Zoom meetings are part of the strategy for life in a pandemic. We log on, link to video and audio, muting ourselves when the background noise gets out of hand. It works well. At least in theory. 

 

Then somebody freezes, or their internet becomes unstable, and it becomes unclear whether anyone can hear or see me. Sometimes I have resorted to using my phone for audio, and laptop for seeing faces. It is a lot of buttons to keep track of. On occasion I blather on for a minute or so before I realize that I have lost the connection, and have no idea if all the words I have spoken drifted off into oblivion. Other times a fellow zoomer does not notice that he or she is muted, and we are uncertain about what they said. 

 

A friend drove with her parents to vacation, the men in the front and the women in the back. Her father is mostly deaf, and resists wearing his hearing aids. Her mother has not yet been fitted for aids, so all conversation is dicey. 

 

"We are low on gas. I am going to stop," said her husband. 

 

"What?" yells her dad.

 

"What did he say?" asks her mother. 

 

"He's not talking to us," she explains. 

 

This round robin continues for a hundred miles, until my friend decides to just pretend she is asleep. Hoping she can just wake up at the beach. 

 

These missed messages are annoying, and do not endear us to one another. It occurs to me that they happen even when people's ears and wi-fi are fully functional. 

 

How often do I click off my attention, while words are still forthcoming, having already decided I can predict the person's thoughts? There is no one to blame except my own ego, for the inability to give my unalloyed attention. 

 

Listening takes work. But when we finally arrive in a place of mutual respect, it is as lovely as a day at the beach.