Everybody talks too much...

I few months ago I heard a story about a researcher who studies human communication. I honestly don't remember who he was or where he works or what the point of his research is but I do remember very clearly him talking about "monologuing." He explained that humans converse less and less and monologue more and more. What we call conversations are just people taking turns talking about themselves with little regard for what the other person says.

Since Damon's death I've changed in a myriad of ways. One thing that has changed some on it's own and some because I make it is the way that I communicate.

People, in my experience, have this desperate urge to say something. Usually the something that falls out of your mouth because you feel like you need to say something is pretty stupid... or insensitive... or hurtful.

I'm trying really hard to think about what my purpose is before I speak, if I speak. If my goal is to be a source of comfort what form of communication would best serve that purpose? Will words be helpful in this situation? Silence may make me hella uncomfortable but sometimes it's just not about me.

I think so often I talk to hear my own voice... particularly because no one seems to be listening. I want to be listening. I want to hear what the people I love have to say and give them room to say it.

Early in our marriage it drove me nuts how little my man talked. I had some crazy epiphany that I needed to shut up a lot more and it was amazing how much he had to say.

I find that there are very very few comforters in this world. There are very few people who don't have an agenda. It seems everyone is trying to accomplish something and when I don't meet the scheduled checkpoints I've somehow failed... or maybe they have. I want to be a person who gives others space to just be, who has no agenda, who just listens. I guess I want to be what I need.

Until next time...

Love will prevail

I'm having one of those weeks... months... times... I don't know how long it will last. One of those seasons of desperation, desperate pain and grief and fear. I tried to fight it but, as always, it took me. The world is black again and I can't breathe.

I sat on the chest that holds Damon's belongings this morning staring into space. Will walked in and started "Ok, goals for today..." took one look at my face and amended "no goals for today." 

I don't know how I would survive without the tenderness in our relationship, without his ability to perceive and willingness to forgive when the blackness descends. 

It's exhausting, living life around the unpredictability of grief. Sometimes I just want to have a "normal" day and my man is trapped under the heaviness of loss or, like today, he puts his goals for the day on hold and just lets me curl into myself.

Sometimes we aren't so patient. Those days are rough but for the most part we move carefully around each other's wounds and bruises. That, perhaps, is the only reason my descents into untempered madness are temporary. 

It's true that love is not at all as it is so often portrayed. Love is work, it is sometimes a moment to moment choice. Love makes you desperately vulnerable and I pay dearly every minute for deeply loving. Love is terrifying and irrational. 

I heard a woman speaking the other day about being transgender. She spoke about how important the love of her parents is to her successful transition, about how when she came out to her very conservative Christian 85 year old mother she started sobbing. Her mother wrapped her arms around her and said "I don't know what this is but I love you and love will prevail."

Love will prevail.

Until next time...