Counting to ten

Over dinner this past spring, in my NYC apartment/shoe-box, a friend recounted for me an activity she had partook in earlier that day, as part of her Palliative care elective. It involved sitting face to face (or so I pictured it) with someone she did not know that well, and taking turns talking for sixty seconds about something meaningful. The listener had to refrain for an entire minute from verbal feedback, from providing any form of response; the listener wasn't allowed to speak. 

This lesson, second-hand but instantly, served me well. I've always thought of myself a good listener, (a little pat on the back), but overnight I implemented an abridged version of this concept, I made an amend to the well-worn way I listened. 

When lulls arose in conversation, when people paused in recounting and sharing and story telling, when the phone line went limp and static resumed.... with patients, family, and friends... I consciously made the decision to keep my mouth shut. 

I started, quite literally, counting to ten. 

And something -don't wait- kind of, instantly, amazing happened: there was a lull in the lull, a pause in the pause, an end to the static. People resumed talking. 

I'm obviously romanticizing this a little bit. Don't rewind to conversations (friends and family and foes)- this wasn't as calculated a maneuver as the retrospect makes it seem. And the test wasn't 100% sensitive (specific? Shoot.) But it was a conscious implementation, and the more I did it the more valuable it became. 

See, dear reader; see, friends and family and foes: it took me almost two months before I started to sermonize. 

The point of this post, obviously, is that in Malawi this lesson has taken on another form. Inherently, the focus groups Emily and I conduct are loyal to this philosophy. We talk minimally, embrace the silence, and quietly celebrate when a more reserved participant chimes in. 

Further though, this idea has held true with all the people I've met along the way. It's crazy, but in those ten seconds, you can hear the other person forming their next thought. Like claymation. Or maybe in the silence the previously stated sentence echoes. Either way it works. 

I have a story to share but I'm going to save it until I have the gusto to tell it well. Think of me as counting to ten, ironing out the details, unbending the kinks. 

Have a good day,

Rebecca