, hanging hand.  A particularly shy child—a sweet young girl who has not yet uttered a single word or who has ever looked me directly in the eye— comes up, unnoticed from the excitement of the crowd of active children, stands behind me, and quietly takes my hand.  For a few minutes, we are holding hands, without pressure, but with gesture and feeling.  The world and space around our hands is holding us together.  And, when she lets go, I melt away and feel like crying.  This tender interface of energy is something too dear, too much to manage some days.  The moment of sweet victory is tremendous, and sometimes I have to acknowledge it.

But, not take it too seriously.  And, not expect it to happen the next day.  Or, ever again.  Except that, from that point on, I can enter the room, make eye contact, acknowledge the shy ones, and as I make space for myself in the middle of the room, I now lay out canvas for the other children—there is plenty of space—and materials for them to draw.  I don’t expect them to come, but I can see it, and I am comfortable with it, so now I make space for it.  Some draw, some watch, some remain by the wall watching, some talk, some are quiet still, in the same position as in the first day.  I wonder if there are some children who I will never come to know, in the time of my being there.  But, in a way I have come to know them; they are the hidden ones.  They are not part of my active experience, but they too choose to show up every day.  Perhaps they are the audience, participating through their observation.  And, if they are not noticing us, they are simply being with us.  We are all keeping company. 

One day I feel the urge to hug one of the children.  Or, they have the urge to hug me.  Whatever.  All I know is that, when it’s time for me to leave, one of the children leaps up, shuffles over to me, and as I turn to him, all four of our arms are outstretched.  We hug, smiling, and say, “see ya.”  Others look on, and there is a moment of stillness in the air.  We’ve all been here before.  Somehow, we have all moved forward a tiny bit and taken a bit of a chance, and that we’re all waiting to see what will happen next.  And, without expectation, but with deep sorrowful gratitude, I am smiling inside; it just doesn’t get any better than this.  I begin to clean up my space and head out the door.  And, as I do, the chorus of children shrieks behind me:  Susie!  Susie!  Several—no, most—of the children come rushing forward, rushing toward me in a sea of love and pure child joy—and we hug in a circle, tremendous and wiggly. 

I am beside myself with joy; I separate from my body and watch this magical moment.  I am watching me get hugged and loved, watching me give love. 

And I return the next day.  And, the next.  And, of course, the next.  And, I keep on returning, until the day that I am no longer myself. 

p.s.  The shy girl holds my hand most days now.

Art

When you’re in the studio painting, there are a lot of people in there with you. Your teachers, friends, painters from history, critics.., and one by one, if you’re really painting, they walk out. And if you’re really painting, you walk out.                    (Flack, Art & Soul, p.15)

When you sit down to your Art, and by that I mean sit down to your computer, your window seat to your journal, stand up and walk over to your canvas, sit down on the beach with your sketch book, walk in the woods to hear your ideas, lean against the wall strumming your guitar

and listen to your calling, and by that I mean to summon yourself, to hear your artistic call, which does not punch in and out and which does not worry about the weather or plan a road trip by the most logical destination route

When you sit down to your art, you are squished in a crowded place where thought, feeling, worry, doubt, judgment, criticism, hunger, agendas, deadlines, people, problems, time, they are all there, all observing you, all wondering when you will be finished so that you can stand up and DO something.., get back to us, they cry, we need you, we are important, you are important to us, it is imperative that you GET UP AND DO SOMETHING FOR GODSSAKE.

and you keep listening to your Art, keep looking at your world through the eyes and heart of an artist, focus on your sculpture, your journal, your breath, your lack of it, you do not raise your head to these fools who devour and absorb your life into the sponge that returns to the ocean and never squeezes out accomplishment, only crosses things off a list.

Even the poetry of parenthood– something as sacred and pure as parenthood! Is just a series of things to cross off on a list:

become pregnant, give birth, bond with child, experience post-partum depression, get over it, look at your child, feed it, bathe it, wipe its ass, pull it from the streets, get sick with it, get over it, look at it in its bed, take it to soccer practice pick it up from soccer practice, make it dinner, find its sneakers, love it, blame it, get mad at it, get over it, parenting is a continual stream of things being crossed off a list, as is all the “stuff” of life– kids, partners, job, pets, homes, automobiles, entertainment, on and on. All of these are in your room when you summon your Art. They all scream, “I am real!! I am real! Stop this nonsense and get back to me!”

Art has no agenda.

Only Art is real.

Why is it real? Because Art is pure flow of feeling and expression. When you and your “stuff” walk out is when Art comes.

How does it come?

A silent feeling becomes a silent thought, which becomes a quiet idea.

Idea becomes stirring.

longing

tension

a disturbance… an anxiety

a pulling… tugging

It becomes a reminding, then a nagging. Eventually, it must be expressed, or else we fall into a coma. Art obstructs our lives, whether figuratively, as an inability to focus on tasks, or literally, such as materials scattered all over the house. Ironically, all the “meaningful stuff”– that robs us of our time alone with art– suffers when we are not free to express our Art… We cannot “get on” with our lives until it is expressed.

mundane and insignificant tasks left unfinished when Art is suppressed. … unfree until Art is free.

What happens when you release your Art? Do you give birth when you express it, or do you kill it? Does it come alive, free from the confinements of within, or, now an object that people can experience– does it die in its new subjective prison, sentenced to an eternity of opinions?

You see. In its expression comes Eternal Interpretation. Only within does Art retain its pure life of true expression. Only from within is Art truly art.., the vibration. Truly you. Your Art is safest within, as it lives in its most sacred of space. Mona Lisa is not safe in the thick, glass confinements. Every eye and every opinion damages her, diminishes her. Every body ruins her. Even those that adore her, they are not the artist, they did not know what he felt when he created her. Mona Lisa flowed through da Vinci; he is the only one who knows what she felt like to create. Not what she means: Art doesn’t mean anything– but what she felt like. Only da Vinci will ever know.

Don’t count on life to provide you a sacred space for your Art. You, alone, are your ovn provider and your own sacred space. Everything else– from the most serene sunset to the most private cave– is some place …. someplace you go to, run to, find solace in.

What happens to you, dear one, when the sun disappears, someone enters the cave? No one can enter you unless you allow it.

This is Sacred Space. This is where real Art emerges. Everything else is just props. Everything else is just widgets and devices and cleaning supplies and rigmaroles and stuff. Life is simply the interruption of the flow of your Art.

Sit down with yourself. Pull out your Art. Look at it. Listen to it. Be alone with it. Feel your Art as it stirs within you, as you birth it, and as you cradle it in your arms. Fondle and stroke your Art, love it, see it, smell it, breathe it in, breathe it out. Get to know it. Feel it before you go running to the publisher to validate its “somethingness” for the world. Feel it before you go running to the gallery to give it “meaning.” Do not send yourself rejection slips. Don’t judge your Art; just love it, like the child that it is.

Because, the minute you give it to the world, you lose it. The world will pick it up and tell you what your Art is. It will describe your Art in annotated bibliographies, and captions below a painting. The world will pick you up and tell you who you are. The world will hand you a label with your name on it, for you to wear over your heart. Do you want this? Or, do you want to tell the world who you are?

Or, do you want to tell yourself. You better be sure of what you want, because once you open the door to your sacred space and let them in, they will eat your food and drink your wine and sit on the arm of your comfortable chair and lean over your shoulder and ask you what you are doing and they will stay a while, too long, and you will tire, your energy will wane, and your Art, your fragile, amazing Art which has no voice of its own, only a feeling which taps at you gently

your Art will slink away, will tell you, it’s okay, I will come back later.

Except that after a million days like this, Art will not come back. It never dies, it just stays away. It knows when it’s not wanted. Even Art can learn from your mistakes.

Do you wonder why you are so sad, so alone, why you are always feeling like you’re missing something, like you’ve forgotten something? Don’t check your “To Do” list; you won’t find what you’re looking for there.

You are looking for your Art, of course. And your Art is hiding so small, so alone, your Art is gone, and you can never find it because the phone is ringing. You better answer it.

Could be important.