If I Had Stopped To Listen Once or Twice…

If I had stopped to listen once or twice/

If I had closed my mouth and opened my eyes/

If I had cooled my head and warmed my heart/

I’d not be on this lonesome road tonight.

James Taylor

I first heard this song years ago. The harmonies of James Taylor and his group was unadorned, sweet, and moving. But the message of the song was overwhelming.

I wasn’t a good listener, then. I am still not as good a listener as I should be. But I have begun to listen a little more closely, a little more carefully. These are some of the things I’ve heard.

I hear the slight halt in her voice when my mother speaks of my father, dead nearly twenty-four years, but still the light of my Mom’s morning.

I hear the warmth in my wife’s voice when she holds our cat Stascha up to her ear, to hear the loudest and best purr in our house. I hear the impending laugh in her voice when she’s about to launch one of her priceless bon mots.

I hear the groan in Chloe’s voice when I am writing and won’t come play with her…like tonight. Like right now. (Come on girl, we’ve been playing all evening. I need a break!)

I hear the hurt in my friend’s voice when she has had some blow to her soul, and the prayer in her tone that asks for strength and peace.

In the middle of the night, I hear the sound of rain, and I remember the rain falling on the leaves outside my window as a boy of eight, in Augusta, in the gentle spring of the year before I developed diabetes. I remember the lulling drone of the fan in the window that summer, in the days when only the rich folks houses had central air, and the breeze through the other window was scented with the smell of fresh grass, and lingering smokiness from Dad’s grill and the hamburgers we had for dinner, and filled with the chirp of crickets and tree frogs.

I hear the brittle impatience in my niece’s voice when her mother has once again interfered with her dating life. I remember hearing the same sound in her mother’s voice when we were children. I remember hearing laughter then…mine. Little brothers can be a pain. Heh. Heh-heh. Heh.

I hear the annoyance in my coworker’s voice when she encounters the problem that continues to plague the project I turned over to her last week: the manager who asked for the report doesn’t understand the work that goes into detailed analysis and reporting. I sympathize; I hadn’t wanted to turn it over to her, but there wasn’t a choice, I was too swamped with the other five things I was doing.

I hear her heartbeat quicken when I kiss my wife’s neck…and then again when I kiss the other side. Symmetry is very important.

I can hear the steady, shallow breaths of Charlemagne as he rests beside me, asleep in his golden fur. I listen to make sure he keeps breathing. He’s thirteen, he’s got medical conditions, he’s my luck charm. He’s just a cat. But he’s my cat. And that counts for much.

I hear the fluid sweep of Jerry Douglas‘ chords, and marvel at how the man can make a twang sound like a symphony.

I hear the sound of ball hitting bat, on this evening’s news telecast, and I know that even if it’s only February, baseball is beginning to stir. Spring can’t come too soon. I can smell the grass and the pine tar even now.

I hear the passion in my brother’s voice whenever he speaks of any of three things: the Alabama Women’s Gymnastics Team, the profligate ways of Democrats, and the latest of his daughter’s accomplishments. Have I mentioned that she’s a trainer with the Crimson Tide basketball team this year? I didn’t? Don’t tell my brother.

I can always hear the singing of six women; my mother’s; my wife’s; my sister’s; my friend Susan’s; and that of my friend eTrish. And, of course, Linda Ronstadt’s. If I could have put them all in the same girl-group, I’d have had platinum record winner. As it is, in each of their voices, I hear a little of the voice of the Universe.

I didn’t hear my father’s last words. I didn’t hear the first words of any of my nieces. I will never hear the voice of my own child. But I hear love all around me. I hear love within me, for the people close to me, for the animals that have found shelter with me, for the world in which there are still wonders, and beauties, and perfections, and imperfections.

I have only just begun to hear, because I have only just begun to listen.