When someone deeply listens to you 

It is like holding out a dented cup 

You’ve had since childhood

And watching it fill up with 

Cold, fresh water.

-John Fox, Finding What You Didn’t Lose

I’ve had some unusually deep conversations lately, ones that touched on topics we humans are pretty adept at keeping to ourselves. Abuse, pain, addiction, failure. So often we bundle and wrap our sorrows, issues, and dreams like hoarded and expensive presents, presented infrequently and with trepidation. 

A friend once described to me what her Chinese grandfather would do when she banged or bumped herself to avoid bruising: he would press his fingers into the afflicted area and knead it with great force. She loathed this and learned to run in the other direction and hide in a closet when she hurt herself around him. 

My friend’s childhood solution reminds me of the impulse so many of us have – don’t delve too deeply into the pain because you might expose yourself, and it’s going to hurt. Don’t reach out or share what happened with anyone. Instead, run away quickly and shut the door quietly. 

Why do we avoid talking about difficult things, when sharing, supporting, and loving each other is perhaps the most meaningful thing we can do as humans? I see it as a two-fold issue: the first is trust and the second is time. 

Establishing trust with another person is fraught with minefields. From our very beginnings, the muscle of trust is exercised. We require food and shelter, love, and learning. Sometimes, those who are tasked with our well-being fall short and we can live our lives carrying that knowledge like the heavy baggage it is. If I couldn’t trust then, why should I trust now? The tender, fragile petals that make up our seemingly impenetrable armor are easily trampled on. And even if you are fortunate enough to avoid childhood trauma, at some point in our collective lives, betrayal is a given, whether the source is family, friends, romantic partners, employers, society, or otherwise. 

Heck, I’m currently writing an entire book on how I worked through feeling betrayed by God. 

And then there’s the issue of time. Carving out the opportunity and space to share deeply can feel like the least important thing on one’s list. The conversations I referred to earlier happened in the following places: a coffee shop, a friend’s living room, and an art supply closet. Two planned, one not. All three offered me deep solace, information, and inspiration I didn’t consciously know I needed. 

Our lives, packed with work, survival, and to-do lists, do not often allow room for the unfolding of leisurely, unstructured, open conversation. But when the stars align, when people reach across the table and hold a friend’s hand, or share their deepest thoughts, fears, and hopes a rare, healing alchemy bubbles up. We feel connection, relief, understanding. The tattered fabric of our hearts stitches back together. Walking forward with a lighter load, even a few solutions, is possible because we have been heard and understood, and we know someone else has laid down some baggage too. 

Back to my friend’s grandfather’s folk remedy: if the whole point of massaging the hurt area was to avoid bruising, that must be what we do for each other when we connect, when we listen without judgement. We help each other heal the deep bruising. 

That is, as long as we make time for it and don’t hide.