Deep Listening, Deep Hearts names an orientation toward listening — listening to intuitive knowing, to the quieter voices within us, and to the living world that holds and informs our lives. Through reflective presence and mindful accompaniment, this space supports wholeness, integration, and the steady cultivation of wisdom and compassion.
Big Ears, Open Hearts: Receptive Listening Rooted in Mindfulness
The bell rings in the meditation hall, inviting me to pause and feel embodied in the present moment. I feel the vibrations from the bell's sound reverberate in my body and sit silently until it slowly ceases ringing. In the absence of its sound, I imagine myself as a tree—still and receptive to silence. Sometimes, the absence of sound feels prolonged, and again, I think of trees: they do everything slowly, untroubled by time. Nearby, others shift quickly and rise from their seats while the bell still rings. I wait, imagining I have roots. The first hum of the bell is not the entire song.
My practice has taught me the value of staying with the full arising and passing of everything—from a bell to a thought, an emotion, or even an itch. Meditation reveals how quickly the mind wants to move on—often before fully attending to what still requires care. The mind and body are like the bell and the mallet that strikes the bell: the mind strikes, and the body reverberates. Like the bell, the body needs space and time to process the reverberations fully.
When I move at the frantic pace of my mind—like a striker striking too quickly—I often miss important details, make assumptions, and cling to my preferences. I aim to listen fully by experiencing sound, sensation, silence, and stillness. However, it is rarely easy to pause long enough to willingly receive life's more challenging moments.
I remember a time when I was suffering, crying, and struggling with feelings of overwhelm and inadequacy. I withdrew from the care and listening ear of someone I respected when they offered support. Instead of being open and receptive, I became trapped in shame and the overwhelming desire to disappear. I made assumptions about how that person would see me differently and more negatively and clung to how I wanted them to see me. Later, when I reconnected with them, they offered such genuine care and support that I immediately felt relief and all the shame I had been unnecessarily carrying dissolved.
One consequence of not fully attending to my experiences is that I end up replaying them, especially when I don't fully acknowledge or respond to something significant. These lingering experiences could be a moment that touched or inspired me or a time of suffering in myself or others. These moments can feel like ghosts: sometimes humming quietly in the background, or at other times rumbling around like small children demanding attention. Mindfulness enables us to recognize them and embrace them wisely. Sometimes, the experience of meeting things with mindfulness can feel vague or unclear. With reflection, I am able to articulate what it feels like in an intimate and non-conceptual way to meet experience with sustained attention.
This is a mindfulness practice called RAFT: Recognize, Allow, Feel, and Trust. This framework has helped me relate to experiences in a way that allows them to bloom or transform—helping me to release the little ghosts that pull on my attention.
The first step, Recognize, is like stepping into a clearing in the forest. We pause, listen, look around, and acknowledge what is present, whether it’s an emotion, a sensation, or a thought. This act of recognition shines a gentle light on what might otherwise remain hidden in the undergrowth of our awareness. Naming and identifying what is here creates the foundation for a deeper connection.
Next, we move into Allowing, a stance of receptive openness, like how a tree accepts sunlight and rain without grasping or resisting. We create space for the experience to exist as it is, without judgment or interference. If resistance arises—perhaps a reluctance to face discomfort or an impulse to cling to something pleasant—we also name and allow that resistance. Allowing is not passive; it’s an active choice to embrace life’s unfolding.
Then comes Feeling, the heart of the practice, where we tune in to the sensations and emotions present in our body. Imagine the tree’s roots sensing the soil’s subtle changes—this is how we connect intimately with our inner lives. With patience and kind attention, we witness the natural ebb and flow of experience, observing how emotions and sensations shift, change, and transform when held with care. This step invites us into a deeper relationship with ourselves, enhancing our understanding and fostering inner harmony.
Finally, we arrive at Trust, a place of being available and receptive. Trusting our ability to be relaxed and open is simple, similar to trusting our body’s capacity to digest food or the tree’s quiet, natural capacity to grow and adapt through seasons of change. With time and repeated practice, we develop confidence that by being mindful, discerning, and caring, ease and clarity will arise naturally after listening fully.
I once heard a fable about the power of listening. A person walking in a forest heard a faint whisper calling their name. While their companions heard nothing, this person persisted, moving closer until they discovered the sound was coming from within a large boulder. Gently placing their hands on the rock, it broke open, revealing someone trapped inside.
This story serves as a reminder that genuine listening can help us remember and come back to what has been buried or neglected. At times, such as during transitions in our lives, we may leave parts of ourselves behind, only to find they patiently await when we stop, listen deeply, and reconnect with them mindfully.
Mindfulness is the process of cultivating clear awareness of the present moment by observing the mind with keen attention, balance, and receptiveness. It involves being fully present and free from covetousness (grasping for what we desire) and displeasure (resistance to what we dislike), allowing us to engage with the world as it is without judgment or distraction.
They meditate observing an aspect of the mind—keen, aware, and mindful, rid of covetousness and displeasure for the world.
(SN 47.40)
Like mindfulness, listening well requires me to be keenly aware and free of craving and aversion. When my mind is not preoccupied with its preferences, I can better listen to life free from reactivity. Mindfulness is a practice of opening my heart to embrace whatever arises from the external world and within. An example of the opposite of mindful listening is when I pay half-hearted attention while feeling impatient, comparing, judging, and then planning what I will say in response. Instead, when listening mindfully, I do so with all my faculties awake and attuned to the present moment as it unfolds.
To whole-heartedly listen means engaging the mind and body as collaborators. I attune to a speaker's body posture and voice—whether mine or someone else's—and grasp their nuances: the rise and fall of pressure, resistance, and emotional tone. Listening to everything, even the things I would rather not hear, is a challenge. Yet this is precisely what the Buddha urges us to do in our mindfulness practice.
The language of the body is sensation, and feeling is the way we listen. —Kate Johnson
The faculties of mind and body are interconnected, and the body communicates through sensations. The body does not conceptualize—its wisdom is beyond concept and duality. There is a natural wakefulness shifting with the flow of life and experience. By feeling these sensations, I gain insight into the more subtle, often unconscious, influences shaping my inner life.
The Buddha describes the path to freedom as the middle way, free from grasping and rejecting. Our hearts can keep loving when we are open, receptive, and willing to be touched by life's joys and sorrows. Our hearts withdraw and close when we resist, reject, and attempt to shut ourselves off from life's joys and sorrows. When I feel the urge to defend, move, speak, or react in response to challenging events, visitors, thoughts, or emotions, I invite myself to sit back and listen.
Many struggle to listen to all things equally, with balance. Yet we can look no further than our ears to find the balance to listen deeply and mindfully. Hear me out—pun intended.
Ears, like trees, are free from grasping and aversion. The ears sit quietly on the sides of our heads, perfectly placed to receive sounds from all directions: front, side, and rear. They are always open unless blocked by fingers, hands, or objects. They do not wrinkle like the nose when avoiding an unwelcome whiff, nor can they push out what has entered. Unlike the eyes, they cannot squeeze shut to stop incoming sense data. They never close like a fist, refusing to hold something. They do not shut or contract. The body may send fingers to block them, but the ears remain unchanged—steady, open, and receptive. They do not move to protect themselves or express preferences. They receive all sounds equally. Vibrated by what flows into and around them, they provide sense data crucial for connection, understanding, and response.
Have you ever wondered why the Buddha is often depicted with long earlobes that rest on his shoulders? They are prominently large, and I have pondered their significance. I can imagine his earlobes jiggling as he walked and vibrating as he chanted. In some Asian cultures, prominent ears are considered a sign of wisdom. Large ears also suggest an increased ability to listen with care and without preference.
Inspired by how ears receive all sounds equally, I drew the shape of an ear and noticed that it is almost the shape of half a heart. We have two; combine the two ears and form a whole heart. The Buddha had a remarkable ability to listen and respond to the suffering in the world with wisdom and compassion.
Perhaps the Buddha's elongated earlobes symbolize his wisdom and profound capacity to hear everything compassionately. After all, wisdom and compassion are the two wings of awakening.
Finding stillness like a tree—rooted and receptive—can help us to stay attuned to the full range of life, including the quiet spaces between all things. We will discover that we have a profound capacity to meet life with discernment and kindheartedness. We will also become able to access a meeting with life that can be as natural and transformative as a tree taking in carbon monoxide and releasing oxygen.
As you finish reading, take a moment to sit quietly and listen—not only with your ears but with your heart, body, and entire being. What stirs within you? Imagine what might unfold in your practice, your heart, and your mind if you responded to life like ears, with listening and receptiveness, and like trees, with patience, rootedness, and a caring heart.
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