Listening

“Many of us are part of systems that teach us to look away from the very things calling for our attention.”Báyò Okómoláfé

Lately, I have been listening to birdsong. A few weeks ago, the despondent calls of early morning owls were replaced by the chatter of hungry garden birds who, in a flurry of mating and nest-building activity, seem to communicate: “Here we are! Spring has arrived.” Meanwhile, the wind sends the treetops swaying in a soothing cadence, offering a percussive accent of falling twigs, moss, and lichen from branches far above.

Nature is a multi-layered acoustic soundscape, and I am listening.

One of the things listening in nature has taught me is that a healthy ecosystem has no centre. Instead, there is an interconnected, multi-hubbed, dynamic continuum. It is a web of relationships—an orchestra that is organic, self-organising, and ever-expanding.

And as humans, we are part of that ecosystem—but when do we learn to listen to our inner landscape?

It is often the loudest and most repetitive sounds that capture our attention. Our senses are easily tricked, dulled, and magnetised towards what is biggest, brightest, most intense, or dangerous, as if these are the most powerful—the most important. This is how political parties win votes, how global brands are made, and how wars are started.

As a child, I was never taught to listen. I grew up in a family of multi-generational opinators, where combative interactions were commonplace and the loudest voice was the one that was heard. I understood from a young age that knowing how to make an argument—and to be right—meant you were valued.

From this vantage point, I missed many springs of listening: to birdsong and frogs, to the wind’s whisper, to the pattern of rain. I also missed listening to my own body.

The imprint of autoimmune illness is often one where the individual has learned to suppress and turn away from their own emotions and the physical symptoms of illness until the pain becomes too much to bear. At some point, the illness may become the impetus that forces a response.

The gift of my experience living with autoimmune illness is that, eventually, it did teach me to listen. As a child, my listening was first directed towards the almighty doctor, who might use their medicines to “fix” the problem. Over the years, though, I began to realise there was no absolute fix—and that those doctors were just people. Perhaps the biggest problem of all was not the illness or the doctors, but that I hadn’t learned to listen to myself.

Today, I understand inner listening as a muscle that needs continuous training. My body still has days of loud pain and intense sensations, and sometimes there is danger in those signs. Learning to stay with what is means that I am often able to identify a part of my body that is not completely drawn into the centre of the pain or sensation, but instead remains at the edges of activation. Sometimes, I can find a different place—one that is working to help me in some way, perhaps to stabilise or keep me safe.

The more I can stay at these edges—sensing and feeling, rather than being pulled into the eye of the storm—the more I can observe without looking away, without losing sight of the overall landscape. In these edges, there is clear listening and honest hope. There is being with my body.