One of the stories told last weekend by a plenary speaker was about responding. He described a late night, or rather early morning, conversation with his wife. The current argument revolved around a new couch, and why she felt they had to have it. The rules they have agreed on are that one person holds a candle in the dark, and they get to
talk. When she is finished, and not before, she hands the candle to him for his turn. But instead of a comeback, he must respond with a recap of what he heard.
"You want this couch because it fits in the upstairs room and will be a great place for the kids to hang out. It's important to you that our children have a space that is theirs, not just the living room. Is that right?"
Then his wife took the candle back and said he did not get
it. He tried again. This went on for forty minutes while she whittled away at his attempts to articulate her position until she was satisfied. When he finally understood she hugged him, and may or may not still want the couch.
My father taught me and my sibs this process, and we practiced it when other kids and their dads were tossing baseballs in the back yard. He wanted us to learn how to listen as if our lives depended on it, which it turns out, they do. He had
studied the skills both as a graduate student in counseling, and as the husband of a manic wife whose diatribes were more convoluted than the roads around Tokyo. I have since furthered my aptitude while parenting nine children, which included three teenage girls thus far, an oppositional son and one on the spectrum who has trouble telling me what he wants for lunch.
I learned that the goal is not to listen patiently in order to earn the right to reply. The effort
is transformed by the intention to understand.
