The Art of Listening

There is so much noise in the world, we forget to listen. Sometimes you just have to stop and close your eyes. Then see with your ears only. What sounds are there? Birds carrying on, a car starting up, rustling leaves, children gabbling. It's funny that just sitting here trying to conjure up the sounds takes concentration. I think it's because there is so much noise in the world -- especially in our heads -- that we just can't process it all.

I used to be a really good listener. I was so unsure of myself, so quiet, that others were compelled to fill the air with their voices. Somewhere along the line, I gained some confidence and felt I had something to contribute. That's  when it headed south. Now I realize that people don't really want my opinion. I'm sitting there, trying to formulate the next witty remark or brilliant observation, when what I should be doing is shutting it and listening. 

Listening involves so much more than hearing the words. It's what people don't say and how they don't say it. It's facial expression and reading intent.

Sometimes, the most important listening is the kind that involves being in touch with yourself. Paying attention to your inner voice. Just imagine how the quality of life would soar if only we listened with our hearts.

Ah, well. We're all doing what we can. Sometimes listening to the Beatles is the best we can do.

Life in Another City

In a perfect world, everyone would go live somewhere else for awhile. I was fortunate to have lived in Alexandria, Virgina, a suburb of our nation's capital, for three years.

I was 27 years old, and my company had just been acquired. The new owners flew me to D.C. for an interview. I was smitten. When they offered me the job, I accepted without hesitation. My boyfriend, who had been employed at the same place as I, did not take a job with the new company, but reluctantly agreed to go with me. Together, we conquered D.C. (and its environs), mostly via the Metro, Washington's underground rail system.

On the weekends, we would choose a new area to explore. Or we'd go see an exhibit that was opening at one of the Smithsonian museums. Our adventures were amazing, and they drew the two of us closer together. We got married while we were living there, with six guests and our cat in our apartment. The ceremony was officiated by a justice of the peace, and we dug into a party tray, champagne and a devil's food cake (made by yours truly).

My routine included rising every morning and reading the Washington Post with my coffee. It was the one time in my life when I knew the most about what was going on in the world of politics. The Post is a great paper, and Katherine Graham is my hero (more about that another time). Living in DC was exciting, stimulating, and very, very cool. From my desk at work, I could look out and occasionally see the presidential helicopter, accompanied by a second chopper, flying down the Potomac.

Working in the Washington area also brought me in contact with people from all over the country (and the world). One guy in our office was born in Venezuela. There was the woman from Germany, another from China. And folks from across the U.S. There were one or two people who grew up in the area, but they were in the minority. It was the one time in my life when people teased me about my midwestern twang. (Who knew I had a twang?)

Our adventure ended when my father-in-law passed away, and we returned to the city of our birth to care for my mother-in-law. In a strange twist of fate, it was about that time that the company I was working for was acquired by a company in Akron, Ohio, a city which is just south of our home in Cleveland. I am still working there to this day.

Living in another city gave me a unique perspective. It opened my mind to worlds vastly different from my own. I met some wonderful people, learned about a city rich in history, and built up a storehouse of memories that I cherish.  The funny thing is, a lot of the people who grew up in the DC area were pretty blasè about it all -- they used to tease me that I saw more of the city than they had.

Which is why it's a good idea to live somewhere else. Even if it's just for a little while. It's hard to see where you are when you're there. 

A Shout Out to My Siblings

April is home to many little-known holidays. There's "Pig in a Blanket Day." And "Hug a Plumber Day." Also, "Talk Like Shakespeare Day." One holiday I missed, but for which I'd like to atone now, is "National Sibling Day."

First of all, I have to give credit to my nephew, Max, who advised us, via Facebook, of this auspicious holiday. It started me thinking about my own brothers and sisters and our shared history of laughter, weirdness, and, oh yeah, love.

I am certain all six of us have very different views of what it was like growing up in our teeny-tiny house. Our individual perspectives are based on where we are in the pecking order and our very unique personalities.

As for me, with a warped, glass-half-empty personality, my memories, strangely enough, are mostly happy. I was #5 in the line-up, and by my mother's account, not planned. In a Catholic family in that era, this was not unusual -- only children were an oddity. An oddity I sometimes envied, particularly when vying for time in the one-and-only bathroom. Our house was one floor, no basement. The attic was partially finished, but not inhabitable. Luckily, my parents had 3 boys and 3 girls, so dividing up the living arrangements was simplified.

Being the second youngest had several advantages. I was able to enjoy the upside of having a big family as a child, without having to deal with it much as a teenager. For example, I got away with a lot more than my older siblings, simply because my parents were pooped by the time I was in high school. Basically, if I didn't get arrested, they were happy. We had a "don't ask, don't tell" relationship at that point.

Back to National Siblings Day...I'd like to take a moment to thank each of my siblings for helping to shape me into the twisted sister I am today. From oldest to youngest...

Gary. Nine years older than I, he was clearly the leader of the pack. (We called it "bossy" back in the day.) He was tasked with teaching us to ride our bikes. ("Get up, that didn't hurt.") He was my big brother, he rode a motorcycle, played in a band, and was adored by girls everywhere. As a youngster, I was smitten with adoration. (I later recovered.) Gary was the rebel. I admire him because he persevered and found his place in the world and made it a better place. And he came to understand that Mac is better than Microsoft.

John. Eight years older that I, he was the Felix Unger to Gary's Oscar Madison. He did well in school. But he had his rebellious streak, too, leaving home to follow a girl to New Jersey. Driving across the country with a buddy. Off to look for America. He is an amazing photographer. He has the gift of capturing people on film, not just their image but their essence. He and Gary were big Beatles fans. Which is how I came to learn the words to every Beatles song. He gave a mean "swirly." I feel confident, however, that I could torment him today without fear of getting one. He'd never be able to lift me, but I'm sure he'd find something witty to say that would do the trick. (Biting wit is a Schrimpf hallmark.)

Diane Seven years older than I. Her love of the outdoors inspired me. I was a Girl Scout for a time. (But there were too many womanly arts taught, not enough camping for my taste, back in the day.) She made snow sculptures of oversized animals, including a turkey and a camel. She kept me in line. She helped to broaden my interest in music and the world. She's a take-charge kind of person, and was a superhero at the end of my parents' lives, seeing to their needs when they could no longer take care of themselves. And yet, when I think of her, I still hear "Tina the Ballerina" playing in my head.

Denise. Four years older than I. Although she was not happy when I arrived, we became very close in my coming-of-age years. We talked in the dark a lot before falling asleep. When she started dating, she was my source for how things really worked. She introduced me to the Downtown Library. She took me to a silent film festival at CSU. She kept me grounded. The classic "middle child." Denise was the sensitive one, which made her a target. But she survived, it made her tougher, and she has a great sense of humor. And I bet, if you ask her, she'll have a nickel to give. She always does.

Paul. Five years younger than I, the other child who was not in the original blueprint. Five years was long enough for me to get used to being the one Mom doted on. Until Paul. Then HE got to go shopping with her while I had to go to school. Although it was shaky for awhile, I got used to having him around, and he was a very good sport about playing all of our games, even the ones with "Barbie" in their names. We found an old tape player and wrote and recorded skits. We'd drag my parents up to the attic to listen to our efforts.When all of the others were grown and had moved on, it was just Paul and me. The other day, as I was singing at the top of my lungs in the car, I remembered how I used to put on my headphones and sing along (loudly) in my room, until Paul would pound on the door and beg me to stop. The world has him to thank for my NOT pursuing a career in music. He and I wrote letters when he was in college. I still have them. He's a very talented writer, and I admire him a lot. (No, I am not crossing my fingers.)

In my family, we are not very demonstrative. We don't talk about our feelings much. I hope I'm not messing up the whole fabric of the universe or anything by saying I love you guys a lot.

Happy (belated) Siblings Day!

On the Scent

Sight, sound, smell, touch, taste. The five senses. Of all of them, I believe smell is the most underrated. It's capable of bringing peace and joy in a whiff.

There are those who have discovered this, of course, which is how aromatherapy was born. I am a convert to the whole massage thing, especially when I experienced it with my sense of smell.

There is an old experiment where you close your eyes and talk about every sound you hear. That's when you realize all of the stuff you don't hear. This is equally true of what you smell. Except that it's harder to discern what you are smelling. For example, you know what your own home smells like, so you think it doesn't have a smell. But it does. If someone blindfolded you and took you somewhere familiar, you'd know from inhaling just where you were. I realized this as a child when I would go into my friend, Linda's, house, which was exactly like ours. It was built by the same builder, had the same number of rooms, etc. But it smelled different. If you dropped me in her house today, I'll bet you I could tell you I was in her house without peeking.

Life is full of wonderful smells that we experience every day without thinking. Many of these are triggers. Folgers realized this with their commercial about waking up to the smell of coffee. Bacon is pretty good to wake up to, too. They tell you to bake an apple pie while you are showing your home to prospective buyers. And the smell of yeast dough rising will always make me think of my Mom and the amazing things she baked.

Then there are the herbs and spices. Lavender, cilantro, thyme, cinnamon, nutmeg, vanilla, oregano.

Not to mention flowers. Lilacs take me to a place in my childhood. My mom used to give me the flowers to wrap up and take to my teacher. They smelled amazing.

Of course, there are the not-great smells. Skunk, burnt popcorn, body odor. And smells that can save your life...smoke, gas. I guess everything in life has its yin and yang.

The point is, there are lots of great smells if you take the time and effort to enjoy them. So, close your eyes and take a breath. What do you smell?