Words, words, words . . .

 

Sometimes I just have nothing to say.  It could be that nothing exciting is happening in my life, or it could be that I  am just lost for words, or it could be . . . just  . . .  well . . . I have nothing to say.

It doesn't happen very often. I am one of those people who have this wierd need to fill up the air around me with words. I can't stand silence.  Silence  makes me uncomfortable.  Well, not when I am alone actually. Silence is okay when I am alone. Its only when I am around other people that silence makes me uncomfortable.

I just always feel like somebody should be saying something, and then when nobody does . . .  I do. I fill the air with chit chat and  the inane. Words. Words. Words. Babble. Babble. Babble. I can't help myself.

 

I'm not sure why I feel the need to do this, or even why I do it. I only know that I do.  And I will talk about anything. What I had for breakfast, or even what I didn't have for breakfast and why I didn't have it.  I will ask questions in an attempt to begin a conversation.  And if that fails, I will have a conversation with myself.

One of my father's complaints about my mother was that "She talked too much." I guess he just longed for silence. Not me.  

 

Funny thing is . . .  now he calls my sister's answering machine just to hear her voice.  

My mother had mastered the art of conversation. She could talk for hours about nothing and it would be interesting. You didn't even realise that she was talking about nothing. Or at least nothing of consequence.  She could make even the most inconsequential topic interesting and keep you spell-bound. I never found myself zenning out like I do with some people. 

And she never ran out of words.  Which is what made the last few years of her life painful for us all. She was slowly running out of her words.  I would call her and the same conversation would be repeated each time.  Or I would be the only one talking.  An hour of verbal diarreah on my part as I tried to keep her entertained, or to try elicit a spark of conversation from her, a memory that she could or would share.

Its tough when people run out of words.  And a more than a bit sad.  And so I talk.  About anything and everything. In fact the other night when we were all stuck in that tiny box of a car, freezing in the dark, Dan said, "Would everybody just shut up."  I just knew he meant me.

It worked for a minute. Maybe. 

 

And then I was off to the races again. Do you remember when . . .   Maybe its the  . . . It could have been worse . . .We could have been . . . What should we have for breakfast . . . yada, yada, yada.

 

And I know it is somewhat annoying when you are around someone who just has this need to fill the air with words and inanity. But I can't help myself. I just need to fill the air with words. Its almost a compulsion. I know that Silence is Golden . . .  but not in my world I guess. In my world Silence is Uncomfortable.

Its like being in church on a Fast & Testimony Sunday and nobody is getting up to bear their testimonies. Everyone is sitting there, waiting for someone to get up and bear their testimony, but nobody does and everyone just starts feeling uncomfortable, and then finally someone gets up and goes to the front and you can almost hear an inaudible sigh of relief as the cone of silence is broken. It usually starts a flood of people going to the front of the chapel to bear their own testimonies.  Sometimes it just take one person to break the dam. And then all is okay. The uncomfortable silence is over.

And the air is magically once more filled with words. 

 

Yes, I like to talk, but even more so I like to listen. I love listening to people's stories, about their lives.  What's happened in their day. I am interested. Yes, even in what they had for breakfast.  Especially in what they had for breakfast, and possibly in what they are going to have for lunch or even supper.

My mother was a great talker, but she was an even better listener. I am sure my brother really misses her listening skills. My brother is one of those people who is an even better talker than myself. He really loves to talk about things that most people don't or can't understand. My mother always listened. To every word. Even if she wasn't completely interested. You never knew that she wasn't.  Because she understood that sometimes people really only need to know that they are being heard, even if the people they are talking to don't completely understand what they are saying. They understand your need to speak of it, and sometimes that is enough. That is what makes a good listener.

I miss that about my mother also.  I am quite sure she was not always interested in what I had to say, but she listened, and that really was enough. Some people are talkers.  Some people are listeners. Some people are both.

A thought to carry with you  . . . 

° * 。 • ˚ ˚ ˛ ˚ ˛ •
•。★★ 。* 。
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˚ ˛ •˛•˚ */______/~＼。˚ ˚ ˛
˚ ˛ •˛• ˚ ｜ 田田 ｜門 ★
 *The soul of the artist

cannot remain hidden.

~Henri J. M. Nouwen 

•。★★ 。* 。•。★★ 。* 。   

 

There is something very simple in The English Kitchen today  . . . Cheese & Bacon on Toast.  Quite simply delicious.

Have a beautiful Sunday no matter what you get up to.  Don't forget . . . 

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And I do too!