Dear Friends,

Did you know that the word "listen" has "silent" hidden in it? Amazing.

My friend Divya has diligently typed out one of my all time favorite
books: "The Little Book of Listening Skills". This is a book that
ought to be in every home, classroom and workplace.

So I'm sharing with you here one of the totally amazing anecdotes from
the book. Enjoy...





"Sit down here and tell me about it."

The train clanked and rattled through the suburbs of Tokyo on a drowsy
spring afternoon. Our car was comparatively empty – a few housewives
with their kids in tow, some old folks going shopping. I gazed
absently at the drab houses and dusty hedgerows.

At one station the doors opened, and suddenly the afternoon quiet was
shattered by a man bellowing violent, incomprehensible curses. The man
staggered into our car. He wore labourer's clothing, and he was big,
drunk and dirty. Screaming, he swung at a woman holding a baby. The
blow sent her spinning into the laps of an elderly couple. It was a
miracle that the baby was unharmed.

Terrified, the couple jumped up and scrambled toward the other end of
the car. The labourer aimed a kick at the retreating back of the old
woman but missed as she scuttled to safety. This so enraged the drunk
that he grabbed the metal pole in the centre of the car and tried to
wrench it out of the stanchion. I could see that one of his hands was
cut and bleeding. The train lurched ahead, the passengers frozen with
fear. I stood up.

I was young then, some twenty years ago, and in pretty good shape. I'd
been putting in a solid eight hours of aikido training nearly everyday
for the past three years. I liked to throw and grapple. I thought I
was tough. The trouble was, my martial skill was untested in actual
combat. As students of aikido, we are not allowed to fight.

"Aikido," my teacher had said again and again, "is the art of
reconciliation. Whoever has the mind to fight has broken his
connection with the universe. If you try to dominate people, you are
already defeated. We study how to resolve conflict, not how to start it."

I listened to his words. I tried hard. I even went so far as to cross
the street to avoid the chimpira, the pinball punks who lounged around
the train stations. My forbearance exalted me. I felt both tough and
holy. In my heart, however, I wanted an absolutely legitimate
opportunity whereby I might save the innocent by destroying the guilty.

"This is it!" I said to myself as I got to my feet. "People are in
danger. If I don't do something fast, somebody will probably get hurt."

Seeing me stand up, the drunk recognised a chance to focus his rage.
"Aha!" he roared. "A foreigner! You need a lesson in Japanese manners!"

I held on lightly to the commuter strap overhead and gave him a look
of disgust and dismissal. I planned to take this turkey apart, but he
had to make the first move. I wanted him mad, so I pursed my lips and
blew him an insolent kiss.

"All right!" he hollered. "You're gonna get a lesson in Japanese
manners." He gathered himself for a rush at me.

A fraction of a second before he could move, someone shouted "Hey!" It
was ear-splitting. I remember the strangely joyous, lilting quality of
it – as though you and a friend had been searching diligently for
something and he had suddenly stumbles upon it. "Hey!"

I wheeled to my left; the drunk man to his right. We both stared down
at this little Japanese man. He must have been well into his
seventies, this tiny gentleman, sitting there immaculate in his
kimono. He took no notice of me, but beamed delightedly at the
labourer, as though he had a most important, most welcome secret to share.

"C'mere," the old man said in an easy vernacular, beckoning to the
drunk. "C'mere and talk with me." He waved his hand lightly.

The big man followed, as if on a string. He planted his feet
belligerently in front of the old gentleman, and roared above the
clacking wheels, "Why the hell should I talk to you?" The drunk now
had his back to me. If his elbow moved as much as a millimetre, I'd
drop him in his socks.

The old man continued to beam at the labourer. "What'cha been
drinkin'?" he asked, his eyes sparkling with interest.

"I been drinking sake," the labourer bellowed back, "and it's none of
your business!" Flecks of spittle spattered the old man.

"Oh, that's wonderful," the old man said, "absolutely wonderful! You
see, I love sake too. Every night, me and my wife – she's 76, you know
– we warm up a little bottle of sake and take it out into the garden,
and we sit on an old wooden bench. We watch the sun go down, and we
look to see how our persimmon tree is doing. My great-grandfather
planted that tree, and we worry about whether it will recover from
those ice storms we had last winter. Our tree has done better that I
expected, though, especially when you consider the poor quality of the
soil. It's gratifying to watch when we take our sake and go out to
enjoy the evening – even when it rains!" He looked up at the labourer,
eyes twinkling.

As he struggled to follow the old man's conversation, the drunk's face
began to soften. His fists slowly unclenched. "Yeah," he said. "I love
persimmons, too..." His voice trailed off.

"Yes," said the old man, smiling, "and I'm sure you have a wonderful
wife."

"No," replied the labourer. "My wife dies." Very gently, swaying with
the motion of the train, the big man began to sob. "I don't got no
wife. I don't got no home. I don't got no job. I'm so ashamed of
myself." Tears rolled down his cheeks; a spasm of despair rippled
through his body.

Now it was my turn. Standing there in my well scrubbed youthful
innocence, my make-this-world-safe-for-democracy righteousness, I
suddenly felt dirtier than he was.

Then the train arrived at my stop. As the doors opened, I heard the
old man cluck sympathetically. "My, my," he said, "That is a difficult
predicament, indeed. Sit down here and tell me about it."

I turned my head for one last look. The labourer was sprawled on the
seat, his head in the old man's lap. The old man was softly stroking
the filthy, matted hair. As the train pulled away, I sat down on a
bench. What I wanted to do with muscle...had been accomplished with love.

- Terry Dobson








I've uploaded a soft copy of this book in the "files" section of my
Yahoo! group:

http://groups.yahoo.com/group/lovingsilence/files/



Thank-you Divya for this gift of listening to us all!


The beginner-listener...

Nithya Shanti







~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
If all you did was just look for things to appreciate you would live a
joyous, spectacular life. If there was nothing else that you ever came
to understand other than just look for things to appreciate, it's the
only tool you would ever need to predominantly hook you up with who
you really are. That's all you'd need.


http://lovingsilence.org