My Good Listener

I’ve been reading a book called, “Write from the Heart” by Hal Zina Bennett. It’s a lovely book that’s been very helpful to me with getting in touch with my skills as a writer. This morning I was reading the chapter about the benefit of creating what is known as an imaginary reader, or what might be considered as your ideal “good listener.”

In the description, they should be someone patient and kind who always has time for you. Someone that will pay close attention to what you have to say offering relevant and supportive insight that will help you develop your story and characters. Finally they should be someone that makes you think deeply about your message and helps clarify what you are trying to get across.

In the book, one of the author’s students used his poignant childhood memory of his Mexican-American uncle Tio Juan who was gentle, kind, mature and wise. While out in the hot sun ploughing the fields, his well-seasoned uncle would never hesitate to turn off the tractor engine to listen patiently and intently to what, the then child, novice author had to say. Always giving him his full attention, the warm memory of Tio Juan served as a valuable touchstone for the author’s work and life.

So, whilst trying to develop my own “good listener” and being instructed to imagine how they would look, the colour of their eyes and hair; where they live and how they respond to my every word, I couldn’t help but to think of my mother.

In my mind, she was a woman then in her mid-50’s to 60’s, a bit overweight with generous hips (after birthing eight children) and large soft arms never burdened with exercise. As a child, she was nick-named “Puddin’” because her skin was the creamy colour of Tapioca. But as a young adult she was featured on the cover of the Los Angeles Times as one of the cities prettiest young girls in a bathing suit watering her lawn on a hot summer’s day.

Years before, during my childhood, she was a stay-at-home mother and always had time for us kids. But now she was an empty nester like me, baby birds having flown the coop. These days our conversations were of an adult nature like spats with spouses, bills and how quickly our children have grown. But even amongst the most mundane of subjects, I could always tell her how I really felt about things and she was always there with ears opened wide.

In fact, to me our times together was much like communion with the Holy Spirit in that her voice was always kind and gentle, caring and at peace. She never had a harsh word to say about anyone, but most of all she would just listen with complete non-judgment and total love.

What I used to enjoy the most was our early morning Sunday phone calls. Both of our homes would be quiet and I would have my list of items ready to discuss with her. To each issue, thought or idea she would listen carefully and respond with just the perfect answer, not a “fix-it” or “If I were you,” but tender and considerate kindness and encouragement.

As I’m writing this today however, it’s making me feel sad because my mom now in her 70s has dementia. She doesn’t remember who I am. I miss our long heart-to-heart talks where we could share anything. I miss her chubby creamy arms around me as a child, or the sound of her calm, knowing voice over the long distance telephone wires...

Still, at the same time, I’m filled with joy as I ponder the memory of the love I had and still have in my heart and mind of my mother’s unconditional love and acceptance. She, my imaginary reader, my ideal “good listener” is always with me and always will be because love, like energy, never dissipates. It goes on and on and one and on. It may change forms, but it never goes away and for that I am ever grateful.

Namaste