The stress of moving this week; the boxes, decisions, logistics and constant pressure of time, has reminded me how easily we can stop truly listening.

We hear another. But we’re already thinking about what needs to happen next.

And yet the places we reach when we truly listen to another person can feel like holy places. Places where defenses soften. Where another person feels seen. Where a bridge forms between two people.

This poem by John Fox, shared in a deep-listening practice by Tara Brach, resonated deeply with me:

When Someone Deeply Listens to You

When someone deeply listens to you,
it is like holding out a dented cup
you’ve had since childhood
and watching it fill up with
cold, fresh water.

When it balances on top of the brim,
you are understood.
When it overflows and touches your skin,
you are loved.

When someone deeply listens to you,
the room where you stay
starts a new life
and the place where you wrote
your first poem begins to glow
in your mind’s eye.

It is as if gold has been discovered.

When someone deeply listens to you,
your bare feet are on the earth
and a beloved land that seemed distant
is now at home within you.

That last image stays with me.

A beloved land that seemed distant is now at home within you.

That’s what listening can do.

It doesn’t necessarily solve anything. It doesn’t require advice, fixing or having the right answer.

Sometimes our listening presence is enough.

And in a world, and a week, that keeps telling us to move faster, perhaps one of the most powerful things we can offer another human being is to slow down enough to truly hear them.