Listen UP

Dad & me

My dad spoke to me in a dream.

Although he transitioned nearly four years ago, I dream of him regularly, eagerly.  At the time of his passing, the veil of dementia cloaked his knowing. Fortunately, he maintained the memory of those of us who were close to him and those things that occupied his daily existence. He was able to feign understanding and to the uninitiated, it was believable. However, anyone familiar with Alzheimer’s Disease recognized the vacant look, the absence of connection and lack of comprehension. He conjured up old memories and reminisced about days gone by, however, most often; he spent his days in the now. He taught us all how to be in the moment.

And, he became a better listener.

No longer mired by the rigors of fatherhood, earning a living or other such tasks of the middle aged; he was able to slow down.  There was nowhere he had to be nor was there anything he had to do in the usual sense of daily living. The rhythm of his day and the cadence of his speech followed suit. He had go-to topics on a loop. Meaningful conversation became elusive.

So I became a better listener.

In the dream, he was a younger man and not at all ill. He was working at a job he hated, but not the job he loathed in life. He, like many other men in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, spent his days deep underground in the copper mines. In the dream, he was exhausted and plopped down on our living couch. I didn’t want to ask him what was wrong, but felt obliged to make the effort. I, too, was younger  and the scene reflected our relationship from long ago. I saw that his hands were bleeding so I went to him reluctantly and knelt near his large lounging body.

“What’s wrong, Dad? Why are you doing a job you hate? And, why are your hands bleeding?” I  asked.

Without responding to my questions, he posed his own:

“Do you know what I want, Kammi? Do you know what I really want?”

“No, I don‘t,” I answered truthfully and thought, Whew! I can just get him whatever he wants and he’ll feel better.

“I want people to listen to each other. I mean really listen. Then when they speak, I want them to mean what they say,” he told me with great seriousness.

My dad didn’t speak this way. In life he would have said, “Measure your words.” Or, at the very least, “Open der ears.” Apparently, one of my sisters used this phrase as a child when she wanted to be heard. He liked repeating it. Maybe it struck a chord with him.

When I woke from this dream, I knew it was significant. I thought about the many ways I’ve been making a conscious effort to become a better listener, an active listener. I had a lot of practice actively listening to my husband, son, family, friends and clients. Knowing that everyone has a story to tell and that deep down everyone desires to tell it, listening became a mission. We all want to be heard, but how many of us want to pay attention?

As I practiced better listening, I mean really listening, I realized I got the active part right. The monkey mind was caged, yet it was still rattling around. Even though I was focused and tuned in, I was still thinking. These were not rambling thoughts of what to say next or what to do later. They were more like waves of unformed thought. Then I remembered what I learned through my Reiki training: Stop trying so hard. Be in the moment. Let go, let God.

Open der ears. Open der mind. Open der heart. 

Maybe the message from my dad is that when it comes to listening to others, there is always room for improvement.

Meaning what I say ... well, that’s a topic for another day.