Early in their marriage a couple came up with a plan. It was borrowed from a book, adapted to their needs. The trigger is when one of them speaks honestly about a potentially contentious topic, followed by the other person saying a scripted line. 

"That makes sense."

 

Then the pact states that their partner must reply with nine words.

 

"I love you! I love you! I love you!"

 

Over the years they have followed through, admittedly sometimes with gritted teeth. Which may later be punctuated with laughter. Or furrowed eyebrows. And yet even with its formulaic constraints, it works. By working I mean communication squeaks through, and an otherwise impassable moment finds lubrication. 

 

I could get behind such an interchange. Having given forty years to less profitable conversations/steely silences, why not give it a go? 

 

The preamble is the understanding that good listening does not depend on consensus. One time I invited our daughter to set the table, which she did with enough thumping that I feared the plates would break. I was staunchly in the camp of "asking kids to help with supper is reasonable" and yet I could hear that it felt like a weighty chore after a rough day at school. I gave voice to her sense of oppression, without any post scripts about how I was within my parental rights. 

 

She sighed. "Thanks, mom. I do have a lot of homework, but it's ok."

 

If the pinnacle of shared living is being right, there is no elbow room for just being present with another person's feelings. But if we aspire to that holy space of softening this bumpy ride for someone we cherish, nine words are not too high a price.