She heard me speak.

It was to a large group of Activities Directors

and she wanted to hear more after the last word.         .         .

She saw me in the parking lot after the presentation but didn’t,

well, she was afraid,

not so much of what she was going to say,

but what I was going to hear.          .          .

She called me through an office to another office

who contacted another office

to leave me a message to contact her.        .        .

I didn’t remember her;

and even now,

several years later I don’t remember her name

or recall in detail her face;

They gave me her name and number,

but I had never met her to remember her;

“Could    we    meet?”

She wanted to know if we could meet

at an area nursing home where I would be visiting patients

and, as it turns out,

her Partner of nearly 30 years had died.       .       .

We   set   a   time.          .          .

A Friday around 11:00 a.m;

She recognized me coming down the hall;

I      only         saw         a         woman,

mostly in a shadow

with the sun at her back from a smudged window;

We found a small lounge area

and she began to tell a story

that didn’t so much need telling,

but most absolutely

H             E           A             R             D  

I        l   i   s   t   e   n   e   d.          .          .

L i s t e n e d  

with   my   eyes;

she looked tired,

weary with tears

that begged to streak down her face;

L i s t e n e d    

 with      my      nose;

she    sprayed    on    a    lot    of    perfume;

L i s t e n e d  

 with      my      mouth;

I sipped from a cup of coffee

that she had poured for me from the lobby;

L i s t e n e d    

 with      my      hands;

I handed her a tissue

and felt the roughness of her hands,

her fingers

when they touched mine;

     L i s t e n e d  

 with      my      heart;

words    that    a    mouth    couldn’t    share;

     L i s t e n e d  

 with      my      ears;

but   heard   more   listening   in   the   other   ways;

     l         i         s         t         e         n         e         d.         .         .   

She    s o b b e d

that she had been conceived from a rape;

Cried that she was given up for adoption;

Wept that she has been a victim her whole life

and that her Life Partner

left her when she needed her the most.           .           .

And then she asked me what

I had never been asked before.     .     .

As she wiped her face from tears

that were replaced just as fast

as they were wiped away:

“W  H  A  T       I  S       T  H  E       S  P  I  R  I  T        T  E  L  L  I  N  G      Y  O  U  

T  O        T   E   L   L        M   E ?”

I   didn’t   think.

I   didn’t   react.

I   didn’t   analyze.

I   didn’t   pause.

I   didn’t   reflect.

I   just   answered:

“The   person   I   see   right   here,   right   now   in   front   of   me   isn’t   the person   she   has   seen   all   of   her   life.   Look   at   the   person   I   see and   not   the   one   who   looks   back   from   the   mirror   asking,   ‘why  me?'”

When    we    L I S T E N    just    to    R E P L Y    we    never    really    h e a r!

What.       .       .

WHAT      STIRS      YOUR      DEEP      WATERS      OF      UNEASINESS

T             H             I             S

literally took place

several years ago

and yet feels just like yesterday

mostly because of the question

that she asked

that has echoed through me

and now asked by me

in situations

places

events

occurrences

with         i     n     d     i     v     i     d     u     a     l     s

I  Y E A R N  to know:

“W  H  A  T       I  S       T  H  E       S  P  I  R  I  T        T  E  L  L  I  N  G      Y  O  U  

T  O        T   E   L   L        M   E ?”

I asked it a week ago of Jenny and Steve

a couple who made it possible for us to vacation

A     N     D.          .          .

it wasn’t a tangible worded answer that they gave

so much as a powerful

W O R D L E S S

J     U     S     T               B     E     C     A     U     S     E

v a l i d a t i o n

It’s like looking into a mirror dimly

but being being SEEN

e x p l i c i t l y

Sometimes    what    we    hear,
a    Heart    can    only    shout
and    a    mouth    can    never    whisper.       .       .

Like a ripple that comes lapping up on YOUR SHORE

from an UN-SEEN Place.          .          .

but undeniably leaves you soaked.     .     .

Maybe the Language of the Heart

can only be heard by the Soul.        .        .

understood from the Being.            .            .  

 

.           .           .N O T      A L L      T H A T      H U M A N !

It RE-ADDRESSES

RE-FRESHES US.          .          .

It’s puts us succinctly

at the bottom of a winding staircase

that waits

b e g s

to take us to a higher place

if we don’t fear the

s

            t

                        e

                                    p

                                             s

D I S C O V E R

that we can grow

In the most unlikely of   p l a c e s

of   s p o t s

if we let go of

WHAT  WE  KNOW

.and grab on to

what  doesn’t  always  seemingly  exist.          .          .

It just might be the one way to concretely KNOW

what can never be ANSWERED

by the question:

“W  H  A  T         I  S         T  H  E         S  P  I  R  I  T          T  E  L  L  I  N  G        Y  O  U  

T  O          T   E   L   L          M   E  ?”

I’m sorry.           .           .

    did you say something?

Shhhhhhhhhhh.               .               .

the more silent you are,

t h e    

 L       O       U       D       E       R      

y      o      u             s     o     u     n     d

the better

Y   O   U        H   E   A   R