My brother Greg is everyone’s favorite person. Well, if you
knew him he would be your favorite person. Not just because he is
helpful, generous, loyal and kind-hearted, but because Greg looks at people.
Or, I should say, when he is talking to people, he sees them – he looks
deep into their eyes and locks in, devoted and dog-like.
Greg doesn’t break contact, doesn’t interrupt. He is off the
clock with no pressing agenda. He really listens – a rare gift in a time when
what’s on our smart phones seems to be much more engrossing than the warm and
breathing human right next to us.
I’m the anti-Greg: a whirling dervish of places to go,
things to do, people to see – just not you, standing right in front of me. I do
care, but there’s so much to be accomplished. You don’t mind if I wash the
floor while we talk, do you?
I furrow my brow, talk loud and fast, and get Many Important
Things achieved. People have told me that on first meeting, I have an air of
imperiousness – of not liking them and being invulnerable. These are not
attractive qualities in a person, much less as the entertainer I have become
and the “conduit of God’s love,” I wish to be.
This impression has been troubling, and for a long time I
sought to change this. It took performing at a nursing home to discover the
dramatically transformative power of truly seeing people.
Frank was in the last row in a room filled with 60 or so
rehab facility residents. He was strapped into a wheelchair, but looked younger
than most – in his early 60’s – and had the appearance of a PTSD Viet Nam War
vet: ragged, wiry and agitated.
As I sang, he yelled things like: “I hate this!” “Noooooo!
Stop it now!” “Horrible! Horrible!” while rocking and flailing his
stringy arms. Fellow residents, annoyed, but apparently accustomed to his
outbursts, yelled right back at him, “Shut up, Frank!” I tried to ignore him
and focus on the rest of the audience – until I didn’t. I tried something
different. I looked at him.
I made my way to the back of the room with small steps,
right and left, making eye contact with each resident, eventually wending my
way to Frank. I was singing “Moon River,” a love song written in 1961 – his
era.
“O dream maker, you heart breaker,” I crooned as I got
closer. “Wherever you’re going, you’re going my way,” while standing three feet
away with my arms outstretched to him. I looked intently into his brown eyes
wide with fear, and didn’t blink, smiling and serenading him and him alone. A
look of calm washed over Frank’s face as he heaved a giant sigh and started
whistling along. There were no more interruptions.
In the days since that engagement, I have consciously tried
to look at people and actually take the time to see them: grocery clerks;
receptionists; sales people; my mother; my husband. I observe their eyes, body
language and the turn of their mouth without remark.
Often, a hurried transaction slows down and becomes an
opportunity to exchange pleasantries and exchange smiles. People ask me
questions. Paradoxically, by looking closer at folks, they want to know more
about me. In turn, they disclose rare and secret things about themselves in
holy slivers of now.
The day itself seems to exhale and I can almost hear it
whistling a happy tune.
