Cicadas

The cicadas are calling. Their bodies sound like thousands and thousands of tiny maracas in the darkness. They are playing an original song, only they know the lyrics to but their sound brings back memories for me. Of summer, at my grandparents house. The house sits along an old country road with more land around it than people. I would spend summers here as a child, playing on the railroad tracks smashing pennies, laying in the swing reading book after book, walking through rows of corn until I knew I was lost but later, realizing I was only about a mile from home.

What happened to that time, where kids could go off and play without knowing where they were going, with no phone to check in and not come home until dark or dinner, whichever came first? That I was even playing, outside, all day is amazement to me with today’s kids seemingly preferring to stay indoors. Do kids go out and play anymore?

But back to my cicadas. The sound reminds me of dusk, big canopy pecan trees, and the sound of tires pulling into the white stone driveway of the old house. At night, lying in bed trying to fall asleep, and working to convince myself that the funny shaped shadows on the wall were really from the trees and not some prison escapee, I would listen to the random cars passing along on the country road. With my eyes shut, I would listen to their sound and decipher whether they were moving east or west. And I would count them, like sheep, until sleep would take me away.

The cicadas were the backdrop to all these memories. Sort of like the soundtrack to a movie, you don’t really notice it, but ultimately it enriches the images and moments and without it, they would not be as vibrant and lush.

Men

I love men. All things about them. But what I love most is what makes men…well, men.

I love:

• tattoos
• biceps flexing when they turn a wrench
• wearing just jeans and nothing else, sacked out on the sofa, watching the ball game and unshaven
• confidence, in the boardroom, in the bedroom and in life
• watching them effortlessly tie their tie
• the badness in their eyes when they see you naked
• when they can do ‘unmanly’ tasks such as cooking or dancing
• watching them shave
• when they are handy and don’t need me to read the directions
• how they are around their mom
• being a gentleman – opening doors, holding the elevator, or carrying the heavy suitcase
• strong hands and how they can be tender and not so tender in the right moments
• how they look in a tux
• the crinkles around their eyes when they smile
• their fingers in my hair
• how they can actually make you feel protected and safe

Listening

Do you listen well? Most people don’t. It’s a skill, rather, an art, which you have to hone, refine and be able to alter depending on the source. It’s a gift you can give. It could be an accomplishment on a resume. And it should be an asset people would want to own. But, alas, we are a self absorbed sort. We are more interested in the ‘me’ over the ‘you’ or even the ‘us’. We want to make our point, hear our own voice, and move on to the next thing. We rarely take the time for a real conversation. One where you look the other person in the eyes, remove all distractions (read cell phone here) and focus on what the other person is saying. Listen for the subtleties of the words they choose and the tone they use. Watch their facial expressions and hand gestures. Ask questions. Read between the lines. And listen for what they might not be saying.

Did you know that if you just pause for a moment and don’t respond right away when someone is speaking to you, they are more than likely to reveal more? People don’t like those ‘pregnant pauses’, they make them feel uncomfortable. The feel the need to fill them. However, I love them. I use them to sop up all that information and allow it to sink in and resonant.

Lately I’ve noticed I really hate chit chat…that conversation without purpose or meaning. If we’re not going to take the time to converse, to exchange, to communicate with meaning, then I don’t have time for it. My time, I feel, is valuable and I don’t want to waste it on something that provides me no value. I feel guilty about it sometimes; as I’m sure I can come across as being smug or distant which is not my intent. But as I get older, I find I want more from life…richer experiences, deeper meaning and knowledge. Chit chat doesn’t fit into this want.

I’ve been told I’m a good listener. I know I can be. I’m guilty on not being. But I work on it. I think I’m only a good listener when either I need to be, meaning the moment requires it or when I feel it in return. For the truth is, to really get to know me, would require a Masters Degree in listening. I’m difficult to know. I don’t share easily as I feel most people don’t really want to know, or care to know all the details. And if you don’t really want to know, then I’m not going to take the time to tell. If, indeed you are interested, you will have to prod, poke, and dig out information from me. However, once you have earned my trust, tested true as a good listener, become a protector of my secrets, I will provide you a bounty so rich you will feel fat and happy as if you’ve just enjoyed a wonderful meal, full of multiple courses, good wine and rich conversation.