Hearing Difficulties

Listening is the oldest and perhaps the most powerful tool of healing. When we listen, we offer with our attention an opportunity for wholeness. Our listening creates sanctuary for the homeless parts within the other person.

~Rachel Naomi Remen, M. D.

Several years ago I called the electric company to report a buzzing sound I thought was coming from the utility pole outside. The repair man arrived, put on his belt, equipment dangling from its side, and climbed up the pole with his spiked shoes.

When he climbed back down, he told me he couldn’t find a problem. I was confused. Then,  after he left, I went back in the house. There I realized I could still hear the sound. Then it came to me--the ringing was coming from me, from inside my ears--Tinnitus.

Once I recognized the problem, I adjusted. Most of the time I don't even notice it, but it's still there. Right now, for example, because it's quiet, I'm very aware of it.

So all the time, whether I'm aware of it or not, there's something blocking my hearing things exactly as they are. From what I've read there's no good treatment for this malady. One must simply adjust.

It occurs to me that there are other maladies that block one's hearing things exactly as they are. I have an occupational hazard that affects me that way. As a retired English teacher, when I am listening to someone I am immediately thrown off-course when they make what, to me, is a glaring grammatical mistake.

A friend could be pouring out her heart to me, telling me a tragic story of a broken relationship, for example, but if she were to say, "Things between Mark and I have never been the same since we moved," my brain would be stopped immediately at the pronoun I, and never hear the rest of the sentence. Others may be distracted by an accent, a skin tone, a head covering, anything that moves one back inside one's head and away from the speaker.

To truly listen is a very self-less act. It means putting away all one's agendas, priorities, foregone conclusions and opening up to the other person. It is not easy. Truly, when I hear another person say something that disturbs me, I tend to either immediately “correct” them or walk away and ignore them. Conversely when I speak and someone seems not to be paying attention, I feel my temperature rise.

We all want to be heard. We want to know that what we say is important, so if I walk away when you speak, and you ignore me when I speak, neither of us is heard, and both of us will be angry

Some have said that listening is truly an act of love. After last week’s election, it seems clear that we need, more than ever, to listen and hear each other if we are ever to learn to live together peacefully.

Sliding into October

Anyone who knows me knows I love baseball, the Red Sox most specifically. I like football too. Last night when the Sox and the Patriots were playing at the same time, I was, thanks to modern technology, watching the Sox on television while at the same time watching the Pats on my iPad. It worked out surprisingly well, and they both won!

I know many eschew baseball for being slow and plodding, but that's part of what I like about it--that and the fact that you know who the players are and where they are on the field. In football, which I grant I understand less than baseball, too often they end up in a pile of elbows, butts, and helmets.

The men who broadcast baseball (are there any women?) fall into two categories--the play-by-play guy and the color guy. The former tells what's happening on the field, what the batter's count is, who caught the ball in the field, or whether a fly ball near the Pesky Pole (Fenway's right field foul pole) was declared foul or fair. The color guy elaborates on the plays, relates it to a player's history, or talks of a former player who did a similar thing. The moments between pitches or during pitching changes or while waiting while the umpires put on their earphones to await word from New York about a challenged play allows for conversation between the two of them.

The other night there was a conversation about sliding into base. One said that the experts (whoever they are) assert that sliding does not get a runner into base any quicker than if he were to run. The other disagreed. They proposed to set up an experiment to find out, but then agreed it was impossible, so each settled back into his own point of view. Like many of these conversations, it was amusing but not of much consequence. 

I do not have an opinion on the efficacy of the slide, but I do enjoy it. There's something about seeing all 5' 9" of Mookie Betts suddenly flying superman-like into second beneath (usually) the glove of the second baseman that is almost balletic, and his smile at having achieved this theft is magnetic. 

Then there is the dirt on his uniform--an orange brown stain that is clear evidence of how he literally throws himself into this game.

Not many games left now. Soon I won't have to watch two games at a time, but before that time there are the playoffs, and who knows what will happen! Fingers crossed here for more magic from Mookie, Papi, Pedey, and the rest of the gang.

Treppenwitz

Treppenwitz  is a German word for a witty comeback you thought of too late, literally a staircase joke.  It is a translation from the French "l'esprit d'escalier," the idea being that one may only think of a proper rejoinder after one has gone down the stairs and completely left the scene. In my case, the joke only appeared to me as I reached the bottom of the stairs.

This is the week when most kids are heading back to school and parents are posting cute pictures of their smiling kids in the new clothes. On Monday I watched my next door neighbor Emma holding a sign that read "Second Grade 8-29-16" as her mother took her picture. Then she posted it on Facebook next to last year's picture where she was about 2 inches shorter.

I enjoy seeing all these kids heading back to school. When I said that online, a former student said, "You miss it." To which I replied, "Only the smiles." Then I explained the two things I like best about being retired. One, that I don't have to get up and get myself ready and out the door shortly after 6AM. In the winter that frequently meant feeling like a mole as I went to school in the dark and came home in the dark. Now I get to see sunlight at all hours of the day.

But even more than enjoying daylight, I appreciate the absence of the never-ending pile of papers to correct. And my piles did get quite high. Being the procrastinator that I am, Tuesday's assignments got piled on top of Monday's assignments, and sometimes papers from the week before. My book bag was always full to bulging. No wonder I was a regular patient of the chiropractor. I felt bad about this, guilty that I wasn't getting my students' papers back to them as soon as I could.

Then one day as I packed up by bag to go home, I realized that at that exact moment I was caught up. I didn't have one paper that needed to be corrected, not one term paper waiting to be edited, not one set of quizzes that needed grades. I was a happy woman. I could have left my book bag right there in the English office, but I liked the feel of this empty bag on my shoulder.

I opened the door to the stairwell and began descending the familiar steps to the door that led to the parking lot. I began to think of how I had arrived at this pleasant place, and with each step down the stairwell, I became more and more convinced of the answer--I wasn't giving my students enough work. I was not the effective teacher who had completed all her work efficiently. I was the teacher who was short-changing her students by giving them so little work that I could finish it quickly.

By the time I reached the bottom of the stairs, I was laughing out loud. I just couldn't give myself a break. The treppenwitz was on me.

Unearthing

I just had new carpet installed. I know, I know! Carpeting is out and hard wood floors are in. I do watch Property Brothers, after all, but I like carpet, the softness under my bare feet, and I'm not sure of the condition of the old (circa 1938) hardwood floors they cover.

The installers from Bay State Rug (highly recommended if you're in the market) moved all the furniture (including three LOADED bookcases) out and back to their original places. Before that, however, I had to move all the breakables. I covered the kitchen counter with everything in the curio cabinet and the vases in the secretary. All the chotchkies from the aforementioned bookcases were stored in the bathtub. (thank goodness for the downstairs bathroom). 

In the process of moving the breakables, I also moved a couple of cartons of old journals out of the way. I keep these around with the intention of reading through them all and finding what's worth saving and maybe finding something to develop into a poem. But instead, most of the time, they just sit there.

When I got home yesterday the carpet was all finished and looking great, but I knew today would mean putting everything back where it had been, and that would mean dusting all those places that hadn't been dusted in a while. "While" here means maybe since the old carpet was installed.

As I moved the first pile of journals out of the bathroom this morning, a small journal with a sweet pup on the cover came falling out. I didn't recognize it. At first I thought it might have been one of those journals I had bought because I liked the cover but then had never written in, but when I opened it, it was full of writing from 2010, and in between general day-to-day comments, were some gems that I was happy to rediscover.

So now I’m reading the journal, remembering the events in my life that prompted the writing, and thinking about what I can extract for further development. And I am writing this blog post. Anything to avoid dusting!

Day Lilies

Can it be enough

to expose one's whole self for

a moment of sun?

Atlantic City - Two Photographs

 

Summer 1928

She stands on the Boardwalk

in her Mary-Janes

wearing a cloud of a dress and

a string of pearls.

She smiles as the breeze

blows a wisp of her dark bob.

Below her on the sand

a scattering of bathers

stretch out to the ocean.

Her charges, cousins Sonny and Alice,

build a sand castle

out of the camera's view.

Soon they will follow her back home

to the house on Rhode Island Avenue

where Uncle George rents out a garage

and Aunt Olga runs a rooming house.

where the upstairs rooms go to paying guests

and she and her sister sleep in the basement.

Fall 2002

She stands in her red jacket

arm and arm with Alice

beneath Absecon Lighthouse

($7 now to walk to the top).

The Boardwalk is hidden

behind mammoth casinos.

Uncle George and Aunt Olga are gone

Sonny too, their golden boy,

shot down over North Africa.

Still she smiles, remembering

learning to roller skate,

seeing Jack Dempsey and the first Miss America.

The Age of Reason or What I Knew at Seven

I knew the names of all the flowers in the garden on Lancaster Street.

I knew Eisenhower would be a great president because my parents said so, and also because he said he'd end the war in Korea.

I knew the words to "Jesus Loves Me," "A You’re Adorable," and “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah."

I knew to wait until my mother finished reading McCall's before I cut out the Betsy McCall paper dolls at the back.

I knew that someday the Russians might drop a bomb on us but if we knelt under our desks we were safe.

I knew that the corn that grew on Sy Kervick's farm at the end of the street would be ripe and sweet in August.

I knew the way my father always tapped his Chesterfield on the horn of the Chevrolet just before he lit it.

I knew that my cousin Bonnie and I would always be together on Thanksgiving and Christmas.

I knew Uncle Arthur and Aunt Corinne would travel on the railroad all the way from Pasadena, California, to visit us every fall.

I knew that my father and grandfather had built the little house on Allen Street where I used to go to visit before my grandmother died.

I knew that as much as I loved my grandmother and grandfather, I was a bit scared of their dog Freckles.

I knew the smell of Dr. Leff's office where I had to go for allergy shots because it reminded me of when I went there to have my tonsils removed.

I knew the sounds that came from that from the little red radio above the stove:

       

    the crack of Ted Williams' bat

           

            the songs of Eddie Fisher, Patti Page, Rosemary Clooney

            

           news reports from Carl Desuze and Lowell Thomas

I knew the day I received Patsy the cat was the happiest day of my life.