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Friends United Meeting |
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September 2005
Stop, Look, and Listen
By Barbara Bennett Mays
In the mid-'80s, Robert Fulghum (All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten, Ballantine Books, 1986) made popular the idea that our most valuable lessons are simple ones and come early in life: “Share everything.” “Play fair.” “Don’t hit people.” “Clean up your own mess.” “Say you’re sorry when you hurt somebody.”
Fulghum wasn’t saying that we didn’t have more to learn after we turn six. It took a graduate degree, a family and several careers for him to realize that we make life more complicated than it needs to be. Jesus taught by parables, and he could also be very
direct: “You shall love your neighbor as yourself” (Matthew 19:19), “Follow me” (Matthew 9:9) and “Pray for those that persecute you.” (Matthew 5:44) As straightforward as these admonitions are, it takes us a lifetime—and God’s grace—to learn their value.
Because I am wired to do well in the traditional classroom, I breezed through school. It wasn’t until a graduate-level seminar, however, that I was expected to do more than memorize rules and facts. Richard Baer, an Earlham School of Religion professor visiting at Ball State University, challenged us at a deeper level. He asked us to reflect on what we read and heard, and to trust that our beliefs and opinions would add value to the class discussion. It took four weeks before I realized that he wanted us to engage head and heart, and I vowed then I would never accept anything less.
Our last class was a celebration, which included a shared meal and a simple exercise that made God’s limitless love real. For the first time, I got it! I was free to trust my innate curiosity and creativity and to rest in God’s love. That experience moved me into an internal approach to lifelong learning. Like Robert Fulghum, I find that a lesson I learned in kindergarten best describes this approach: Stop, look and listen.
At age five, that lesson was to protect us from getting hit by a car or a 100-mile-an-hour train. When life itself comes at us like a speeding train—or especially when we become the speeding train—we most need to stop, look and listen so that we can learn what God wants for us.
Stop
In his book, Stopping (Conari Press, 1998), David Kundtz defines stopping as “doing nothing as much as possible for a definite period of time (one second to one month) for the purpose of becoming more fully awake and remembering who you are.” What a luxury “stopping” seems like today, when almost every adult in a household works at least one job to meet expenses and, if there are children, adds parenting to the cars on the train. Extended family, community and church beckon from the sidetrack. Yet, remembering who we are and being fully awake are vital if we are to thrive in life or, perhaps, even survive.
Kundtz identifies three levels of stopping: Stillpoints, Stopovers and Grinding Halts. Stillpoints can be a second or two. We take a deep breath, still our thoughts, wait for the right word or action, release anger or fear. Stopovers are longer—an hour to a few days—enough to feel a sense of renewal. Grinding Halts usually happen only a few times in our life. They may be a week or a few months in length, and require planning. I am grateful for every time I remember to stop. When I stop to take a deep breath or sink into momentary prayer during a Stillpoint, I may trade urgency and control for a smile and more patience. I may remember that I want to thank a coworker for a simple kindness.
I balance my crowded weekdays with a Stopover during the weekend—at least half a day of relative silence. I say “relative” because I often spend some of that time surrounded by people in a coffee shop or at a park. In the midst of conversations, laughter and music, my soul stills and I read or write in silence.
I’ve never experienced a Grinding Halt that fits any description in Kundtz’s book. My two years as a housekeeper at Pendle Hill, however, was my version of it: Daily physical work in one of my spiritual homes renewed my mind and spirit.
Stop now for a Stillpoint. Take a few deep breaths. Feel the movement of the air through your body. Make note of any image or thought that comes to mind.
Look
Formal opportunities for lifelong learning abound. A Google web search for Lifelong Learning brought up 84 pages of related items. Universities, local colleges, nonprofits and distance learning on the Internet offer wide class choices and flexible schedules.
I often look first to the printed word—books, periodicals and now the Internet—as a source of learning. Most of us can name books and articles that appeared just when we needed them and that teach us something new at each re-reading.
Children have much to teach us; Jesus pointed that out. My three-year-old son taught me about expressing a sense of self. When I called him to the car for the third time so that we could run an errand, he said: “You are interrupting my play!” Rich people. Poor people. Academics. Students. Friends. Strangers. Animals. Works of art. Sources of learning are endless.
Now I look more often to inner resources. Journaling and prayer are helpful tools for my soul lessons. I look first for my questions. During a Stillpoint I prayed about how to describe my learning process. It was then that Stop, Look and Listen came to mind.
Stop here for a few moments. Take a few more deep breaths. What are your sources for learning? What are your questions, large or small?
Listen
Listening well for sustained periods is not easy. Our minds wander, or we tune out what we don’t want to hear. But we must learn how to listen deeply—to outside sources and to the still small voice within—or we may miss what we are meant to learn.
Valuable lessons have come from listening deeply to the personal questions others have asked me: “Why do you live in the country if you spend most of your time in town?” “Have you ever thought about what you would like to teach?” “Have you been writing any music lately? Why not?” I had no quick answers to these questions, but each tugged quietly inside until I acted on them.
I also listen deeply when I dialogue with an author as I read. (Michael Birkel encourages us to read scripture at this level in Engaging Scripture: Reading the Bible with Early
Friends, Friends United Press, 2005.) When I listen as I read, I may find the author and I have similar questions. I may remember what it is I need and, if I’m fortunate, get a clue to the next step forward.
Lately, I’ve also listened more closely to my body. (It speaks louder every year!) My stomach tells me if I’m afraid or angry, and it complains until I resolve the problem.
Years ago during a body massage, I remembered that I am a dancer. I resisted that information for another 20 years. Now that I’m dancing again, a part of my soul has been unblocked. I am more confident, willing to take risks and learn from mistakes, and more relaxed on the dance floor than anywhere else. And ballroom dancing has opened opportunities to learn teaching skills and offer a small ministry in area nursing homes. I am grateful that I finally listened to what my body tried to tell me long ago.
I certainly don’t stop, look and listen as often as I need to. At times I do become the speeding train. But every time I remember to stop, I learn more about who I am, and I become wider awake. I am more likely to look to people and places that can teach me what I need to learn and to listen deeply for my next steps.
And I haven’t given up on academics, but now I draw subjects out of my internal learning process. Spanish is at the top of that need-to-know list now.
Each time we remember to stop, look and listen, this practice will feel more natural. It will become part of the rhythm of our lives and may grow from a kindergarten rule into being more like Thomas Kelly’s renewing experience of continuous prayer.
Stop now for as long as you like. Begin with deep breaths. From whom or what have you learned by listening deeply? Are there other ways to add listening in your life? Journal, if you find that helpful.
Barbara Mays is the editor for Friends United Press, a ministry of Friends United Meeting.