Words. Words, words, words. There are too many. There are not enough. There are too many wrong ones.

Words cause too much trouble. If you use too many, you may be in trouble. If you don’t use enough, you may be in trouble.

If you do not use the right ones, or if you don’t use them in the correct order, you could be in trouble.

I have wasted far too many words in this life. They have been expensive; there has been a terrible cost. It has taken many years for me to discover the true value in words and to understand that “less is more.”

They are so powerful and so precious! I want to use only my best words. And sometimes I want to use none.

I am a communicator. I have always been a communicator. Half of communication is about listening, yet people often expect me to do most of the talking. They give me monosyllabic answers when I try to engage in conversation. They said they couldn’t wait to see me, and then they sit there with almost nothing to say.

Do they expect me to entertain them? Is it suddenly my job to find all the right words to make them smile or amuse them? I don’t bloody think so.

But there I sit, pulling teeth to get a two-way conversation going. I become anxious. My palms sweat. I feel increasingly stressed with each passing minute.

And with every short response followed by silence, the anxiety level increases. I regret having agreed to meet.

I think about how much I care for these people. But in reality, I don’t know them because they refuse to share more than the most basic information about themselves.

They want me to talk when they do not wish to do it themselves. And they want me to listen when they need an ear. They have plenty to say then, when I am useful for them. Otherwise, they haven’t got much to say to me.

I love listening. I would rather listen than speak much of the time. I want to talk when I have something to say, and not because it is required of me to ease the discomfort of others who do not wish to speak themselves.

But when I do not feel like talking and would prefer to sit quietly and listen, others think something is wrong. They ask if I’m upset. They ask if I’m not well.

It does not occur to them that I’m just tired of stringing words together in my head and making them come out of my mouth because someone else requires, expects, needs or wants that from me.

Sometimes I want to be The Quiet One. Sometimes I want to be the one who gets to sit and listen. Sometimes I am tired of being the one who is supposed to carry the conversation. I want to sit back and observe, digest, absorb, take in, learn, be inspired, be moved by the experience of another. Just like those Quiet People do, the ones who need me to do all the talking.

But they do not like it when I take on this role. Many times, when I’ve been with people who are quiet and I stop speaking, the conversation stops right along with me. It becomes awkward. There are horrible, long silences.

I wait. I hope. I pray that someone else will offer a topic and begin discussions. More often than not, it does not happen.

To rid everyone present of the dreadful uncomfortableness, eventually, I will speak, yet again. And again. And again. At the end of the “visit,” they say, “I had such a great time!”

Of course they did. They just sat there and let me sweat (literally) feeling anxious and stressed as I kept scrambling to come up with The Next Thing To Say.

“How is work?”

“Good.”

“Anything happening there?”

“No.”

“What’s cookin’ in your family?”

“Nothing.”

“Got anything exciting coming up? Holidays or events?”

“Nope.”

How I want desperately to ask… “Then why the £&$@ did you ask me to carve out time to spend with you???”

But of course, I do not. Instead, after enough of these events I reach my boiling point. I begin taking quiet steps to keep my distance. Quiet people are the way they are, just as I am the way I am. They are not right, nor are they wrong.

This is just not working for me, simple as that. It is not my job to pry words out of them. I give them plenty of opportunity by expending great amounts of energy coming up with questions to ask or topics to raise. If they remain quiet, that is their choice.

However, it is my prerogative to choose not to fill all the quiet spaces when it is such an unpleasant waste of time that I can never get back.

In the meantime, I will go home feeling like I said too much, yet again. The others will be happy because someone else took up the awkward, empty silences they did not want to fill. Or could not be bothered to even try to fill.

Look, I understand that the Quiet Ones have their challenges, too. Speaking up might not be easy for them. I understand. Lack of confidence, quiet by nature, afraid of being rejected or shut down, there are a million possible reasons for it. I know. I was a Quiet One as a kid, having been silenced in an abusive home. It was not my nature to speak up. I had to learn how to do it. so I get that it’s not easy.

But does that mean they shouldn’t make more of an effort, just because it’s hard? Is it fair that the talkers should feel forced or pressured to put themselves through so much anxiety and stress to try to create a conversation when it’s barely more than a monologue of questions?

Why do the talkers have to put forth all that effort for the quiet ones who aren’t willing to at least try to meet them halfway?

I do not always want to risk having said too much, or not having used the right words. I don’t always want to be the one who is spending lots of energy to be with others who choose to sit and absorb mine and share almost none of theirs.

It is exhausting. It is unfair. It is disrespectful.

It is easier to be The Quiet One. I want only the responsibility of listening sometimes, and I want to do it well. If I do not get to remain quiet and receive information, how will I learn? How will I digest and absorb or grow? How will I find out who you are and what is important to you?

Even a teapot gets to refilled before it is pouring, pouring, pouring once again. I want to be a teapot. Please allow me to refill sometimes. I cannot always pour out words for you simply because you are thirsty for them.

Words. Words, words, words. There are right ones and there are wrong ones. Your choice of words might have been quite right, and innocuous. But heard through the filter of someone else’s pain and experience, they become pure acid.

And you meant no harm at all.

But there it is. The damage is done. The listener’s filter twisted your meaning. You may or may not have an opportunity to explain. And the explanation may or may not be accepted.

And if not, then the damage is permanent.

Words. They are so delicious.

You can serve them up like whipped cream on a dessert, but it’s what’s under them that matters. You can keep them light and simple, like jiggling, red, sparkling Jell-O. Or they can be heavy, complex, a seven-layer chocolate torte filled with nuts, fruit, and a silky smooth ganache between each one.

Sometimes people have no idea there is a torte hiding under that yummy whipped topping, and they think there is only Jell-O. I cannot be upset with those who do not like or understand — or even recognise — a seven-layer torte. It is not their fault; those people are simply not good at desserts.

Sometimes people insist upon digging through my Jell-O words. They are sure that there is layer after layer of complicated meaning, refusing to accept that not everything needs analysis, complexity or a connection with the Divine Source of All. I do not appreciate it when my simple-but-pretty, jiggling, red Jell-O is torn up with the fork of someone who is frantically searching for several layers of cake, ganache, nuts and fruit.

And all the while, wasting far too many words to do it.

I have often wondered what it would be like we were allotted a certain number of syllables to use. What would happen if suddenly, mid-sentence — or even mid-word — you used up your last syllable. That was it; no more could come out of your mouth.

Similarly, what would happen if you were writing and came to the end of your allowed number of words? That would be the end of them; you could not form another letter, not by pen or computer or any other means. Like permanent writer’s block.

Is this what happened to people who are no longer able — um, who are not willing — to communicate? Have they used up their allowed syllables?

My syllables are precious to me. I’ve wasted so many; I don’t want to waste any more.

I need to be a teapot. I am a teapot, whether or not other people would prefer it if I were a waterfall.

Words cut and divide. They mend and heal. They hurt and destroy. They inspire and stimulate. They kill and maim. They nurture and encourage. They are poison and medicine.

Whether you are using them — or not.

Spiritual Arts Mentor and Master Teacher, Liberty Forrest, guides you in discovering who you are, why you’re here, and how to follow that path.

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