I want to tell two stories about compassionate listening and presence.
I taught mindfulness every week for about 10 years at the county jail a few miles from my house. I stopped when I had the aortic dissection almost two years ago. I spent two hours each week at the jail, an hour in two different cell blocks. Participation was voluntary, and over the years I had as many as 12 men in my sessions and as few as one.
Several years ago the number of men in one of the cell blocks dwindled to a single man. One day he asked me if I was being paid to come and I told him that I was a volunteer. That blew him away. He said that no one in his life had ever offered him something without expecting something in return. The first time a person in jail told me this I was blown away. Sadly, several men have told me this over the years.
I quickly realized that he really wasn't interested in meditation. He simply enjoyed having someone who would listen to his loneliness and anguish with compassion, which I did. A couple months later he was released and I didn't hear from him again. I assumed he had moved back to Ohio. A couple years later I received a letter from him. He reminded me who he was and simply said, "I am writing to say thanks. I want you to know your presence and your kindness gave me hope." He didn't say thank you for teaching me mindfulness meditation, but thank you for your presence.
In the second story, I was on the receiving end of compassionate listening. Over 25 years ago, our weekly meditation group decided to adapt the Quaker practice of listening into our meetings. We would meditate for 75 minutes (sitting and walking) and then someone would speak when they felt moved to do so. They would raise their hands in Namaste and the rest of us would also. Because there were often periods of silence during someone's turn, that person raised their hands in Namaste when they were finished.
During this time, my wife had become very sick and was in constant pain. After many months, we still had no diagnosis. We had two teen aged children at the time and I was a full-time college professor. One day I was just exhausted and full of despair. I poured out my pain and grief for several minutes and then I was finished. I raised my hands in Namaste and the others did also.
It was several minutes before the next person spoke and he said, "I've had a pretty rough week." I filled with tears. I realized that because of the format, no one had tried to reassure me with well-intentioned words. This enabled me to feel the pure gift of people who loved me holding me in their hearts with such deep compassionate presence. Note: my wife fully recovered from this illness.
I have been in the presence of many people who have embodied this quality, most notably Thich Nhat Hanh. You could feel his presence in each moment. When he listened it seemed like every fiber of his being was present in that moment. His body was quiet, his heart was open, and his mind was focused.
I realize that this is actually the best offering I can make in my daily life with family, friends, and others--simple, whole-hearted presence. It's not easy and I can often overcommit myself and begin hurrying. However, when I remember exemplars like Thich Nhat Hanh and stories like the two I have shared, my whole being calms down and I remember what's really important.
Addendum the next day: I was reading an interview today with Oren Jay Sofer, and his description of what presence means was beautiful: when we notice “how it feels when someone is really there, we really have the sense that they’re giving us their full attention. It’s very powerful and I think it sends a very deep message when we give someone our full attention.”