I participated in an experiment today where I got to talk for 10 minutes, and was LISTENED to. I mean, REALLY listened to. No interruptions, no suggestions, no pep talk, no feedback (except some gentle and most welcome comments at the end). It was a real gift, and part of a ‘soul listening’ project you can read about here.
I find that quite often when we talk with others, we don’t REALLY listen all that much, because we’re busy thinking about what we’ll say next, or we hear something we want to comment on and interrupt to get our point in before the opportunity passes. That’s all good and well, and I’m sure I do plenty of that myself… all I’m saying is that it was a real treat to just be listened to without comment or judgment. I felt as though I was being held in a very safe place where it was ok just to share what’s on my mind.
One of the things that’s been on that every busy mind of mine is something a friend said to me when he came over the other day. As he was arriving, he took off his shoes, and since it was a warm day I implied he might also want to take off his (black) socks lest the bottom turn white with Jack hair. I intended to propose this alongside the comment that even though I had vacuumed, there’s always some residual dog fur on the carpet. I got as far as “I did vacuum but…” before I was met with
“Yes, yes, I know… You don’t ever have time for anything because you have a baby, and you wish the day had 48 hours.”
Ahem – no, actually.
First of all, I do actually get the bloody hoover out… occasionally, anyway. Less because I’m expecting anyone and more because I don’t fancy half the dog on the bottom of my OWN socks, or all over my daughter for that matter.
Think about it: 48 hours would mean a minimum six meals rather than three (plus snacks), more innovative sleep-inducing techniques for all the additional naptimes, two dog walks; and extra visits to Starbucks to keep those sugar levels topped up. I’m not sure I’m ready to consider how many times in 48 hours my beloved daughter could empty the bookshelves, the kitchen cupboards, the dog bowl or the bottom of the changing table. I’m quite sure her newfound ability to squirrel stuff away would exceed the capacity of the space beneath the sofa. Besides, I already hardly ever know what time it REALLY is since Miss Muffet frequently resets the clock on the stove for the sheer pleasure of hearing the accompanying beeps.
No, for the sake of my sanity, I think I’ll stick to 24 hours, thank you very much.
Although if there was an extra hour ever so often, filled with a tanned Greek God of a masseur giving me some full body pampering… well, I don’t suppose I would complain!