I Believe in the Power of Listening

Rocci Hildum

When I think back it seems like such a long time ago when I realized that I did not know what it was that I believed.

I was a Social Worker, mostly with children who are victims of violence and their families, for almost twenty years now and I think I have finally learned some things, including some things I believe.

One of the things that I believe is in the power of listening. I believe that this is the single most important thing I can do; certainly much more important than much of the minutiae and bureaucracy that seemed to fill up my typical work day before I retired. Now I have different minutiae and bureaucracy filling up my days, but at least it’s my minutiae and bureaucracy!

And the source of this insight came to me from what at the time seemed the most improbable of sources - children.

Children need to be heard. The world seldom listens to them but children have much to say. And they know how important it is because we tell them all the time. Yet rarely do we ever demonstrate by, well by listening. Children learn much more from what we do than from what we say.

It was the most fortunate accident of my professional life that I learned that if I wanted to help people – a good thing is for me to let them tell me what they need. That would seem like a pretty obvious and simple thing, but like most everything else of any value in life, it is more difficult than it sounds.

Sometimes the truths that people need to share are plain and they shout them. Sometimes they whisper. Sometimes they are too private or painful to speak. Sometimes they are buried somewhere deep and safe. Sometimes people don’t yet know what they need or how to ask for it. And yet, if I listen, they will tell me.

I have seen this kind of deep, passionate, visceral listening be cathartic and heal wounds. I have seen this kind of listening bind together those who have been torn apart. And I have seen understanding and acceptance grow with this kind of listening.

This kind of listening we do with our eyes and hearts and souls as much as with our ears. This kind of listening is a deliberate and conscious choice. And this kind of listening means that even as we listen to the other, we must also listen to ourselves.

Generally we seem to be much more impressed by people who speak well, or at least loudly. And yet, somewhere deep inside of us all we know how important it is to really listen to each other “because after all, a person’s a person no matter how small.”

This is the listening to which I aspire and try to practice. I can tell you that I am still not always so good at it. But I am determined to keep trying. I want to become a great listener, a passionate, creative, involved listener. I want to make listening my very best thing and I want you to make it your very best thing too. Just imagine what kind of world it might be if we all wanted to make being a great listener our very best thing.

A Cracked Pot

An Original Retelling Of A Folk Tale from India

This is a story about how someone discovered something special within herself.

There was a man whose job it was to bring water from the stream to his master’s house. The master had a very large house and he needed a lot of water for his lovely gardens and for cooking and bathing and for entertaining his many important guests.

The man carried water from the stream in two large clay pots hung on each end of a pole, which he carried across his neck. He would put the pole across his back with the empty pots swinging and walk from his master’s home to the stream. There he would fill up the clay pots, lift the pole across his back and carry the water back. He did this every day, over and over again, so that the master always had plenty of fresh water

Both of the pots were almost exactly the same and were designed to carry water. One of the clay pots was perfect in every way for the end for which it was made. The other clay pot was exactly like the first one but it had a crack in it and it leaked. Every time the man would fill the two pots with water and carry them to the Master’s house, the perfect pot was always full and the cracked pot was always half full.

This went on every day. The man would carry the pots to the stream, fill them with water and carry the water back to his master’s home. And then he would do it again, and again and again, all day long. And on every trip, one pot was full and one pot was half full.

Of course, the perfect pot was proud of its accomplishments. It was proud that it was perfect for the end for which it was made and it boasted loudly. The perfect pot criticized the cracked pot for its failures and told it how shameful that the Water Bearer worked so hard and the cracked pot was always only half full. The poor cracked pot was ashamed of its imperfection and was miserable that it was able to accomplish only half of what it had been made to do.

After this went on for some time, the cracked pot was humiliated by its bitter failure. One day the cracked pot saw his reflection in the stream and was shamed by his imperfections. The cracked pot spoke to the Water Bearer. "I am ashamed of myself, and I want to apologize to you."

"Why?" asked the bearer. "What are you ashamed of?"

"I have been able, for these years, you fill me with water but when we reach the top of the hill I am only half full because of this ugly crack in my side. Because of my flaw, you have to work harder than you should and you don't get full value from your efforts," the pot said.

The Water Bearer felt sorry for the old cracked pot, and in his compassion he said, "As we return to the Master's house this time, I want you to notice the beautiful flowers along the path."

Indeed, as they went up the hill, the old cracked pot took notice of the sun warming the beautiful wild flowers along one side of the path, and this cheered it some. Bees came and took nectar from the flowers from which they made honey. The flowers filled the air with a fragrant perfume and birds flew about the flowers singing. The pot had to admit that they flowers were beautiful. But at the end of the trail, the pot felt even worse because in the midst of all of this beauty it had again leaked out half the water. The cracked pot thanked the Water Bearer, “Thank you for pointing out the flowers to me. They did cheer me up. I enjoyed hearing the birds singing and the flowers smelled wonderful, but as you see I am still only half full.”

The bearer said to the pot, "My friend, you have misunderstood. Did you not notice that there were flowers only on your side of the path, but not on the other side? That is because I have always known about what you call your flaw. I could have gotten a new pot but I decided to take advantage of this feature of yours. I planted flower seeds on your side of the path, and every day while we walk back from the stream, you have watered them. For these many years these flowers have decorated our Master’s home and brought fragrant perfume into his rooms. The bees have come to these flowers to make honey for his table and the birds sing to him. How much beauty and pleasure have been brought to our Master because of this thing that makes you special."

In the economy of the world there is never any shortage of people who are eager to point out our flaws. But if we can and will allow it, and if we listen and look deeply inside of ourselves, we may well discover that the very things that the world counts as our flaws are the source of great beauty and pleasure. Know that in our weakness we find our strength. Don't be afraid of your flaws. Acknowledge them. Embrace them. Celebrate them, and you will share the beauty that can come from only you.

I Believe In The Power of Listening

When I think back it seems like such a long time ago when I realized that I did not know what it was that I believed.

I was a Social Worker, mostly with children who are victims of violence and their families, for almost twenty years now and I think I have finally learned some things, including some things I believe.

I believe in the power of listening. I believe that this is the single most important thing I can do. Certainly much more important than much of the minutae and buracracy that seemed to fill up my typical work day.

And the source of this insight came to me from what at the time seemed the most improbable of sources - children.

Children need to be heard. The world seldom listens to them but children have much to say. And they know how important it is because we tell them all the time. Yet rarely do we ever demonstrate by, well by listening. Children learn much more from what we do than from what we say.

It was the most fortunate accident of my professional life that I learned that if I wanted to help people – a good thing is for me to let them tell me what they needed. That would seem like a pretty obvious and simple thing, but like most everything else of any value in life, it is more difficult than it sounds.

Sometimes the truths that people need to share are plain and they shout them. Sometimes they whisper. Sometimes they are too private or painful to speak. Sometimes they are buried somewhere deep and safe. Sometimes people don’t yet know what they need to share. And yet, if I listen, they will tell me.

I have seen this kind of deep, passionate, visceral listening be cathartic and heal wounds. I have seen this kind of listening bind together those who have been torn apart. And I have seen understanding and acceptance grow with this kind of listening.

This kind of listening we do with our eyes and hearts and souls as much as with our ears. This kind of listening is a deliberate and conscious choice. And this kind of listening means that even as we listen to the other, we must also listen to ourselves.

Generally we seem to be much more impressed by people who speak well, or at least loudly. And yet, somewhere deep inside of us all we know how important it is to really listen to each other “because after all, a person’s a person no matter how small.”

This is the listening to which I aspire and try to practice. I can tell you that I am still not always so good at it. But I am determined to keep trying. I want to become a great listener, a passionate, creative, involved listener. I want to make listening my very best thing and I want you to make it your very best thing too. Just imagine what kind of world it might be if we all wanted to make being a great listener our very best thing.

A Bowl For You

A Folktale with versions found in Rumania, Italy, Germany, Ireland, and Nepal

A unique retelling by Rocci Hildum

Source: Retold by Allison Cox

Copyright 1994

Healing Heart Project

There was a family of potters who worked hard to make a living. There was a grandfather, who had been a potter for a very long time. The grandfather had once been known as a very skilled craftsman who made the finest pots in the land. The grandfather had carried clay from the hillside, shaped pots, mixed glazes, and cut wood to keep the kiln hot. The grandfather taught his trade to his son and together they taught the daughter in law to shape the pots.

As the grandfather grew older he could no longer carry the heavy clay from the hillside. He was no longer strong enough to pump the pedal of his potter’s wheel. Grandfather was too old to cut and carry firewood for the kiln.

Grandfather started to spend his days in the workshop teaching his young granddaughter how to shape the pots and mix the glazes. Grandfather taught his granddaughter his craft. Grandfather held Granddaughter’s hands to teach her how to hold her hands and how to shape the pots. Grandfather taught Granddaughter how to pump the pedal of the potter’s wheel. Grandfather helped Granddaughter mix the glazes in shades of blues, reds and purples and greens and together they painted the pots and bowls with intricate designs.

And as they worked, Grandfather told stories and Granddaughter listened and shaped the clay. And gradually the stories started to shape the clay. And gradually the stories became a part of the pots and bowls and things that Granddaughter shaped.

So when Grandfather told a story about great sailing ships that set off across the seas to explore the world, Granddaughter shaped a pot, long on one side that was painted with bright stripes flaring like banners flying in the wind across the sides.

And when Grandfather told a story about a tiny bird building a nest in the spring, Granddaughter shaped a delicate bowl the beautiful blue color of robin eggs.

The more Grandfather told stories, the more Granddaughter listened. The more Grandaughter listened to Grandfather’s stories, the more the stories shaped the pots. The more that the stories became a part of the pots and bowls that Granddaughter shaped, the more popular they became. People admired the things made by Granddaughter. They could see and hear and feel the stories in the clay. Many people wanted to buy the things made by the granddaughter, even more than those made by her parents.

Gradually Grandfather could no longer hold his hands steady to help shape the clay. Grandfather’s hands were not steady enough to mix glazes or paint pots and bowls.

Grandfather felt so strange sitting idle in the shop where he had worked so hard for so many years. Grandfather began to tell his son and daughter-in-law how to improve the shape of their pots, or how to make the kiln burn hotter or where to dig for the best clay. Grandfather made suggestions of how they should mix the glazes and what colors to paint the things that they made. And Grandfather told his stories.

“Father,” said his son, “You have taught me well how to be a potter and I have been doing it for these many years. Together we taught my wife, your daughter-in-law, to be a potter and together we have been potters for these many years. You do not need to continue to teach me as if I was a child.”

“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable sitting in the house, by the fire, instead of spending your days in this cold, damp shop?” asked the daughter-in-law. “Besides, you keep knocking over the pots and bowls with your cane. We cannot afford to lose our work.”

So Grandfather started to spend his days in the house while the rest of the family worked in the shop. It was lonely in the house during the day.

In the evenings, when the family returned to the house, Grandfather was eager to know how their work was going. Grandfather asked his daughter-in-law, “Are the pots and bowls selling well?”

Grandfather was disappointed to learn that the family was not selling as many pots and bowls as they had been.

 “Where are you digging the clay, my son? Are you keeping the kiln hot enough? How are you mixing the glazes?”

The son and daughter-in-law would respond, “Stop badgering us with your questions. You have worked hard and you deserve to rest. You do not need to worry about the pottery any more.”

But the old man couldn't stop asking about the pottery. Making pots with his family had been his whole life and so every evening when they sat down to dinner he would question them more. One night, he asked, again, for the third time that week,

"Are you sure you're digging the right kind of clay. You're not letting that clay dry out too much before you use it are you? Are the colors bright enough?"

The son exchanged looks with his wife and said,

"I wish you paid as much attention to your eating as you do to telling us what we do wrong. Look at yourself. You have half of your meal spilled down your shirt. It's disgusting."

Grandfather looked down at his shirt. His hands shook so much any more that he often spilled his meals on his clothes.

"I can't even get the stains out of your shirts or the tablecloth anymore when I do the wash," added his daughter-in-law.

Grandfather looked at his shirt and at the table. Indeed, Grandfather was embarrassed and ashamed to see that his clothes and the tablecloth were stained from the food that he had dropped. Grandfather looked at the faces of his son and daughter-in-law and they could see his shame. Grandfather slowly rose from the table and with his cane in one hand and his bowl in the other, tottered over to his chair in the corner by the fireplace. Grandfather sat there to finish his meal alone. Grandfather balanced his bowl and spoon with one shaky hand and kept his other hand on his cane to balance himself.

Granddaughter got up to join Grandfather.

"You sit back down and finish your food right here at the table. I wish you were as concerned about your work," her father told her angrily. "We haven't sold one of your pots in a long time. You're just not working as hard as you used to."

The girl looked up at her father and said,

"To shape and paint beautiful pots, I need Grandfathers' beautiful stories."

“You need to concentrate on your work and stop being distracted by listening to those foolish stories,” said her father.

From that night on, grandfather continued to eat his meals in the corner in his chair. He would balance his bowl with one hand and spoon his food with the other. Since his hands shook, he would sometimes loose his grip on the bowl and his dinner would drop to the floor, the bowl crashing to pieces.

The daughter-in-law became angry, " I can't keep making bowls just so you can break them.” Grandfather sat in his chair with tears in his eyes.

A few nights later, grandfather was telling Granddaughter a story, sitting together in his corner, when the girl's mother walked up to them with a wooden bowl in her hand.

"Here, I bought this at the market today for you. Maybe now you won't break your dinner bowl anymore."

Grandfather felt the shame and embarrassment rise in him again and he just sat. Granddaughter took the bowl from her mother and looked at it, turning it over and over in her hands.

"Grandfather, may I borrow this? " she asked.

Grandfather shrugged sadly and the girl set off to the pottery shop.

In a little while, Granddaughter returned with a block of wood and a knife and started to carve the piece of wood, seated on the floor in Grandfather’s corner.

“Tell me a story, Grandfather.”

Grandfather started to tell a sad story.

Granddaughter carved the block of wood, pausing every once in a while and comparing the block of wood to Grandfather's bowl. And as Grandfather told the story, Granddaughter shaped the block of wood and listened to Grandfather’s story. And as Grandfather told the sad story, the story started to shape the block of wood, the story started to become part of the wood.

The girl's parents were setting the table with the evening meal. Her father came over to see what his daughter was working on.

"What's this? Have you given up on pottery altogether and decided to take up woodworking?" her father joked.

"Oh no, Father, but I thought I'd better learn how to shape a wooden bowl, " the girl answered, keeping her eyes on her whittling. "One day you and mother will be old and your hands will be unsteady, and you will need wooden bowls too.”

The husband and wife looked at their daughter in shocked silence and then they turned to see tears in each others’ eyes. This time, it was their turn to shake, as they slowly sank to their knees and begged Grandfather to forgive them.

From that day Grandfather ate his meals at the table with the family, from a pottery bowl made by his family.

Every day Grandfather joined his family in the pottery shop again. The old man would spend his days in the shop, sometimes dozing in a chair, but usually telling stories.

And while Grandfather told stories, Granddaughter, and the son and the daughter-in-law would listen and they would shape the pots. And the stories began to shape the clay, the stories became a part of the clay.

So when Grandfather told a story about a great dragon with shining green wings, the daughter-in-law listened and shaped a deep shining green bowl with handles that stretched wide.

And when Grandfather told a story about an enchanted princess with long flowing hair and eyes that sparkled, his son would shape a long slender vase that sparkled in the sunlight.

The pots and bowls began to sell well again. The family lived on together in this way for many more years, not always in harmony, but certainly with more caring than before.

“Hey, Mr. Pig Story Man”
by Rocci Hildum
June 5, 2008

I had a wonderful time at the Northwest Folklife Festival at the Seattle Center over Labor Day Weekend, May 23 – 26, 2008. It is always a dilemma when I am at a festival like that choosing which performers I want to see. Every choice is a choice not to see another wonderful performer. That is why I was so happy when I went to the Story Swap on Monday May 26, 2008 in the Center House Theater. There was a smallish crowd, but a crowd who had made the choice of all the music and dance and crafts and food to come to hear stories.

I had told stories in the Center House Theater on Sunday and the audience was wonderful. I had a great reception and told three of my favorite stories, including one that has some amusing audience participation. But I intentionally saved my very favorite story for the Story Swap.

I told The Absolutely True Story of the Three Little Pigs. I originally wrote this story for a friend of mine who was working on developing a land trust in Leavenworth. Ever since it has been one of my favorite, and apparently one of my audience’s favorite stories.

Later on Monday I was rushing past the Center House on my way to a workshop when I heard someone behind me calling, “Mr. Pig Story Man, Mr. Pig Story Man.” I have been called many things, some of which would not be appropriate for inclusion here, but I had never been referred to as Mr. Pig Story Man before. However, seven years of college and two degrees has prepared me well to be able to make certain logical inferences based on carefully considering all of the available information and evidence. I inferred that someone who did not know my given name was actually calling for me.

I stopped and turned around to find a woman out of breath running after me. She told me how much she had enjoyed my story. We exchanged business cards and agreed that we would keep in touch.

As I have reflected on that little incident, which lasted perhaps one or two minutes in an otherwise very busy and eventful weekend, it occurs to me how much power the right story, at the right time, and to the right audience can have. Of all the entertainment and connections I made that weekend this one will probably be the one I most remember, especially now since I am writing about it. But I suspect that my new friend will also remember this incident, probably more so because she may be reading this right now.

We never know when or who or how our favorite story will touch someone. What lasting impressions our words may have. And so I have decided that from now on, my favorite story is the one I am telling right now … not this story about the woman calling me Mr. Pig Story Man, I mean the story that I am telling at any given moment will be my favorite story.

I know that when I tell The Absolutely True Story Of The Three Little Pigs everything that makes that story my favorite, or at least that did make it my favorite, gets reflected in how I tell that story. There is just a little more animation, a lift to my voice and a sparkle in my eye. I love all the stories I tell, but what if I told every story as if it were my very favorite story?  What if every story reflected my love and appreciation for that story’s unique gifts and joys? Why, who knows what might happen, I might be walking somewhere some day and hear someone calling behind me, “Mr. Ananzi Story Man, Mr. Ananzi Story Man.”

I think that would be a wonderful compliment!

The Barking Mouse

A unique retelling of a Cuban folktale

Once upon a time there was a family of mice, la Familia Raton.

There was Mamá Ratón, who was Mama Mouse. And there was Papa Raton, who was Papa Mouse. And there were Hermano y Hermano Raton, who were brother and sister mouse.

La Familia Raton, lived in el Casa Grande, the big house. Actually they lived in a very little small tiny hole in the corner of el Casa Grande.

Mama’s, job was to do the cooking and the cleaning and laundry and ironing and sewing and to take care of Papa, Hermano, y Hermana. Papa’s job was to be the Papa. But also, every night when it was dark Papa Raton would creep out silently to la Cucina, the kitchen. Papa would gather up bits of bread pan and fruit, fruta, and cheese, queso that had dropped to ground. Sometimes Papa snuck into the cabinets through a hole he had chewed with his big front teeth and he would bring back seeds, semillas, crackers, galletas, cereal, cereales, or if la Familia Raton was especially lucky, peanut butter, manteca de maní. Papa Raton would then sneak back very silently to the little small tiny hole in the corner of la Casa Grande and Mama Raton would prepare the food and set the table.

One day Mama Raton said, “Did you know that there is a beautiful garden, el jardin bonita, in the back of el Casa Grande. It is a beautiful sunny day and I think that we should go on a picnic, ir de merienda. Everyone agreed and they were all excited. Mama packed a lunch and everyone went outside to la jardin and had a wonderful lunch.

It really was a quite beautiful and sunny day and after everyone had finished lunch Hermano y Hermana asked, “Can we go and play, jugar?” Mama y Papa said, “Yes, you may go and play, but whatever you do, stay away from the wall, la tapia, because on the other side lives el gato the cat, and he will eat you!”

Hermano y Hermana promised not go near la tapia and off they went to play. But you know how children sometimes are … they forget the things that they promise. And anyways, Hermano wasn’t even sure there really was an el gato. He had always heard stories about el gato but he’d never seen el gato. So, very slowly, gradually Hermano y Hermana got closer and closer and closer to la tapia until Hermano was looking right through a crack in la tapia. Hermano crept up slowly to the crack in la tapia and he looked through trying to see if there really was an el gato on the other side. All of a sudden a paw, pata, with sharp claws, las uñas, popped out.

Hermano jumped back as fast as he could. He was breathing hard and his face was all red. Hermano’s heart, la corazón, was beating so hard he held his hand to his chest. La pata del gato was reaching through the crack in la tapia but el gato could not reach Hermano y Hermana.

When Hermano y Hermana realized that el gato could not reach them they started laughing risueño and making fun of el gato. El gato is estúpido. El gato is muy feo. El gato is so lento, lento, lento. El gato is just afraid, asustado, of us. El gato is just a big coward, cobarde. Hermano y Hermana were laughing so hard that they didn’t see when la pata del gato disappeared back through the crack in la tapia.

Then hermano y hermana heard a sound. A very frightening sound. They looked up. Way, way up to the top of la tapia and there sat el gato smiling at them with his big yellow eyes, ojos amarillos, and his big sharp teeth, los dientes afilado. Hermano y hermana started running. They were screaming at the top of their lungs, “Save us, save us, el gato is going to eat us!!”

Papa Raton heard hermano y hermana and said, “Don’t worry, I’m not afraid of any old el gato.” Hermano y hermana ran behind Papa and hid. El gato was running right towards them. Los dientes afilado del gato were smiling and los ojos amarillos were shining. When Papa saw el gato Papa said, “Aye, protoger me” and Papa jumped behind Mama Raton.

Mama Raton said, “Don’t worry, I know just what to do.”

El gato was running straight towards la familia Raton. Los dientes afilado del gato were drooling and las uñas del gato were pouncing towards them and el gato was staring at la familia Raton with his ojos amarillos. Right when el gato got to Mama Raton, face to face, cara a cara, Mama Raton stared into los ojos amarillos and said, “GUF GUF GUF GUF!!!” (in English we might say bark, bark, bark – apparently Latino dogs speak Spanish as well as the humans)

El gato stopped in his tracks, turned around, ran all the way back to la tapia, jumped over to the other side and they never saw el gato again.

Mama Raton turned around and said, “See its always good to know a second language, lenguaje segundo.”

The Spiritual Wisdom of Horton the Elephant

Rocci Hildum

An Original Sermon

I have discovered that I am a spiritual nomad, journeying in search of spiritual wisdom, insight, enlightenment and truth. In my journeys I have learned that I often travel the same landscape, recognize familiar landmarks and meet the same obstacles and challenges … over and over and over again. I have met and re-met many companions on this journey. I rediscover ancestors and mentors and learn and re-learn important, and not so important, lessons.

One of the things that I have learned is to seek out mentors, people of spiritual maturity, to be my companions on this journey. I have also learned to judge critically those in whom I will place my trust and confidence in the matters of the Sacred and Mystical. 

I have been inspired and enlightened by the writings and teachings of many people whose names you may recognize; people like Thomas Merton, St. John of the Cross, Thic Nhat Han, Martin Luther King, Jr., and the Dalai Lama. I have also sat at the knees of less known and yet gifted persons unfamiliar to the world apart from their space in it. People like John and Margaret Jones who manage Camp Myrtlewood in Oregon and Joseph Helfrich a musician in Ohio and Tanaka, who I only know through story.

Here I will offer that the world has very definite opinions about the persons and institutions in which religious and spiritual wisdom is found. It has been my experience that the world is not only sometimes wrong as in mistaken, the world is sometimes wrong as in a lie.

Spiritual wisdom and insight and giftedness are found in lots of persons and spaces and experiences that are unknown, unrecognized, or rejected by the world. I have come to believe that some of the most inspirational and creative spiritual wisdom can be found in persons and spaces and experiences that are distinctly apart from recognized, established religion. By its very definition, established, dogmatic, religious wisdom stifles the creative and new.

So it has come to me that I also find spiritual wisdom in the most unlikely, and yet passionately true, people and spaces and experiences. I have been touched by the Sacred by a little girl who gave me a shell. I have found great spiritual truth in the Calvin comics and I have experienced the presence and movement of the Spirit in the desert of the state capitol. Many unlikely places are the very incubators of spiritual wisdom.

So it has come to me that one of my spiritual mentors and companions has been Horton the Elephant. Horton has become for me a teacher, a source of inspiration. Horton’s own example challenges me and guides me.

We know little about Horton the Elephant. The extent of the published material about Horton is contained in just two books written by Ted Geisel, Dr. Seuss, Horton Hears a Who and Horton Hatches an Egg. But even in these two short pieces, Horton’s spiritual wisdom speaks to me and this is what I want to share with you today.

Now what we know about Horton from Geisel’s writings is that

On the fifteenth of May, in the Jungle of Nool,

In the heat of the day, in the cool of the pool,
He was splashing … enjoying the jungle’s great joys …
When Horton the elephant heard a small noise.

So Horton stopped splashing. He looked toward the sound.

“That’s funny,” thought Horton. “There’s no one around.”
Then he heard it again! Just a very faint yelp.
As if some tiny person were calling for help.

“Some poor little person who’s shaking with fear’

That he’ll blow into the pool! He has no way to steer!
I’ll just have to save him. Because, after all,
A person’s a person, no matter how small.”

Did you get that? Most people miss it. But listen. Listen deeply with your ears and your heart and your soul. Listen with passion. Most people still don’t get it and to me it has become as obvious as an elephant splashing in a pool. Horton, hears the tiny person. There is no voice that is so tiny that it escapes Horton’s hearing. Granted he is an elephant and he does have pretty big ears.

We have ears. How often do we not hear. How often do we miss the voice crying out; even when it is so obvious - in our place of work, on the street, in the city hall, and in our own homes. People are crying. I have been challenged by this because I see the truth, the ugly painful truth that we most often miss the smallest voices.

From Horton, I have learned that no matter what

My listening and hearing I cannot forestall
Because a person’s a person no matter how small.  

But there’s something else here too. Horton, by advantage of his superior hearing and his spiritual wisdom knows how to listen. Horton heard that small, small voice of the Mayor of Whoville, which was located on a speck of dust. But then Horton saw the dust speck on which the residents of Whoville reside and which was slowly floating down toward the pool, the very pool in which Horton was at that very moment splashing.

Horton didn’t wait for someone to tell him that the tiny voice was at great peril. He didn’t form a committee or join a focus group (not that there’s anything wrong with that). Horton didn’t seek out someone else to make sure he was really hearing a tiny voice. Horton, because of his own spiritual maturity knows that he is hearing a tiny voice and knows that that tiny voice is on the dust speck he is seeing and he further knows that that dust speck is heading right to the pool and that there’s not enough time for a committee to form or for a poll to be taken (not that there’s anything wrong with that). Horton did not hesitate, he gently caught the dust speck in his trunk and set out to find a safe place for that dust speck to be.

And so Horton continues to teach me spiritual truths. Horton teaches, not forcefully, not sermonizing, but by his gentle, compassionate example that it is not enough to listen, we must see. We must see what is right before us. We must see what is tiny and what the world thinks of insignificance because there is life and beauty and sacredness in all of this, even on a dust speck.

And seeing and hearing we must trust that what we are seeing and hearing is true.

And we must see and know when life is at peril of harm. And sometimes that life is too delicate, too fragile to save by some energetic, vigorous intervention. Sometimes the gentle touch is what is needed, especially with children and animals and the wounded and the hurting and dust specks. And Horton doesn’t then sit down and say look at me, I saved the dust speck, I, and I alone heard the tiny voice, and saw the dust speck and at great personal risk grabbed that tiny voice from certain destruction. No, the path that Horton teaches me is quiet, as well as being true and honest and compassionate.

And so I have learned that

If I learn how to listen

And I learn how to see
Tiny little lives will become obvious to me
And tiny lives must not drown
For the ignorance or apathy of us all.
Because a person’s a person no matter how small.

This is where all of Horton’s problems start. The world is not ready for people living on dust specks and much less for people to hear people who live on dust specks and even much less for people who talk to people who live on dust specks and they’re really, really not ready for people who act to protect people on dust specks. The world, even the Horton’s world, can’t hear and can’t see anything of significance in that dust speck and are not willing or able to take Horton’s word for it. Horton faces organized opposition and resistance, even violent opposition.

“Humpf!” humpfed a voice. ‘Twas a sour kangaroo.

And the young kangaroo in her pouch said, “Humpf!” too.
“What, that speck is as small as the head of a pin.
A person on that? … Why, there never has been!”

The Wickersam Brothers came shouting, "What rot!

This elephant's talking to Whos who are not!
There aren’t any Whos! And they don’t have a Mayor!
And we’re going to stop all this nonsense! So there!”

Horton alone stood firm in protecting the Whos. Ultimately the Whos were saved from certain death by being boiled in Beezel Nut Oil by Horton’s intervention.

It was more than just his intervention; however, it was also his faithfulness. Horton would not be swayed from what he knew to be true. Having heard the Whos Horton was compelled to act. What a great illustration of a spiritual life. Having heart the suffering of others are we, can we also be compelled to act.

Granted, we are surrounded by a cacophony of sounds and sights of the oppressed, marginalized, downtrodden, and forgotten or ignored. It would be easy to become overwhelmed by the magnitude of the problems with which we can be confronted.

So it is fortunate that we don’t have to be perfect. Horton illustrates for me that we don’t strive for perfect, just consistency. Horton is not perfect, but he is consistent and predictable. Horton acts on behalf of the Whos and in so doing leaves us an example of a life engaged in the vital business of being compassionate.

So, please, learn to listen. Learn to listen with your ears and your eyes and your heart and your soul. Listen to everything all around you, and when you hear that small voice calling for help; when the universe leads you into some place you’ve never been before where the oppressed live, then what will you do?