Last week, I was speaking with an elderly friend and I mentioned a pursuit she "used to" engage in. Her response was morose, along the lines of, "Sure, I used to. There are many things I used to do. I have to get used to 'used to'."
I felt terrible, of course; remembering what you can no longer do is a bitter experience, particularly as the "used to"s accumulate. I wanted to point out new activities she could become "used to" - authors she could read, musicians she could listen to, places she could go walking, and so on - but I was afraid of being trite. She knows perfectly well that there are new things she could do. And suggesting these new "used to"s could sound like naively and insensitively suggesting that these new pursuits could offset her losses. So I said nothing, basically, and just listened.
Listening was my go-to option when I was in the pulpit. I was younger than most of my congregants, and far less experienced in life, and so I wasn't confident in offering ideas. I buried people 3-4 times my age. I met with people about their issues in raising teenagers, before I had children of my own. Drugs and alcohol, marital issues, and so on - I found listening far more useful than offering advice that had the potential to be way off.
Listening has many merits of its own: It allows people comfortable space to talk through their issues, it validates the speaker, it educates the listener. Mishlei 12:25 says, "Worry in the heart lowers it (ישחנה)," and in a play on words we read the clause, "One who has worry in the heart should speak of it (ישיחנה)," because of these benefits. But on its most basic level, listening is useful because it's "first, do no harm" safe.
I wish I could have said something to help my "used to" friend feel better, but I guess I'm okay settling for safe.
Showing posts with label Judaism: Listening. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Judaism: Listening. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Sending suicidal people form letters
[I wrote this four years ago, in a different forum, in the week before Tisha b'Av. My life is different now; I no longer serve as a shul rabbi. Nonetheless, it still resonates with me, and particularly because just the other day a shul rabbi mentioned to me exactly the point I identified below - that a shul rabbi runs a great risk of burnout if he identifies too closely with the people he counsels, but that we do it anyway.]
I’ve been unusually depressed lately - beyond the normal dips and bottoms in my normal state of harried/anxious/depressed/exuberant.
Some of it is the Nine Days.
Some of it is miserable anticipation of Haftarat Chazon coming up this Shabbos; I never get through that without bawling like a baby.
Some of it is from lack of music during the Three Weeks of mourning.
And some of it is the rising tide of illness and bereavement I’ve been dealing with, in one of those morbid swings of the pendulum that happen from time to time.
I’ve been reading segments of Alan Alda’s autobiographical “Never have your dog stuffed,” and I just found two paragraphs that sum up the problem perfectly. [Note: I cannot recommend the book, because parts of it are too vulgar to be halachically permissible. Frankly, the early part is wandering and poorly put together. On the other hand, some of the later parts are great. And, it is Alan Alda, after all.]
On page 168 he describes becoming famous as a result of MASH:
I began receiving letters from people on the verge of suicide, asking me for help - help they felt for some reason I was qualified to give them. I wanted to answer these lettes before the people carried out their acts of despair, but after I struggled with what I should say in answer to the first letter I received, I realized I had taken a week. That was too long. At a certain point, even the right words might be useless. I couldn’t take that long with every letter.
Finally, I wrote a draft of a note that could be tailored to anyone who wrote me in desperation, and I checked it with a friend who was a psychoanalyst. In each letter, I included the number of the local suicide prevention clinic. I tried to make the letter seem personal and genuine, hoping they wouldn’t choose a permanent solution to a temporary problem, but each time I sent out one of these letters, and there were a number of them, I felt strange. This is what getting famous does to you, I though. You wind up sending suicidal people form letters.
That’s a big problem in the rabbinate. Members, non-members, locals and people from far away, they come to you looking for answers, for comfort, for a listening ear, and you can’t afford to send them form letters. They need, they deserve, more than that. They deserve someone who will listen.
Which brings me to an earlier paragraph in Alda’s book, page 160-161, discussing his evolution as an actor in doing MASH:
When I started out as an actor, I thought, Here’s what I have to say; how shall I say it? On MASH, I began to understand that what I do in the scene is not as important as what happens between me and the other person. And listening it what lets it happen. It’s almost always the other person who causes you to say what you say next. You don’t have to figure out how you’ll say it. You have to listen so simply, so innocently, that the other person brings about a change in you that makes you say it and informs the way you say it…
Real listening is a willingness to let the other person change you. When I’m willing to let them change me, something happens between us that’s more interesting than a pair of dueling monologues. Like so much of what I learned in the theater, this turned out to be how life works, too.
To be a good listener means to be transformed: To sit and listen and absorb the other person’s experiences and point of view, and let them become your own, so that you can respond with a real sense of the other person. You can’t have an answer until you know what the other person is saying, until you’ve heard him out and absorbed her view.
I’m experienced enough to know the danger this poses during an intense period like the one I’m enduring. I know the warning signs and the pitfalls, and the need to step back and take a deep breath. But I’m a rabbi. I’m the rabbi. They come to me.
This is one of the reasons I don’t blog much about the “big issues” facing the Jewish community. All community is local; it’s the woman with cancer, the man with suicidal urges, the couple having marital difficulties. What Olmert will and won’t do, whether Lubavitch messianists are going Christian or not, asking if the Gedolim are given too much credence - I don’t have the patience, let alone the time, to play pundit on that these days. I’m trying too hard to avoid sending suicidal people form letters.
I’ve been unusually depressed lately - beyond the normal dips and bottoms in my normal state of harried/anxious/depressed/exuberant.
Some of it is the Nine Days.
Some of it is miserable anticipation of Haftarat Chazon coming up this Shabbos; I never get through that without bawling like a baby.
Some of it is from lack of music during the Three Weeks of mourning.
And some of it is the rising tide of illness and bereavement I’ve been dealing with, in one of those morbid swings of the pendulum that happen from time to time.
I’ve been reading segments of Alan Alda’s autobiographical “Never have your dog stuffed,” and I just found two paragraphs that sum up the problem perfectly. [Note: I cannot recommend the book, because parts of it are too vulgar to be halachically permissible. Frankly, the early part is wandering and poorly put together. On the other hand, some of the later parts are great. And, it is Alan Alda, after all.]
On page 168 he describes becoming famous as a result of MASH:
I began receiving letters from people on the verge of suicide, asking me for help - help they felt for some reason I was qualified to give them. I wanted to answer these lettes before the people carried out their acts of despair, but after I struggled with what I should say in answer to the first letter I received, I realized I had taken a week. That was too long. At a certain point, even the right words might be useless. I couldn’t take that long with every letter.
Finally, I wrote a draft of a note that could be tailored to anyone who wrote me in desperation, and I checked it with a friend who was a psychoanalyst. In each letter, I included the number of the local suicide prevention clinic. I tried to make the letter seem personal and genuine, hoping they wouldn’t choose a permanent solution to a temporary problem, but each time I sent out one of these letters, and there were a number of them, I felt strange. This is what getting famous does to you, I though. You wind up sending suicidal people form letters.
That’s a big problem in the rabbinate. Members, non-members, locals and people from far away, they come to you looking for answers, for comfort, for a listening ear, and you can’t afford to send them form letters. They need, they deserve, more than that. They deserve someone who will listen.
Which brings me to an earlier paragraph in Alda’s book, page 160-161, discussing his evolution as an actor in doing MASH:
When I started out as an actor, I thought, Here’s what I have to say; how shall I say it? On MASH, I began to understand that what I do in the scene is not as important as what happens between me and the other person. And listening it what lets it happen. It’s almost always the other person who causes you to say what you say next. You don’t have to figure out how you’ll say it. You have to listen so simply, so innocently, that the other person brings about a change in you that makes you say it and informs the way you say it…
Real listening is a willingness to let the other person change you. When I’m willing to let them change me, something happens between us that’s more interesting than a pair of dueling monologues. Like so much of what I learned in the theater, this turned out to be how life works, too.
To be a good listener means to be transformed: To sit and listen and absorb the other person’s experiences and point of view, and let them become your own, so that you can respond with a real sense of the other person. You can’t have an answer until you know what the other person is saying, until you’ve heard him out and absorbed her view.
I’m experienced enough to know the danger this poses during an intense period like the one I’m enduring. I know the warning signs and the pitfalls, and the need to step back and take a deep breath. But I’m a rabbi. I’m the rabbi. They come to me.
This is one of the reasons I don’t blog much about the “big issues” facing the Jewish community. All community is local; it’s the woman with cancer, the man with suicidal urges, the couple having marital difficulties. What Olmert will and won’t do, whether Lubavitch messianists are going Christian or not, asking if the Gedolim are given too much credence - I don’t have the patience, let alone the time, to play pundit on that these days. I’m trying too hard to avoid sending suicidal people form letters.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
"Tremendous Opportunities and Glorious Choices"
[This week's Haveil Havalim is available here]
I’ve long been a fan of the message of, “Listen more than you speak; when you’re talking, you’re not learning.” You know – Gd gave you two ears, one mouth, better to listen, and so on.
I believe this; it’s one of the reasons I’m happy to be out of the pulpit rabbinate. I get to spend more time listening, and therefore learning.
Steven Spielberg takes this point to another level in a message gleaned from the Shma (hat tip: Jameel), on a program called, “Inside the Actors Studio”:
[Leave aside Spielberg’s point about that voice being the voice inside. As I once heard a respected rabbi observe, a key message of Matan Torah (Revelation at Sinai) is that the voice is outside of ourselves, that we don’t have the answers within, and that we need to learn them from others. The inner compass does matter, of course, but the humility to recognize the value in others’ opinions matters more.]
Spielberg’s closing lines are truly excellent:
When people don’t listen, it’s not that they don’t learn. They just deny themselves tremendous opportunities and glorious choices. They deny themselves this. And it’s their own damn fault.
Spielberg’s point goes beyond learning; it’s about an openness to the universe’s possibilities, as they emerge through others’ counsel or a random phone call or a wrong turn or a missed flight.
Mussar to myself: Listen to what the world is telling you. A person whose life is planned and whose schedule is set, who cannot re-shuffle the deck when the world changes, is frustrated rather than enriched by new input or a wrinkle in the contours of his life.
Listening, on the other hand, whether to words or to opportunities, can open up a whole new universe.
I’ve long been a fan of the message of, “Listen more than you speak; when you’re talking, you’re not learning.” You know – Gd gave you two ears, one mouth, better to listen, and so on.
I believe this; it’s one of the reasons I’m happy to be out of the pulpit rabbinate. I get to spend more time listening, and therefore learning.
Steven Spielberg takes this point to another level in a message gleaned from the Shma (hat tip: Jameel), on a program called, “Inside the Actors Studio”:
[Leave aside Spielberg’s point about that voice being the voice inside. As I once heard a respected rabbi observe, a key message of Matan Torah (Revelation at Sinai) is that the voice is outside of ourselves, that we don’t have the answers within, and that we need to learn them from others. The inner compass does matter, of course, but the humility to recognize the value in others’ opinions matters more.]
Spielberg’s closing lines are truly excellent:
When people don’t listen, it’s not that they don’t learn. They just deny themselves tremendous opportunities and glorious choices. They deny themselves this. And it’s their own damn fault.
Spielberg’s point goes beyond learning; it’s about an openness to the universe’s possibilities, as they emerge through others’ counsel or a random phone call or a wrong turn or a missed flight.
Mussar to myself: Listen to what the world is telling you. A person whose life is planned and whose schedule is set, who cannot re-shuffle the deck when the world changes, is frustrated rather than enriched by new input or a wrinkle in the contours of his life.
Listening, on the other hand, whether to words or to opportunities, can open up a whole new universe.
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