This excerpt is from Zeitoun, a novel
about a resident of New Orleans who decided to stay in the city despite the
warnings of the huge hurricane Katrina headed it’s way. He slept on the roof
through much of the flooding, and when the city was covered, he took his
second-hand canoe and paddled through the city to see how he could help.
As they made their
way home, passing a half-dozen fan boats along the way, it occurred to Zeitoun
that he and Frank had heard the people they had helped, in particular the old
woman floating inside her home, because there were in a canoe. Had they been in
a fan boat, the noise overwhelming, they would have heard nothing. They would
have passed by, and the woman likely would not have survived another night. It
was the very nature of this small, silent craft that allowed them to hear the
quietest cries. The canoe was good, the silence was crucial.
On youth group trips in middle school,
I would come home after a weekend of staying up late, singing loudly, and
shouting with friends. Almost without exception, these trips resulted in a sore
throat for a few days. This was the worst. I could barely speak. That meant I
had to work hard to get people to listen to me, and I had to think hard about
what I really wanted to say so I didn’t waste my words.
I have always struggled with speaking
before I have fully heard. I assume. I interrupt. I talk and talk. And so
often because of this, I miss the point. I miss an opportunity to edify or just
to listen because I want to say something.
I have seen such worth in listening.
People are drawn to people who listen. People who listen often have better
things to say when they do speak up. I have long desired to be that kind of
person, and long failed to be so.
This passage strikingly reminded me of how you can leave people to drown if you surround yourself
with so much noise. This could be the typical condemnation of dependence on
technology -- that definitely does a lot of damage and leaves a wake of
loneliness. But I also think we can ride the fan boat of our own “wisdom” or
our own experience.
I’ve noticed the way that I and others
my age (maybe all ages?) communicate. One person tells a story or a fact, the
next says, “Well I heard,” or, “One time I...” Every time a new
speaker interjects, they begin by relating the conversation to themselves. This
can be beautiful; sharing personal anecdotes is a wonderful way of relating and
passing on stories and creating conversation. But it can also be harmful. Is
each person in the conversation spending the time that others are talking
thinking, how does this relate to me? Again, not always a bad question,
but if that is the only question, does it negate true listening?
I’ve noticed whole conversations I’ve
had where by the end of it, I know myself better but I haven’t learned a thing
about the other person.
It’s time for me to go canoeing.
