By Jefferson Weaver
I stopped, stood still, and listened as the morning awakened everything.
There was something mingling with the roosters’ mutual trashtalk, the gossip of the geese, and the grinding shriek of the poor lonesome guinea. The muted whisper of munching horses, the chatter of an aggravated squirrel, and the tentative notes of an early spring songbird were at odds with the far-off sound of a tractor.
The cats were at breakfast, as were the dogs and the Brotherhood of Darwinian Rabbits, so named since they consider the grass to be greener on the other side of the dog fence. The dogs are not amused at their antics, and one day, I’m afraid Brother Charles’ often misquoted theory will prove true.
I stood still for a second or two, listening, trying to find the source of the sound. Something small and careful was moving through the brush beside the ditch – well, lately it’s been more of a creek than a ditch – but I couldn’t quite place what was wandering where. The noise eventually disappeared, the noisemaker never revealed, but I was left thinking about how I could have listened better, and maybe figured out what was visiting.
Hearing and listening are not the same thing, by any means. Hearing is the detection of a noise of some sort. Listening requires discernment; it is comprehending whether that noise is a loved one’s voice, a superior’s direction, a good dog’s bark, or a rattlesnake’s warning. We lack a lot of the latter these days – comprehension, that is, not rattlesnakes.
Not long after I strove to find the mystery sound, I had a call from a friend who was having an extraordinarily rough day. We talked for a few minutes, but most of the conversation was comprised of me just listening. I was happy to do so.
One of my favorite teachers in elementary school (and later junior high) was Miz Lib, as she was known outside the classroom. She often asked, “Are you listening?”, and when it was proven that a student was not, she followed the question up with the half-joking statement, “If you won’t listen, you’re better off without any ears.”
As is usually the case in an election year, there hasn’t been a lot of listening in recent months. I don’t care which side you call your own, or if you have a preference. I’m personally not really happy with any of the choices, but this is life.
There’s always too much noise, and not enough listening, regardless of whether it’s a political year. Many of us are caught up in our own little worlds that we seek to make larger, so we talk and talk, without ever stopping to listen to others – or ourselves.
One of the big reasons cited for the failure in marriages is communication – ie, talking, and more importantly, listening.
Whether it’s my line of work, my love of the woods, or (ironically) the hearing loss that kept me out of the military, I have tried for years to be a better listener, not just one who hears. The inflection in someone’s voice during an interview can be an indication of something important. The growl of a coyote means you’re close to the den, where the waugh-waugh of a bear means M. Ursus Americanus is about to hightail it for the next county. A similar sound from a feral or domestic pig, however, means you need to be changing your ZIP code, preferably to a higher elevation, like the nearest tree.
A baby possum’s cough is not a sign of illness, but of affection, while a whistle from the same animal is one of distress. At the same time, the low-rumble of a coon’s growl is as inscrutable as the heart of a woman, with apologies to a greater writer than I shall ever be. You can’t tell, half the time, if a coon will bolt, hide, or declare war, and their vocalizations don’t help.
Simply hearing a dog bark is no great feat, but discerning what the dog is barking about can mean the difference between a new friend, a torn pair of trousers, or stepping on a copperhead.
A snapping branch can mean a thousand things in the woods – a tree shedding a useless branch, a squirrels’ overconfidence, a deer making its way carefully down a trail, or a Wildlife officer following your trail. If you don’t listen, you miss half of the world around you.
A coyote’s howl can mean anything from an invitation to dinner to a request for gossip to the sheer pleasure of a good howl. If you listen, you can usually tell the difference. Vultures don’t vocalize very much, but they are apparently good listeners, as none of those in whom I ever confided have betrayed my confidence.
We listen for the piano or organ when we race across the church parking lot on Sunday morning, and for the final “Amen” so we can rush back out, but how many of us listen to the man in the pulpit in between? More importantly, how many listen to hear what the one guiding him is saying through his servant? We’d have a better world if more of us did so.
The Old Man regularly chided me for not listening, and had a way of making me realize that by talking out a problem, I could often find the solution that was there the whole time. I couldn’t do so on my own in those cases, but needed a willing ear to help me listen to my own instincts.
I think that one reason for the dominance of social media is that people have a natural need to have someone who will listen, who will pay attention, but we have forgotten how to do so. That need builds up like spring rain behind a beaver dam, and people become addicted to the immediacy of communication through like buttons and emoticons, as opposed to meaningful conversation.
We live in a world full of talk and noise, but we have a lack of listening. Whether we hear a cry for help, a child’s laugh, a chicken’s cackle, or the whisper of a pine forest, when we’re all talk, and no listening, we’re better off without any ears.
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