I am indebted to
my mother Andee
and to Anya Clark and to Bob Godfrey and to Doug Mobley and to Karen
Junker and to Nazee Ranker and to Shannon Geis and to Tim Hanni and to
Curt Hill who inspired this conversation.
I call
my mother Andee
in South Africa twice a month. That's my promise. It's always great
speaking with her. The bond of family between us has grown
inexorably
stronger especially now I have children of my own. Before I had
children of my own I had one kind of relationship with my Mom. But it
wasn't until I had children of my own that the full dimension of who my
Mom is for me opened up.
I schedule occasions to call my Mom as opportunities. I'm not referring
to them as opportunities to simply speak with my Mom, which of course
they are as well. I'm referring to them as opportunities,
laboratories if you will, in which I can distinguish my
already always listening.
The sum total of my opinions, interpretations, ascribed meanings,
certainties, positions, beliefs, concepts, and what I already know
to be true constitute my already always listening. When a
situation, event, circumstance, or person shows up, my listening, like
a station on my car radio, is preset. It's already welded in
boilerplate and bolted onto concrete. I already know how
things will go from then on.
It's not possible to listen the situation, event, circumstance, or
person newly and openly in the moment when I only hear the voice of my
own predefined opinions, interpretations, assigned meaning,
certainties, positions, beliefs, concepts, and what I already know to
be true. I hear it before anything else. Werner Erhard calls it the
already always listening. It's inflexible. It's uncreative. It's on
automatic. It drowns out newness, generosity, and possibility.
Inside my already always listening for my Mom, I already know how the
call is going to go, even before I press 0-1-1 to start international
dialing. Then, no matter what we talk about, nothing fresh, nothing
intimate ever comes forth. The ambience for the call is
predetermined. Whatever happens on the call can only show up in a
disempowering context of calling
my mother
is the right thing to do. I'm a nice guy so I call
my mother
... because that's what nice guys do.
Most times I'm aware there's an already always listening going on. In
particular I notice I've got an already always listening for my Mom.
Before I call her I already know she'll talk about the
weather. I already know she'll say she doesn't enjoy the heat. But when
it gets cooler, I already know she'll say she doesn't enjoy it cooler
either. I already know she'll redirect the conversation at every
opportunity to talk about herself. I already know she won't ask much
about my life so I'll end up dutifully listening as she talks about
hers. And the truth be told, she may or may not do some or all of the
above when I call her. But that doesn't matter. Even if she doesn't,
I'm expecting her to. I'm waiting for it. That's my already
always listening for my Mom.
Although we cover a wide range of topics, the truth is I can't stand
being on calls like those. Once the already always listening takes
over, the entire conversation becomes a chore. But I do it anyway,
dutifully, waiting for either of us to get tired of talking so I
can hang up.
This time before I called her, I stopped, looked, and first got myself
clear about the already always listening. I didn't have to look very
hard to see it. By distinguishing the already always listening, I could
see beyond it to access an open, non-judgemental natural
listening. Once I'd distinguished my already always listening for my
Mom, I'd distinguished my already always listening for any situation,
event, circumstance, or person. Once I'd accessed an open,
non-judgemental natural listening for my Mom, I'd accessed an open,
non-judgemental natural listening for any situation, event,
circumstance, or person. Only then did I pick up my phone and call.
It was an amazing conversation. I heard an open, frail but attentive
elderly dignified woman. I heard her love for me, her son, in the same
way as I love my children. Prior to this call I knew she loved me
because she said she loved me. But I wasn't
listening her love for me so I hadn't really
heard her love for me. On this call, when I listened her
love for me, I heard it as the same love as mine for my children. I
heard her defend me. I heard her stand for me. I'd never heard that
before. Even if she'd said it before and even if I'd heard it before,
I'd never really listened it before so I'd never
really heard it before.
Everyone wants to contribute to people. Whether they're consciously
aware of it or not, everyone wants to make a contribution. One of the
insights I got during this conversation with my Mom is how my already
always listening stops people contributing to me. "I already know this"
says the voice. "Stop telling me what I already know.". With
that, the voice excludes any contribution from anyone
because the voice already knows everythingabouteverything.
Listening my Mom from an open, non-judgemental natural
listening, I got it's not what people share which
contributes. Rather, it's that they share at all which
contributes. My Mom, arguably for the first time, was enabled to talk
animatedly about the weather which I, arguably for the first time,
experienced as her way of contributing to me.
When the conversation ended and it was time to say good bye, I told her
I love her. Sometimes I tell my Mom I love her when it's the right
thing to do and then it's awkward to say. This time it was
authentic. This time it was easy to say.