Confessions of a Talkaholic
What is much more horned and deadly is sharing too much with the wrong people…and then awakening, some suddenly not so fine morning, to realize that your trust was misplaced. Your confession is now water cooler gossip; your confidences, a knife in your back; your revelations, condemned and reviled; and your quest to be authentic, misunderstood.
“Sometimes, it’s okay to be an actress,” my friend, Father Anthony Howard, once advised me after I confessed to hating – yes, hating – someone who had betrayed me.
But the one who truly betrayed me, I have come to see, is I. Yeah, me, that older broad staring back at me in the mirror, sticking out her tongue and now wagging her finger.
SLOW DOWN, Bouche Moteur!
Slow down, and don’t stop merely to smell the roses. Stop and take in a strong whiff of this – advice I garnered recently from a little book called silence as YOGA by Swami Paramananda.
(Paramananda. I love the musicality of that name! How it sings like a prayer.)
“We wear ourselves out, disturb others, and say much which might better be left unsaid when we talk constantly,” the Swami teaches. “The majority of people have a very false standard of life. They imagine that when two or three human beings are together, they must always entertain each other. Often nature is providing us with inspiration and we miss it because of this foolish habit. Why should we suppose that whenever we are with others we must always talk? It means our minds are empty.”
Obviously words guaranteed to make a talkaholic par excellence wince. But I get it, I do. Just as an engine runs out of gas, so I, with my panicked, frenetic, schedule enslaved White Rabbit of an existence, will drop dead in my tracks – parched, starved and defeated – if I don’t stop to feed myself.
If I don’t stop to STOP, to be STILL long enough to listen.
And, then, I wonder…Faintly, delicately, on that breeze or between breaths, what will I hear?
Perhaps, merely-amazingly, a bee, or a footstep, or the rain. Or, perhaps, even an Answer.