Listening can mean letting go

The perpetual lessons of autumn

The forest is magical this time of year. Earlier this week, I had a midday cancellation, an unexpected gift. I quickly got my trail runners on and headed out to the woods. The light was honeyed gold, filtering through the thinning canopy. The leaves were just starting to turn, with an occasional pop of green-gold yellow, a hint of red shimmering in the breeze. The path beneath my feet was soft, tumeric-colored pine needles and oak and beech leaves weaving a tapestry of color. Most of the beech leaves held onto their brilliant green, their veins still distinct and textured, while others flirted with the burnished edges of autumn, turning canary yellow or brick red. Long, thin pine cones from the Eastern White pines were scattered across the trail, adding subtle texture to the soft, forest path.

I stopped several times to breathe in the fresh, cool air; the earthy smell of decaying leaves and damp soil from the earlier rain. Just as the season officially turned to fall, I found myself bathed in the forest—the softening amber light as the sun met the horizon, the occasional leaf twirling in the crisp breeze, the deep loamy scent, a distant bird call. This fleeting, transitional space of a world gently letting go.

I recently reached out to an old colleague and asked if we could find a time to reconnect. He had been a mentor early in my career, someone I admired and had learned a great deal from. Except that when I left that job, things had not ended well between us. His words had left me confused and hurt, and efforts to reach an understanding had not gone well. The sting of those words, the inability to find some middle way left me feeling this connection was irreparably broken. Years passed; ten to be exact. And some recent events had me thinking about this connection, wondering if it was time to revisit what had been left unresolved.

I found, in talking with this mentor, that it was easy to let go of the hurt and confusion from all those years ago. Neither of us was holding it very tightly anymore, neither of us eager to rehash a time of disconnection we didn’t remember well. What remained after time had mended the wounds, scarred skin growing over the gash, was mostly fond memories of long conversations about the work of therapy, how best to help our clients heal and grow and change. The kindness that persisted, even when the ending had been hard and pointed and sharp, was surprising and relieving, finding something good and familiar that had endured over time.

Reaching out was a risk. An emotional trust fall hoping that the connection we had built over many years would be stronger than the disconnection that marked the end. Somewhere, deep down, I trusted that the foundation of mutual respect and shared experiences would outweigh the damage that had come later. Reaching out was also an acknowledgment that I had changed. When we met, I was starting my first job after completing my doctorate. I transitioned from a predoctoral intern to a postdoctoral fellow, and finally, to a staff psychologist. These transitions required a lot of role shifting, which was underscored by my own insecurity and desperate attempts to please the people I respected. I was striving and working so hard, searching for a sense of worth and repeatedly feeling I was coming up short. All of this shaped my response, my understanding of what was said in those days before I left that job for a new opportunity.

A few weeks ago, I called L home to explain something I had discovered. He was upset with me. Things had been building up to this for several weeks. He had iced us out, responding only minimally. In response, I kept my communication with him to only the essentials. Who wants to try and engage with someone who is going to meet that effort with silence? Silence that is laced with irritation at best, contempt at worst. So when he started to list his complaints, his frustrations with me, I met them with encouragement, curiosity, an invitation to keep communicating. I listened when he said he felt that all I was noting were his mistakes, not his accomplishments and efforts. And I quieted my inner defensiveness, my impulse to meet his criticism with counter arguments. I listened. I apologized. I outlined how I would do better. And only after he seemed to feel heard—maybe even understood—did I gently remind him of the ways I needed him to hold up his end of the relationship. Only then did I talk about the negative feedback loop we had entered of mistrust breeding a breakdown of communication which only lead to more mistrust. And then I offered him another chance to build trust.

Afterward, I left the house and walked around the neighborhood with a friend, wondering if I had done the right thing. If I should’ve been firmer, if I should have responded with more disappointment, greater consequences. If my instinct to prioritize connection and communication was ultimately not what he needed. I cried. A lot. Because unlike the early days of parenting when choices felt clear and natural consequences were easier to see, knowing how best to meet the needs of this boy at this stage of his development is anything but clear to me.

I know that just as I have my own narrative about this journey, about our relationship with each other, L has his. When he finally started to let me in on his narrative, on not only how he saw me, but how he felt I saw him, I knew I had to listen. To hear out his version of how he sees himself and how he thinks I am seeing him. To listen to how misaligned those two stories were in his mind. Of course, I wanted to protest his depiction, to declare how deeply proud I am of who he is, that I see his loyalty to his friends, his commitment to justice and fairness, his work ethic and ability to commit to his obligations whether it is work or sports or friends. That while it is less evident than it once was, I know he is kind, deeply sensitive to and aware of others’ feelings, and that above all, he wants to do what is right. But I know that what I needed to do was listen and hear how he hasn’t felt that lately. And then take on the responsibility to make sure I am communicating these feelings to him, not just assuming he knows.

Sometimes, it is a wonder to me that we find a way through our own complicated narratives to connection with others. The great composer and lyricist, Stephen Sondheim, often shared his interest in writing a musical or play about the complexities of a single date. He wanted to highlight the multitude of experiences and perceptions, anxieties and desires that each person brought to that first encounter. He suggested that the cast of such a show would include upwards of 50 people, as each person would have 20 or so people accompanying them on the date. When something goes wrong in relationships, is it really surprising that our understandings of the rupture can be so different? The only way through conflict is the ability to let go of our own need to explain, defend, justify our words and actions. To stop and listen to what the other person is saying. To hear what their experience of the event was. When we stay firmly in our narrative, our own story, declaring that this is the right version, we lose the plot. Connection is the ability to bridge two narratives, to see the world not just from our own point of view, but from that of another.

When time offered me the chance to let go of an old grievance, to open up the possibility of reconnection, I took it. And although that reconnection is new and tentative, I am hopeful about what lies ahead. Already, I have felt the relief of putting down a heavy weight, of choosing to see good where I had once felt strain. When L opened the door to his thoughts ever so slightly, I chose to step in, to see what he was offering rather than meet him with a barrage of my own objections to his interpretation. I chose to walk through that door, to see what he was carrying, to hear the why instead of trying to force my own view.

I let go of my need to be heard and instead, gave space for his.

Every year, I embrace the fall. I head into the woods as often as I can, not just to see the explosion of color in the canopy above me, but to take in the wisdom of the forest.

Breathe in the scent of decay, decomposition, ending.

Feel the break of brittle leaves and dried pine cones under foot.

Experience the crisp, cool air that promises winter.

Remind myself of the tremendous beauty involved in letting go.

In Blackwater Woods

Look, the trees
are turning
their own bodies
into pillars

of light,
are giving off the rich
fragrance of cinnamon
and fulfillment,

the long tapers
of cattails
are bursting and floating away over
the blue shoulders

of the ponds,
and every pond,
no matter what its
name is, is

nameless now.
Every year
everything
I have ever learned

in my lifetime
leads back to this: the fires
and the black river of loss
whose other side

is salvation,
whose meaning
none of us will ever know.
To live in this world

you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it

against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.

~Mary Oliver
from American Primitive. © Back Bay Books, 1983.

All photos were taken by the exceptional Dana Giuliana, unless otherwise noted.

Thanks for spending some of your day reading this post. I hope it resonated. Periplum of motherhood and other wonderings is free. If you enjoy reading, please comment and share it with friends!