Life Lesson #6 - The Good Listener Award

In this episode, you will be welcomed into the amazing community of Ordinarily Beautiful people who listen weekly!  A community of people who support, encourage and uplift one another!

You will hear an excerpt from the unpublished retro-historical memoir, Life Lessons of an Ordinary Woman, written by the host Kim Farnes.  This episode highlights the importance of listening to one another as a way to show support.

You will be reminded of the 1970's.  A time when Kmart Layaway, Planet of the Apes, Ding Dongs and WIlly Wonka's Golden Ticket reigned supreme.

You will be encouraged to send in feedback or share your own personal triumph stories as they relate to this episode.  You will also be asked to like, follow and share this podcast with others, who you think would make a great addition to this community.

To connect with the host:

email: lifelessons.ordinarywoman@gmail.com

Facebook page: Life Lessons of an Ordinary Woman Podcast 

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:01

Good morning this morning, my ordinarily beautiful friends. I hope you had an amazing week and that you had some time to look around you and see who in your life is part of your redwood forest and that it helped make you feel a little more supported. I want to say thank you for the feedback and stories I received following last week's episode. I wanted to share a story I received from Mary regarding the importance of belonging to a redwood forest of connected trees for support. Mary says, I recently completed seven weeks of daily proton radiation therapy for oral cancer. This is my third battle with oral cancer. I was blessed to be surrounded by wonderful friends, church and square dance family, and close family members. They supported and encouraged me daily by sending texts and cards, praying for strength and minimal bad radiation side effects, and killing that cancer. My shallow roots were wrapped, supported, encouraged, and nourished by a community of their roots. Grateful to have completed radiation therapy, I can now concentrate on healing and gaining strength. Thanks for writing, Mary. I'm so happy that you felt that support as you wage that battle. I do hope and pray for your continued healing. As Mary's story points out, we are lucky to have people surround us with their strength and support, sometimes in big ways and sometimes in subtle ways. Both matter. I was thrilled to read the responses that I received, but I have to say that some of them came in a direction that I didn't see coming. Many of you wrote in to say that you felt like you were always the weaker redwood tree with the people in your life. That it was you who were always asking for and relying on the support and strength of others. You shared that you rarely felt like you were the one offering any support. That did surprise me. I want to make sure that you know that we all go through storms in life, times that we feel like we can't possibly do or take another day. Times when it feels like things will never get better. I'm here to tell you that I've definitely had those times too. When those times come for me, I'm always grateful to have both supportive people in my life, my Redwood Forest, and my faith to get me through them. It's important to remember, however, that being there for someone doesn't mean you have to solve all their problems. It means simply being there to offer them stability, silent comfort, and by just showing up for them in any way that you can. I'm certain that you may not think that you do this for others, but you most certainly do. I decided when I started this podcast, the way I wanted to close it each time was with the heartfelt statement that remember your presence is a present to those around you. That statement is from a quote that I heard years ago. I wasn't sure who to attribute it to until this week when I looked it up for this podcast. His name is Tit Niet Han. He's a Vietnamese monk and a peace activist. His quote actually goes, Sometimes the best gift you can give someone is your presence. I'd heard that years ago from someone much smarter than me, and although the actual quote has morphed over time, it still rings true and is one of my favorite daily mantras. Sometimes I can't really do much for someone, so I try to just be there, hoping that my presence is enough. Others have certainly done that for me over the years, sometimes showing up unannounced to my messy house, to find me in my pajamas, drinking cold coffee, or before I quit drinking, something stronger, crying in the dark. They've simply sat with me, and I appreciated that. Others have sent in a random text to simply say hi, and that one act helped me feel less alone. Help doesn't have to be a huge act. Comfort doesn't have to ride in on a white horse with swords drawn. Often strength and connectivity to others comes in quietly and says little. My next life lesson, the Good Listener Award, is about just that. As a kid, I definitely did not possess the natural skills of listening. I loved to talk, and in fact, most of the teacher notes on all my report cards said she talks too much in class. But thankfully, with the help from a teacher, an ordinary adult who didn't have to take the time to help me develop my listening skills, I was able to learn how to listen to others and found that it is one of my favorite things to do in life. So here it goes, life lesson number six from my unpublished retro historical memoir, Life Lessons of an Ordinary Woman, and it's called the Good Listener Award. I had wanted one since the first day of fifth grade, but it always eluded me. Many of my classmates had received them and they were displayed proudly on their desks. I'd tried my hardest, sometimes even sitting on my hands, putting my head on my desk, and pursing my lips together. Yet it had still eluded me. The object of my desire, the elusive good listener award. It was the first time I'd ever had a male teacher. He was tall and skinny. He had shoulder length hair and all the kids wanted to be in his class. He was new to our area, a very rural town with more trees than people. The parents said he was from the south. When I saw my name on his class list that they had posted on what would be his classroom window two weeks before school, I was excited, and the kids in my neighborhood who weren't in his class were finally jealous of me for something. The first day of school was exciting. We all lined up at our new classroom doors, holding our new trapper keepers, our colorful peaches, and dressed in our new school outfits. I was excited and happy that my parents had gotten my new clothes off of the Kmart Layaway just in time for school. I'd decided to wear my new brown corduroy jumper with a striped turtleneck, even though it was still hot from an unusual summer heat wave for our part of Washington State. When the first bell rang and he opened the door to let us in, I was third in line. He said hello to us as we filed in and found our seats. My desk was in the second row to the back, third seat in. I remember because I was seated next to the girl who teased me the most on the playground, but I didn't let that squash my enthusiasm for the new year. She looked at me, rolled her eyes, and said, This is gonna be fun. But I put my new Planet of the Apes lunchbox in the metal basket under my chair and did my very best to ignore her. He wrote his name on the chalkboard while we got settled into our seats. When he turned around and welcomed us to his class, you could hear that he was, in fact, from somewhere else. He drew out many of his words when he said them and dropped a lot of the G's on his words. He said to us that he'd be teaching our class instead of teaching, and was happy to meet us. Listening to him talk was fun. He went on to explain that he moved to Washington to be closer to his family and was enjoying discovering our area of the country. I had never thought of someone discovering our area before. I wondered if he was as excited about the new McDonald's that just opened in town as we all were. The grand opening for that place drew hundreds of local families and Ronald McDonald had even come. As I was lost in thought about what could be exciting about our area to someone new, he pulled out the shoebox he had decorated and held it up. That was the box that held the thing that I would want the most to earn for months, but until this day had eluded me. The coveted good listener awards. They were only the size of index cards, but they were all brightly colored papers that had two ears drawn on them and one set of smiling lips. The words good listener were written in bold print on the top. All the kids let out a combined Ooh as he held them up, very much like those kids did when they saw the golden ticket in the Willy Wonka movie. The kids that had earned them prior to this day were not a surprise to me. They were the kids that said yes, sir, to him and other adults when they talked. They were also the kids who had helped clean the chalkboard and whose parents often volunteered for school functions and outings. They were sometimes called the brown nosers by other kids, but I never called them that, because I knew how it felt to get teased. It hurt, and I didn't want to do that to other kids. We were only a few days away from Thanksgiving break when he asked me to come to his desk as the kids were leaving to go outside for recess. You know, he said to me, when all the kids had gone outside, you are only one of a few kids left who have yet to get a good listener award. I know, I said, with my eyes looking everywhere else but his. I really want one, and I try, I said. That was true. I told him how I had tried sitting on my hands to keep still, and showed him how I squeezed my lips together to try and keep from talking. He smiled a little when I showed him. But then he asked me why I thought those awards were important to him. He told me he knew I was a good kid, and even told me he thought my lisp was getting better. That caught me off guard. I looked at his eyes then. No one except the speech therapist had ever talked to me about my lisp before, and especially in a complimentary way. Thanks, I said. The word came out as a deep sigh, like a tire losing its pressure. My shoulders dropped down as they loosened. I hadn't noticed they were so high up until they dropped down and relaxed. It felt good. I was still thinking about that when I noticed he started talking again. I give out these awards, he said. Not for me, but for you guys. I must have looked at him puzzled because he repeated it again. Not for me, but for you guys. You see, he said, we can all talk. We talk about everything that doesn't really matter. Things like movies, food, celebrities, coffee. I nodded as he talked. I wanted to tell him about the Planet of the Apes costume my mom had bought me and let me wear for Halloween a couple of weeks ago, but I pursed my lips together to stay quiet. He smiled and went on. What people want the most, he said, is for people to listen to them. We have two ears and one mouth, he said, because we're supposed to listen twice as much as we talk. Then he challenged me to do something during the next recess. He asked me to go up to someone and ask, How are you? Then he said, Stand there and listen to what they say. Don't just walk away after you ask. I bet you'll be surprised at what happens next, he said. Just then the bell rang and kids started coming back in and finding their seats. I sat back down in mine. I thought about what he had said during our social studies class. I wondered why he was trying to get at and what he was trying to get at with this challenge. I thought he was crazy, but I decided to try. During the next recess I went up to a boy who was fairly new to our school. He was larger than most of the other kids and hadn't made any friends yet. I made my way over to him as he was standing on the wall, alone, looking down. Hi, I said, how are you? He looked up at me and said, Okay, and then looked back down. But when I stood there, looking at him, waiting for him to say more, he added, Well, I am bored. Me too, I said, Want to play wall ball? Okay, he said, with some excitement. We found the recess duty teacher and asked for a ball. She got one out of the playground cart and handed us one. We spent the rest of recess taking turns hitting the ball against the wall with our fists without any misses. We did pretty good. The bell rang and we lined up at our classroom door. When we went in and I found my seat, my teacher saw that I had walked in with my new wall ball buddy, and we were both smiling. He gave me a shrug and a thumbs up, like a question. I gave him a thumbs up back. The day before our break for Thanksgiving, when the box of good listener awards came out during lunch, I was sitting happily eating my ding dong snack at my desk as a teacher was calling kids' names to come up and get their awards. Then he said my name. I was caught off guard and went up to collect my good listener award, silver snack wrapper in hand, chocolate crumbs falling to the floor as I walked. I was even happier when he handed me a blue one. He smiled at me and told me good job. My wall ball buddy, who had received one too that day, was clapping the loudest for me. My classmate next to me rolled her eyes at me, of course, but nothing dampened my excitement at that moment. I was now an official good listener. It felt good to be proud of myself. As I continued on in school and in life, I have kept in mind how important it is to be a good listener. I'm certain I've surprised many people over the years when I ask how are you, and stand there and wait for their response, waiting for more than just an okay. We're often taught that asking how are you is important in conversation, and it is, but we aren't often taught to genuinely wait and listen for their response, to actually hear how they are. I know that when people ask me and wait for my response, I feel good, so I like to do that for others. I of course still love to talk. I can fill minutes and hours up with all kinds of idle chatter about everything and nothing. In a world full of text messages, emojis, and quick clicks and clips, seems to be getting harder these days to have those genuine conversations that really matter. Those vital one-on-one times where we sit and actually listen to somebody else, really listen. So I've worked hard to find time and ways to build those into my daily routine. Strangely, when I do, I feel more energized and fulfilled by it. In the last episode, if Sally sells seashells, what else does she do? I shared the story about the redwood tree and how its survival depends on its connectedness and unity with other trees. We build that connectivity to each other by actively asking, listening, and checking in on one another. I'm so grateful to be a part of this community of ordinarily beautiful people. You all inspire me and others around you to do more, be more, and try harder in life. I'd love to hear your stories about things that you do and ways that you really listen to other people, and who in your life you feel really listens to you. Who would you give a good listener award to? Do you listen twice as much as you talk? You can send me your thoughts and stories at lifelessons.ordinarywoman at gmail.com or click on the fan mail button on these hosting sites. You can also leave me a message on my Facebook page, Life Lessons of an Ordinary Woman Podcast. Also, please like, follow, and share this podcast with others who you feel would make a nice addition to our community. Until next week, remember that I love you and that your presence is truly a present to those around you.