Meredith’s Musings | Eyes and Ears

article by MEREDITH MCKINNIE

I sometimes joke with my dad that he should have been a professor. He lectures everyone incessantly. And his extemporaneous speeches are not always negative, but definitely impassioned. For whatever reason, he’s focused on this tree/topic, and by golly, he’s going to climb it. I remember my early awareness of this in my youth. Dad’s educational background is geology, and when science homework perplexed me (which it often did), Mom would shrug and suggest I ask Dad for help. I knew what that meant – two minutes helping me understand the science issue on my paper and two hours on an adjacent topic which wouldn’t be on the next day’s test. A generous assessment would be that dad was taking a holistic approach to instruction, but knowing Dad, he’s going to talk about what he wants to talk about.

Fast forward to now, and guess what I do – lecture. It’s like I can’t help myself. If you bring up a topic, I’ve got an opinion on it and each tangent twice-removed. I’m so comfortable talking, and so validated by someone listening, that I often forget to listen. I attack silence like a pothole, assuming I’m filling it for everyone in the vicinity. I’m kidding myself, of course, but I can’t seem to stop lecturing. And I’ve got a motley group of friends who don’t seem too bothered. Or maybe my incessant talking is part of the package they’ve chosen to accept.

I tend to be on my best behavior at work. Surrounded by intellectuals, I tend to let them do the talking, as I assume they have more knowledge to share. In my classes, I lean into class discussions, often biting my tongue to not answer my own posed questions. It’s hard, wanting so badly to share and so vehemently not wanting to offend. Words often feel as if they’re bursting out of me before I’ve even given them significant thought. I literally talk myself into thoughts, mid-speech thinking, “Yeah, that’s a good point.”

As happens with children, watching them adjust to the world makes me reconsider my own use of space and time. I see my oldest with my dad after school. He’s meticulously going through her flashcards, adding adjacent quiz questions, seemingly unaware her patience runs thin. After so many years with me and my mom, you’d think he’d know this by now. A new audience is a new opportunity, I guess. I cringe and smile during their interactions, as if I’m reliving those childhood experiences, both nostalgic for a simpler time and hoping Daughter takes it easy on the old man. Authority doesn’t carry the weight it once did in previous generations – these kids are fearless.

One of my friends randomly mentioned the benefit of listening, how the knowledge is infinite when someone settles into a state of observation. Inherently, I know this to be true, but the tone and tenor of this interaction met the moment. I’m trying to listen more, to not fill up space with my endless chatter. More intently, I’m trying to listen acutely to the existing listeners in my life. I’m discovering the other side of conversations that I’ve missed for years. It’s fascinating out there. Listeners, laugh if you must, but my fellow chatters get me. We’ll be over here breathing, gliding right past those conversation potholes.

More pointedly, I’m attempting to model active listening with my girls, to focus on their precious little faces while they fumble to find the words. Witnessing that struggle is humbling and telling. I get to practice on the very people who most benefit from my undivided attention. I see Wilder’s face beam with this behavioral shift; likewise, her visible validation from receiving all of me in the moment pains me. She’s not used to knowing I care what she has to say. My girls deserve my time and attention; they deserve my eyes and my ears. If they can’t get it from Mom, they’ll never expect it from anyone else.