Stop, Stay, Listen!

"Stop, Stay, Listen!" A command rings out! This is no hesitant, polite suggestion. It signals a cry of the heart and, to my mind, operates as the complete opposite of that other call to action: "Ready, Steady, Go!" where the athletes line up, flexing their muscles, willing themselves to compete, to achieve their very best and to win. "Stop, Stay, Listen" is a very different mindset and setting aside time for this writing exercise with fellow writers is an interesting task.

 

It goes against the grain. These days the call to action is a call to accept challenges, to get stuck in, to manage, achieve, multi-task, move on, speed into the future, compete and overcome obstacles in our way. 2012's Paralympics were the peak of our achievements in this mode and it is a mode that is worthy of acclaim and admiration.

 

"Stop, Stay, Listen," however, suggests an entirely different way of being, more in tune with that other, alternative lifestyle of mindfulness, living in the moment and enjoying the present for what it is without worrying overmuch about the future and all its complications and consequences. To stop in our tracks in the midst of our business and reflect, regroup, find time for ourselves and for our companions, friends and relatives is a precious thing. But it is a difficult thing, possibly as taxing on the energy, the mental processes and the need for persistent endeavour as its opposite.  Stopping is something which is unsolicited, thrust upon us at a most inconvenient moment, through illness, bereavement or some other major upheaval in our lives. Cancer survivors frequently speak of being arrested, brought up short, forced to reassess and adjust their value systems, attitudes to family and friends and worldview. Stopping is an abrupt form of therapy.

 

To stay is a new way of being for me. All my life I have been on the move. New homes, new jobs, new locations, new friends... Now, with the onset of retirement and the slowing down process of ageing (well, yes, a little!), I have to face a new challenge - that of staying rather than moving on. The 'me' I am now may stay a little longer than the former 'me's; there may be a little less shape-shifting going on. The home I now live in may well be my home for a little longer than I have been used to. I may have to get used to spring cleaning it now and then rather than simply abandoning it and moving house!

 

Listen! The most difficult challenge of all. Growing, as I said earlier (in an unguarded, self-confessional moment), a little older, I am beginning to develop that common phenomenon, shared by many of my peer group, of complaining that the television is indistinct, that young people mumble, that no-one makes quite enough effort any more to enunciate clearly so that I can understand. On the other hand, I am convinced that those around me, especially my husband, who share a similar experience, never listen! It's not that they are becoming hard of hearing, it is simply that they do not concentrate, are not interested, let their attention wander and therefore fail to pay attention to the treasures that pour from my lips. Listen, I say to him! Just stop and listen!

 

Joking aside, the art of listening is a very valuable commodity. It is an art few of us have. The art of a good conversation is a wonderful skill, to be treasured on the rare occasions that is encountered. It is at best a meeting of equals. I speak; you listen. There is a pause for reflection. Then you speak; I listen. Wonderfully simple! But how often does that happen? Most conversations are muddled, stilted, an aggressive competition or a disjointed babble. Why? We have lost the art of listening. One of the things I love best in rural Wales is listening - to the silence! Climb up one of the steep, wildflower-lined, country lanes that lead out of our village up onto the surrounding hills and stop... stay... listen. What will you hear? Mostly nothing! Nothing at all. Not a car, not a lorry, not an angry voice or a crying child. Just silence, punctuated occasionally by the call of a lamb for its mother or the mewing of a buzzard soaring far above you. Listen to the silence. It is the best music of all and healing for the soul.

An Unanswered Question

"So, how do you think of yourself?" she hit me with. "Here we go" I thought. I pondered the question for a while. "Do I have to answer that one?" I said. "Well, have a go" she said, a touch impatiently. The interview had dragged on a bit, mainly because every time I answered a question she couldn't resist chipping in with her own experiences and slant on the subject. We had some experiences in common, it was true, she a Dutch woman living in Wales, and I a Brit, recently returned from a prolonged stay in her home country. However, I thought I had done pretty well so far, attempting to answer all her intrusive questions, but I thought for a bit longer, then took the plunge.

 

"Well, I think of myself on more than one level, I guess. Inside my head I still think of myself as the thirty year old I used to be, bright, alert, intelligent and full of energy. That's who I am. But then, on the outside, there's the person I've become - older, iller, slower, less energy, but I know I'm the person on the inside really and I get frustrated when other people view me as that sick, slow, not very bright person they sometimes see now." Her eyes glazed over and she paused in the middle of trying to write my answer down in her notes. ("Got my own back now" I thought uncharitably.) "I'm not sure I know what you mean" she said. It seemed perfectly clear to me; I live with it every day. "Well, at university, as a mature student, when I did my degree" I said hesitantly, not liking to mention it, "I got a first. I'm not like that now, of course, because I get confused and I can't concentrate and I forget things..." She still didn't understand and seemed a bit threatened by my mention of my 'first'. "I just don't feel like I ought to be like this" I said "and it's hard to adjust... When I compare myself with other people my age..."

 

She cut me off. I had obviously transgressed. "Oh no," she said "you mustn't compare yourself with anyone else. We're all different." I sighed. Of course we're all different, but I knew something was wrong. I knew who I was and how to think of myself - shy, reserved, a bit awkward, a bit insecure, but bright, alert, quick thinking, creative, resourceful - at least, until these last couple of years when memory loss and depleted energy banks had dogged me, edging in on me like the ever creeping tide, slow but relentless. Anyway, it took quite a bit of intelligence and resourcefulness to deal with this new phase of life that had been thrust upon me. How should I think of myself? I'd always been bright, near the top of the class, able to achieve without any substantial effort. Now things were different. Now I had 'learning difficulties' and every new task that presented itself required effort. Now I was lagging behind, not really '21st century', living in a time warp because I couldn't keep up.

 

"Don't compare yourself with anyone" she insisted. "You seem overly worried about how others see you - you're too old for that." "Thanks" I thought "you be me!" I looked at her, seated at the table, pen in hand, trying to assess me, define me, label me. I looked again. She seemed sure of herself, but somewhat challenged by the demands of her job. Her hair was spiky, dyed, modern; her dress was short and she sat, defiantly, legs a little apart, aggressively her own person. She appeared to have more confidence than me, more sure of her own abilities but maybe a bit jealous of my early retirement which had actually thrust us into financial and a host of related problems, but probably seemed like a good idea to someone still struggling with the increasing demands of change in a stressful and tiring job. Would I swap? Probably not. After all, as she said, we're all different; she was herself and so was I, whichever of my two disparate selves I turned out to be.

 

I had learned something. The me inside was still the same - stubborn, clinging to its own identity and doggedly persisting in its pursuit of the experiences and values that made life worth the effort, irrespective of the challenges that it threw up on the way. I could still do with some help, but maybe this wasn't the place to find it.

Bison Repair Kit

We drove past them the other day: a whole herd of brown, oddly shaped animals, with that distinctive curve where regular cattle don't have one. They were grazing happily in the enclosure and seemed blissfully unaware of the large sign in the driveway next to them indicating that the Bison Grill was situated right next door. An ominous sign if you are a fully grown, healthy bison. It seemed a bit bizarre, here in the midst of the Welsh countryside, amidst rolling, green, Welsh hills and next to the main road. They looked healthy enough, which made me wonder about the need for the Bison Repair Kit which I found in the shed shortly after we had moved to Wales. A number of things turned up in our removal boxes which surprised me a little. They must have been buried in the depths of our previous shed at our last address and we had had no need for them recently. Certainly, I couldn't think of any particular reason why we should have needed to repair bison in the recent past. We have experimented with owning rabbits, guinea pigs, Russian hamsters (which sadly couldn't be repaired after they quickly fell ill), cats and a dog. But no bison.

 

The kit was housed in a small tin and contained nothing which looked at all useful for bison. On asking my longsuffering husband, I eventually discovered that the kit was once used to repair, not bison, but bikes! Silly me, I should have known that.

 

I have a way with words. I love new words and odd configurations of words and we have some wonderfully interesting discussions over breakfast sometimes about words and phrases we have just discovered or suddenly started to look at in a new, inquisitive way. I came across a list on his desk one morning a long time ago, early in our married life. It was about Bill. But I couldn't recall either of us knowing anyone called Bill. Anyway, from the list I discovered that Bill needed to be watered, garaged and serviced! I should have known, really, that this simply entailed putting a few cheques in envelopes, but for some reason I was in a quirky mood that day and misread the information on the list in a new way, which my new husband found quite charming and original. I wonder how he deals with this charming trait now, after 38 years of marriage...