Remember when radios were the main source of entertainment. They had the two knobs, one big, one little, that you twist. As you turn, a red needle moves across a number line. As it moves you hear white noise, but then something happens and you hear a recognizable sound. Fingers twist, the ear strains, and the brain hones in for more information.
When I first came to Japan, everything was white noise. The script of their language along with the sounds were indecipherable. White noise. Ears straining, brain honing for any information that would elucidate the situation. No wonder I would walk the river twice a day. One interaction with the public was the limit.
My cooking class would begin with a thirty-minute book study. As they read and discussed, I would listen. After a while my intellectual brain would give up, actually, quite quickly. I was left observing the sounds, the sights, the emotions of the speaker. And then that would stop. The chatter in my head. I would just listen without comprehending. Being out and about alone, this situation happened all the time, on the train, in the store, when my Japanese friends would gather. And like catching the hint of a new station, I started hearing my heart.
Around this time articles about being a good listener came to my attention. I had always prided myself on this quality. But as I read, and more crossed my path, I had to admit I wasn’t. Humbling. Listening became an intentional act.
Listening is easy here in Hiroshima. To be with English speakers is a listening smorgasbord. The delicious sound of English spoken through a Scottish, French, Peruvian, Filipino or Australian brain feeds the soul. Not only the accents, the dialects nourish as well. How people from the UK, New Zealand, Colombian, Singapore, or Japan express themselves in English is not standard.
So I listen. To my surprise, in becoming a better listener to others, I have become a better listener to my Self.