I want to hear YOU tell it
Ever anxious to reclaim lost time, we moms have mastered the art of transit-cell phone usage. With headsets, speed dial and Starbucks flowing, we're ready. You see us on the road with our 2.3 kids in the back of our S.U.V.'S; each child in a different seat, plugged into video games or watching a DVD while we're on our cell.
Blessed with the God-given ability to multi task which enables us to cook dinner, email, check homework and hot glue a pant hem simultaneously...we are good. It only stands to reason, then, that we would optimize time in traffic, Target or Taco Bell taking care of the details of frenetic lives.
We have a lot to do and even more to remember. Growing up, my mom had 4 numbers in her telephone number and no zip code to remember. Work for my parents' generation had parameters and seldom encroached on my family's time. With technology has come access to our work at any moment, from any remote location. Blurred are the lines between home and work life as we are virtually always available
It seems that time has become my generations' most precious commodity as we seek to strike the balance between achievement and enjoyment. Success and savoring the moment. Freedom from work and freedom that the fruit of our labor provides.
I fear that the art of listening is going the way of the hand-written thank you on Crane's stationary. A wonderful gift to receive, yet one ever-increasingly difficult to muster the energy to give.
I remember being given that gift on a bike ride with my dad. We rode to Maplewood Square; me on my lime-green, 70's Sears bike, him on some black 10-speed with Robin Hood logo, I can see in my mind's eye. Somehow, we got on the subject of fairy tales. He mentioned the Three Little Pigs and because he was an incredible story-teller, I begged for his version once more.
"No, Jinny, this time I want to hear YOU tell it."
It was perhaps my first audience and as I glanced back at him periodically, I was amazed by the deep sense of pleasure which shone in his eyes. I probably mixed up the hay and stick pigs, skipped a vital detail or two and had the wolf going to Baskin Robbins for ice cream in-between, but I told the story and he listened, truly listened to me.
He was so amused by me, my voice. My cadence. Everything about him reflected a deep acceptance even though my steering was stilted and my blond hair a mess. I could feel his love for me in the way he listened. I remember that ride and wonder if my children will have similar stories to tell about my lavish, unscheduled attention or if the haste has robbed my children of what they need the most.
More than three decades have passed since our bike ride. Even though many years have passed, what remains is the the feeling that I have something worth saying. It certainly has not sprung up in me by accident. It grew from the seed of attention planted, nurtured and carefully tended.
Today as I consider the loss of those interested ears five years ago, I am inspired and challenged to give the gift of undivided attention to my own story-tellers. Mainly, I regret that he cannot hear the tales his love has inspired in me and ultimately in them.
Blessed with the God-given ability to multi task which enables us to cook dinner, email, check homework and hot glue a pant hem simultaneously...we are good. It only stands to reason, then, that we would optimize time in traffic, Target or Taco Bell taking care of the details of frenetic lives.
We have a lot to do and even more to remember. Growing up, my mom had 4 numbers in her telephone number and no zip code to remember. Work for my parents' generation had parameters and seldom encroached on my family's time. With technology has come access to our work at any moment, from any remote location. Blurred are the lines between home and work life as we are virtually always available
It seems that time has become my generations' most precious commodity as we seek to strike the balance between achievement and enjoyment. Success and savoring the moment. Freedom from work and freedom that the fruit of our labor provides.
I fear that the art of listening is going the way of the hand-written thank you on Crane's stationary. A wonderful gift to receive, yet one ever-increasingly difficult to muster the energy to give.
I remember being given that gift on a bike ride with my dad. We rode to Maplewood Square; me on my lime-green, 70's Sears bike, him on some black 10-speed with Robin Hood logo, I can see in my mind's eye. Somehow, we got on the subject of fairy tales. He mentioned the Three Little Pigs and because he was an incredible story-teller, I begged for his version once more.
"No, Jinny, this time I want to hear YOU tell it."
It was perhaps my first audience and as I glanced back at him periodically, I was amazed by the deep sense of pleasure which shone in his eyes. I probably mixed up the hay and stick pigs, skipped a vital detail or two and had the wolf going to Baskin Robbins for ice cream in-between, but I told the story and he listened, truly listened to me.
He was so amused by me, my voice. My cadence. Everything about him reflected a deep acceptance even though my steering was stilted and my blond hair a mess. I could feel his love for me in the way he listened. I remember that ride and wonder if my children will have similar stories to tell about my lavish, unscheduled attention or if the haste has robbed my children of what they need the most.
More than three decades have passed since our bike ride. Even though many years have passed, what remains is the the feeling that I have something worth saying. It certainly has not sprung up in me by accident. It grew from the seed of attention planted, nurtured and carefully tended.
Today as I consider the loss of those interested ears five years ago, I am inspired and challenged to give the gift of undivided attention to my own story-tellers. Mainly, I regret that he cannot hear the tales his love has inspired in me and ultimately in them.
posted by Jinny Henson @ 10:51 AM
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