On Questions and Connections
I love a good question. “Why do you love to garden?” is a good question. If you know me even slightly, “Do you enjoy gardening?” is a dumb question. I spoke with, no, I listened to a neighbor yesterday, from the other side of the development. She liked my garden, we talked about neighbors and then, how her husband suddenly left her. I asked her questions, thoughtful ones, and in all that time, (long enough for me to get a noon-time sunburn), she asked me nothing. Some things I volunteered, as in, “We’ve lived here 24 years.” I finally said, “I have to water this new plant in,” and we parted friendly.
As she was returning from her errand, I happened to be outside again, and she told me more than I cared to know about her husband and how it was before he left her. This time the Robin was squawking loudly (at least I was in tree shade) because the babies needed feeding, but she likes her privacy. I finally told the woman I was going in. It seemed to hurt her feelings. I’m happy to be using my Psychology degree. I should set up shop in our basement. “So tell me, Mrs. X, when did you first suspect your husband might be unhappy?” I’m reading many books and one of them is called, ‘The Miracle of Dialogue.’ Apt, in this case. It would have taken a miracle for me to interject more than a few words! Yet, she needed to talk, and I had time to listen.
I love words, and yet I rarely have conversations (except on the computer, and when Doug gets home. Sometimes Scott will ask me questions but I mostly listen to what he thinks). I wouldn’t pay a therapist again, if I found myself in a perplexing place. I talk to God, I have a great family and great friends, I read a lot. I use my words to whittle out a window. For extra Light. To jump from and run away. To sit and stare out of, until things coalesce and make more sense. A window of solitary solitude, now and then thrown open to connection.
LBM 7/26/2019
