Schools of Education Should Become Academies of Listening: Finding A Magical Eloquence

I woke up at 1:15 am. I didn’t want to be awake. I wanted to rest and dream. To be unconscious. Then, in the background, I heard a wonderful mix of sounds that surprised me with its steady presence. And my attention shifted to it⎼ to the continuous song of crickets, harmonizing with the individually louder, more irregular song of cicadas.

 

And maybe it was some quality in the sound itself or maybe it was in the focusing of attention, but the sound became everything. Afterwards, I thought it a bit magical, because all inner dialogue, all talk about missing sleep or missing anything, had also disappeared. This was not something supernatural, but revealingly natural. Inner dialogue requires a sort of split in being, an idea of a me to talk and another to talk to. But the song of crickets was both the speaking and the hearing, the subject and object. For a moment, hearing the crickets and cicadas was hearing listening itself. Then I fell asleep.

 

Sometimes our lives can be so precarious, painful, and bleak. Or it can seem banal one minute, and alive, unexpected, instructive the next. The focus on crickets doesn’t always work; it’s not a sleeping pill. It’s not automatic. But, I think, we all want experiences that are engaging and interesting, or that make us interesting, to ourselves, as well as to others. That, as the poet David Hinton says in his book Orient: Two Walks at the Edge of the Human, awakens in us a good story, one that exposes our uniqueness. This simple magic does that. We need a quality of attention to get there, that allows us to hear the eloquence of crickets and cicadas. That allows us to find in that eloquence a universe larger than where we often imagine we reside.

 

I usually meditate and exercise in the morning. For years, I’ve been learning how to keep attention awake to whatever arises inside or around me, and to attention itself, so it doesn’t get lost in distractions. Or I’d do a standard practice of counting each breath. This entails counting each exhalation. Then being aware of each inhalation and the space between the two. As I exhaled, I’d silently say onnnneee to myself. Then I’d feel the pause⎼ and let the inhalation happen simply by itself. And with the next exhalation, I’d say twwwooo to myself. But on this day, each pause became clear, and not just something to get done or cross off a list. Every breath, every moment became important.

 

I realized how my “normal” awareness often skipped over moments. And I didn’t want to skip so much of life. I didn’t want to lose the moments when crickets speak, for example.

 

And there’s another reason why the sound is so important to me. It has a personal meaning. Crickets get so loud at the end of summer. And when I was still working, still teaching, and August came around, the crickets would remind me that my vacation was almost over. The  new school year was about to begin, and the sense of summer’s freedom was almost gone. I had to take advantage of this moment now, before it was lost to me. So, each night, I would sit on one of the steps of my deck, one of my cats on my lap, and I’d do nothing but listen.

 

And this pausing in my life helped me prepare for the school year….

 

*To read the whole article, please go to The Good Men Project.

We All Need A Break Sometimes: A Place of Ease and Beauty

Unbelievably, it’s almost mid-August, and I can feel the end of warm weather approaching, the nearness of fall and winter. Considering how tough the last two, or five winters have been, we might have an added dread of the season. So, the end of summer can be a good opportunity to reflect on what we want or need from this time of year, and this time in our lives. And to try to make it reality before it’s gone.

 

Last night, I woke up at 5:15 and got out of bed. The moment was delicate, and not only because I was barely awake. Outside, light fell on the grass and trees like mist, like a mist of color, lighter than moonlight but not as deep as midday sun.

 

It was delicate, fragile because it felt so new, like a newborn. And I seemed to have the moment all to myself. I could hear no other person in the house or on the street. No cars on the road. If we don’t have to get up early for work, or don’t do it naturally, we don’t see the earth like this, just emerging from darkness, as if it were trying to figure out “how do I do this?”

 

There were birds awake outside singing loudly. One could not contain itself. I don’t know if it was berating the sun for having previously left the world to the dark, or if it just couldn’t find its mate. Or maybe it was telling the universe the story of morning; and every song it sang, every note or exclamation sprang single-mindedly from its mouth.

 

We often fear the fragile, fear it could too easily become hurt, especially after this last year and a half, or four years and a half. We all carry hurt. It is the nature of being human, or the nature of being alive. We have the scars and memory of pain, and some have way too much. Being delicate is vulnerable. But it can also be the strongest part of us. It can teach us not only what to avoid or fight, but how. It can shield us or release us.

 

When the world feels delicate, we notice the tiniest of changes in our surroundings and ourselves. If we don’t retreat into thoughts or get lost in memories, our awareness is heightened. We feel the tiniest tug on our heart. We notice changes in the posture of people we speak with, the quick inhalation, the deceptive movement in the eyes or incipient smile of joy in the lips. And we have the opportunity, if we can allow ourselves to feel it, to move with it. Move in-between the cries of pain, the calls to pleasure, the enticements, or dangers of memory and let all of these teach us the steps in a healing dance….

 

*To read the whole piece, please go to The Good Men Project.

The Sounds that Create Silence: A Practice that Creates Strength

I love the sound of crickets and cicadas. I sometimes sit outside and just listen, in the morning and the heat of day to hear the cicadas or in the evening to hear the crickets. For some reason, it’s reassuring and comforting. The sound begins with the warmth of summer and ends when it gets cold, so it’s a message that summer is here. And crickets become silent when anyone or anything big gets near, so their voice can be one of safety.

 

When I was working as a teacher, and the end of vacation grew near, I especially took note of the sound. If I had any regrets about not spending enough time outdoors or having enough fun or not doing enough to help others or to find moments of calm in my own heart— the crickets reminded me of what had been there for me all along. As my schedule sped up to the fall, and vacation time transformed into work time, the crickets reminded me that the essence of life was individual moments. It reminded me to take a few moments to just listen and focus on what was here right now.

 

Listening to the crickets can be a mindfulness practice. Instead of focusing on the breath, you can let your mind settle on the crickets. When you do so, their voice grows clearer and purer. You hear a concert of millions of tiny wings rubbing together to produce a sound that might calm and help clear your mind. Or if it’s morning, you could focus on the cicadas.

 

So, simply sit outdoors on the grass or in a chair⎼ or indoors, near an open window. Let your hands rest on your lap, your eyes be partly or fully closed, or open and resting on something comforting⎼ and sit with the sound. Let your mind be simply an ear to the world. Just breathe in and enjoy a concert of crickets or cicadas as you inhale⎼ and settle into the moment as you exhale….

 

To read the whole post, please go to The Good Men Project.