Fragile

There is a fragile tone to everything I do, 

a sense of walking carefully, 

paying attention to choosing the right word, 

the right tone of voice. 

Maybe it’s because 

I’ve been so crude lately, testy. 

I don’t mean to. 

Sometimes, I can’t hold back. 

So I am being fragile, treading softly. 

a form of self-protection 

that keeps me from attaching too much

expectations of others. 

Writing is my salvation.

In the writing workshop I was careful 

not to take up too much time.

I shared two poems in twelve minutes. 

Twelve minutes goes fast. 

In the, “dear heroine,” poem

I wanted to know if dead 

was too strong of a word. 

Should I use death? 

Since dead was the last word, 

it needed to carry a heavy hit.

Everyone agreed. Dead was heavier. 

As the workshop continued,

the poem seemed intense, too dramatic. 

I had shifted since I wrote it, 

and was feeling the need to rewrite. 

This is not therapy. 

I am capturing a moment. 

I don’t need to make everything better. 

I can write a new fragile  poem.

Repurposed Tablecloth

Last night we watched “Out of Africa.” I’ve seen it before but could barely remember the story. I did remember the scenery, and that a woman has an affair with Robert Redford. 

Where did he get that smile? Larry has that smile and my sons have that smile. Such a smile can be seductive and soothing and can turn stern in a moment when challenged. 

In the movie there were frequent scenes sitting around a table covered with a white cloth. Karen says, “Aren’t you glad I brought my crystal and china.” A simple statement, yet so true. 

The tablecloth becomes a symbol of elegance. 

The spreading of the cloth. 

The creation of sacred space. 

Sharing of memories. 

The calming, sipping of wine, water, or tea. 

My mother always used a tablecloth for special dinners. She bought linen when we lived in Japan. She made some with tiny cross stitch. This was a teaching passed down without knowing a teaching passing was occurring.

When I went to Ireland, I couldn’t wait to buy a lace tablecloth, only to find out when I returned home and looked closely that it was made in China.

There was something unsettling

buying another culture’s culture

from another culture. 

As I search for my culture’s tablecloth, I find it is a blend of many. I find old lace tablecloths at the Salvation Army and hand dye them in the colors of my favorite palette. They become special and carefree. 

I place them on the picnic table in the park, subtly transforming the scene. In “Out of Africa'' they set a beautiful table next to the tents on their safari.

It’s not pretentious.

It’s a slowing down,

identifying the canvas,

placing the color and texture. 

Perhaps that’s what my repurposed polyester should become. Tablecloths. A transferring of trash into the elegance of a dinner table.

To slow down the anticipation,

concern,

worries.

Intensify the gathering together. 

Become the teaching with the story written down. 

Karen was a good storyteller. That’s how she captured Robert. That’s how he came to fall in love with her. He was a man of the moment and when she wanted more,

he withdrew,

only to discover

he loved her moments,

and stories and wanted more. 

Sustainable Fashion

Something has to change if we are to continue to enjoy the beauty of the life we have known. The clothes we wear, the houses we live in, the food we eat, something. We can start with what clothes our body day by asking who made it, what materials were used, is it old or new? When we repurpose the past, gathered with memories, it contains predictions of what is most desired. Each time an item crosses our path we must ask, where have you been, how can I enjoy you again?

Fashion is a means of self-expression. Sustainable fashion can turn a rip into a personal piece of art that becomes uniquely yours. Because we value sustainability, repurposing is an antidote to fast fashion. It is a different way of relating to our clothes and allows us to think more about what makes clothing meaningful. 

Fashion is not something others create that we aspire to duplicate for ourselves. Fashion is what we embrace. It is the first statement we make to the world each day when we choose what to wear.

Remembering Highlin'

Highlin’ watches me through the front door as I garden.

Letting go of my dear sweet dog

after 14 years of friendship

there is a sadness,

and a new life ahead of me. 

No waking in the middle of the night to let him out no listening to him snoring, keeping me awake 

and yet I look for Highlin’ when I come home 

look for him to greet me at the door, slowly 

as his slow walk holds him back.   

I look for his water dish to see if it needs filling

it is not there as he is not here.  

I look for him poking his head in the bathroom 

as I slide into my hot bath each night.    

I look for his pushing the bedroom door open checking to see that I am there 

even though he’s not quite ready to come to bed.  

These are frozen actions 

that leave my body as life left his 

a careful taking day by day moment by moment watching his effort getting up and down 

as I experience my own aging body 

getting up and down. 

Memories live in photographs

his dog collar and tags 

on the fence in the backyard.  

I shift to a different life 

after experiencing the silence 

of the many  unspoken conversations 

Highlin’ generated.  

This evening, I dive into discussions with Larry 

and wait for a Highlin’ to remind me 

don’t worry 

just be still 

stare out the window 

and wait by the water dish. 

Five Things I Notice

On a rainy gray morning, the white geraniums pop.

The empty wine bottle from last nights dinner, remains on the patio table.

A red cardinal feeds two smaller birds wet breadcrumbs

The string lights that glow in the dark, still glow on a cloudy day.

The large hackberry tree is still green it’s only a matter of days before the orange appears. 

Comfort in the time of sadness

For three years I’ve walked past her porch

we wave

yesterday 

I took her brownies 

gave her a hug 

she 80 something 

was now the mother of a murdered son

as I walked home

my knees weakened 

In my circle of friends, we were talking about times of sadness. The power of a wave, a plate of brownies, a casserole. . . .how we make art when we are in despair, our knees are weak. Fortunately, my art pairs well with pacing. I piece fabric and colors.

On how we are the same and different pursuing our true purpose:

My dear,

I have known you for many years. You are a goddess, childlike, a spiritual seeker. You flow, move easily, impart wisdom with heightened sexual awareness, owning and embracing your body. 

You were an artist before I knew anything about the world of art. Your sculptured clitoris revealed everything I needed to know. Your intelligent mind captivated and captivates, with kind, considerate, caring attentiveness. 

Your brushstrokes intense and vibrant become soothing, softening, tranquility sets in. Your words illicit. You have lived in the world of poetry before I knew such a world existed. Taking risks in relationships, pursuing pleasure and desire. 

You are a goddess, temporarily caught in the maya of mass despair, your pursuit of textures smeared into knowing spread across your canvas, waiting. 

Repurposing Mom's Clothe

My mom was rather flamboyant! I’d say, after I opened a box of her clothes that my sister, Bev, sent for me to use to create new repurposed fabric.

Rainbows and Birdsong

Rainbows signify my son, Donnie‘s, presence. There was a rainbow outside the Unitarian church when his memorial was over and the next day there was one at the corner while I was taking Highlin’ for a walk.

A birdsong signifies my mother’s presence. She made a point to crack the kitchen window over the sink so she could listen. When we sat on the front porch, she would pause and locate the bird whose song caught her attention. These must’ve been her meditative acts way before my be here now moment awareness arrived. Moments I’m seeking more and more these days sheltering in place. Mostly to keep my mind off politics and the future of the virus. Stay safe.

Stay healthy. We do the best we can. Thinking back I cannot remember Mom ever in a political debate. I can’t remember her ever saying very much, except comforting one-liners when we were expressing our worries. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

I can remember what she did. In addition to wonderful cooking and keeping a clean, cozy house, she sewed. Her sewing machine was in the living room. It faced the TV. She sat behind it and sewed. There was a floor lamp. Dad sat in his recliner on the other side of the room facing the TV.

This is what they did every evening. I’m sure Mom would have been just as happy in her sewing room. This is what they did together. Dad wanted her close. At some point she took a break and made popcorn. It’s what they did together.

Begin Where You Are

Exploring Boundaries 

Boundaries were not something I grew up with.

I was the first of seven.

A good girl. My mother and father never talked to me in that “setting boundaries” tone.

There were rules, curfews, expectations, and I followed them.

My father was a sergeant in the Air Force.

Not as low as an airman.

But definitely not as high as an officer.

We lived in the sergeant’s section on bases.

There were fences around each housing section.

I had friends in each section.

Those were boundaries my father was not intimidated by and encouraged us to cross.

My mother’s mother, Stella, did set boundaries.

She made it absolutely clear in her arrogant self-righteous tone of voice

we were not to run with Mexicans and riffraff.

She made a distinction between white trash,

people without manners, and us. 

Even though Stella was the wife of a poor Texas cotton farmer,

struggling to raise her seven children in a house just this side of a shack,

she still clung to her plantation roots.

She made sure we dressed up to go to town.

And our posture was erect.

And while her intentions may have been proactive—

to raise her family to be proud regardless of their financial status,

underneath it all there was a defensiveness answering the question

who do you think you are? 

I never heard the question spoken out loud,

but I definitely felt it from the town’s people.

Arttistbook Newsletter

Reliquary

Reliquary, art contains the past

In my present I layer my past. 

Seeking a reason in everything. 

Heightening awareness. 

Reliquary has become my favorite word. I like the way it rolls off the tongue. It is almost a poem in and of itself. I learned about this word when Linda Bryant presented her poem “Reliquary” for discussion on Laverne’s Writing Workshop. Her poem is about the past; her mother’s ashes, the present; making peace, and the layering of these experience; making art. I am drawn to this new found word and the discussions it stimulates.

I asked Linda if she minded if I named my upcoming exhibit and salon Reliquary. And the chapbook I intended to publish featuring writers who have discussed their work on the radio. The exhibit contains the past found in repurposed dresses and skirts from Goodwill. Layered with wool and silk, then transformed into shawls or art for the wall. I exhibit my work is with Brandon Long. Using a similar color palette and wide range of found materials, we each create a container for the past. Together, these assemblages of fiber and metal are a stark contrast in textures and forms. The soft and supple next to the sharp and rigid is an intense juxtaposition of contrast and values. They find stimulating harmony when placed near each other. Stimulating conversations begin and I love it.

When I was growing up such conversation often occurred around the dinner table. I was the oldest of seven and the most likely to enter into debate. My dad was the instigator. He instilled values and he challenged them. We debated long and hard. When I felt I had made my point, he would change his point of view. 

Mon’s meals were simple. Meat loaf, potatoes, iceberg lettuce salad, french dressing, canned peas, canned peaches. Four cookies for dessert, sometimes a bowl of ice cream. Yes, Mom measured  everything and there was no going back for seconds. She didn’t take part in the debates. It was me and my dad, an Air Force sergeant and the son of Polish immigrants. 

“Garbage men deserved to get paid well,” he said. He was in support of Solidarity in Poland and yet, he made it clear I was not to be dancing with any black boys.  

“Daddy,” I explained, “this goes against all your values of fairness and equality.” He was adamant.

My desire for intellectual conversation may have been the demise of my first marriage to a good man. At parties he and I attended, I found myself in the kitchen with three or four others in deep discussion. 

“Laverne,” one of them said, “you are so intense.” Isn’t this what everyone wants to talk about?

When I went to barber school and we sat in our chairs, bored. We were waiting for bums to come in for cheap haircuts so we could practice. John, sitting next to me asked, “Have you read Body Language? There was no reason for me to find him attractive. I had already passed judgement. Not my type. He was short, Mexican, and had long hair.  Stimulating conversations began.

In my present I layer my past. Reliquary seeps in my stories and art. Tarnished and old, they keep resurfacing. I seek a reason in everything.  Heightening awareness, I may be direct with words or become subtle in fabric.

If you ask me a shawl’s story, I’ll tell you.

Technique

You have to have vision. You have to have technique. 

My vision is always the same. 

defined by nature

only the elements change

the flow of hair emerges from the landscape

color emanates from the rainbow 

Back in the day, 1975, when I was designing haircuts,

my vision was on balance. When cutting hair, after a conversation, I made  decisions about overall length and shape. I followed the technique and the haircut always turned out balanced, fitting the shape of the head and grew out well.

Today, when dying fabric, I focus on color. Technique is formulating color, following directions for mixing, making my own rules and sticking to them. 

Always use three colors. 

Drizzle carefully 

Read the flow of the dye

like a kayaker reads the flow of a river

The fabric comes alive. 

For art to wear, it’s movement I want.

When designing, technique is simple, designs are tribal.

Tearing fabric , seldom cutting, letting the cloth become the clothing. 

My writing technique is the timed writing, creating the flow, receiving and digging up words, transcribing with line breaks at the breath.

When defining a body of work, my technique is asking three questions 

what is this about?  

why did I write it?

who wants to read it?

Words define the story. 

A collection becomes a body of work.

Art in Focus

To collaborate is to create something that could not be created without the participation of those involved.

Meriah Kruse, Larry Vogt and I talked about Collaboration at last night’s Art and Focus gathering.

It was held at the Luigart Studio.

Larry and I opened with a love poem. Larry played his electric Fender Telecaster. Meriah presented ideas for Meriah talked about the necessity of vision. She and I improved the process of collaborating for our upcoming event.

DORMANT FORCES
Inspiring Creativity, Defining Vision
Part performance, part workshop, for energizing your vision for business and life.
Saturday, November 9, 2 – 5 pm
MS Rezny Studio Gallery, 903 Manchester Street, Lexington KY
$25 per person
Limited Space; Register in advance: https://lifeforcemarketing.com/event/

Setting up

Here are some of our thoughts and list of questions you could consider for your next collaboration.

And if want more discussion consider coming to our workshop/performance!

Collaboration helps us to see our own process more clearly as it stands in stark contrast to the process of the other. 

Collaboration opens alternative doors in our imagination, both stimulating and elevating our ideas as we are influenced by the ideas and perspective of our partners. 

Collaboration     Cultural Heritage  Self -Expression   Awareness    Vision 

Collaboration: a giving and letting go

Collaboration helps us to see our own process more clearly as it stands in stark contrast to the process of the other. 

Collaboration opens alternative doors in our imagination, both stimulating and elevating our ideas as we are influenced by the ideas and perspective of our partners. 

Collaborations work best when you know your personal mission.

Asking what and why helps determine a mission statement for the collaboration.

What are we doing?  

Collaborating to inspire creativity and attain vision.

Why are we doing this? 

To foster an understanding of cultural traditions and mythology and heighten an appreciation and tolerance of difference and commonality through inspiration. 

When we are inspired our mind transcends limitations.

Who is our audience for the collaborative event?

1. Each collaborator has a different audience. What is their common ground?

2. What does our audience desire? 

3. What are we offering them? What do each of us  uniquely bring to the collaboration?

 4.  What are the benefits for our audience?

5. What are the features/expectations of this event?

Soreyda always provides sustenance

  process

what we include

  what we do not include

 6.  This is good for you if:

      This is not for you if:

 7.  What is the investment?

8. Timeline

9. One doubt

An Anthology of Prayers

The act of making is not frivolous. 

It is a necessity, a survival tool. 

A space to place your mind and heart in the midst of chaos.

1. The Prayer

The dog lies beside me, waiting 

there are shadows across the floor 

sunlight filters through the trees 

in the air of death the spirits journey.

There is no knowing  

only, waiting   

this death is of an unknown origin  

not the body  

not the soul 

a death of expectations  

surety  

a death of thinking one knows  

In this air of death 

where a dream has died  

a heart has broken  

a past is only a memory  

the spirits journey  

The dog lies beside me, waiting 

there are shadows across the floor 

and sunlight filters through the trees

2. The Revelation

Keep writing in the midst of chaos. 

That place you can't think your way out of. 

Yesterday I botanical printed two pieces of silk, 

slowing my mind down to essentials. 

Placed leaves in delicate patterns. 

Breathe in. Calm. I can handle this. 

I wrapped each bundle tight, like a hug.

Today I envision pieces of silk, torn in strips, 

each one a story with two endings. 

It could go this way or it could go that way. 

Today I will sew them together. 

A patchwork 

from the leaves found in our woods:

Anthology of life prayers.

Today I will choose silk with love, no fear. 

I like this one. Its pattern is underwater ripples. 

Those currents of despair and agony always running underneath 

creating vibrance and elegance on top.

Making brings us into the moment, 

the only place where peace and happiness live. 

The only place the mind stops,

if only for a moment. 

Now vulnerable, 

the silk's ready to be covered with leaves I've gathered on my walk. 

Breathe, I say each time I bend over to pick one up, considering placement. 

For a moment my worried mind has stopped.

Today I am focused on walnut leaves. 

They penetrate deeply through several layers, 

unless I place a resist underneath. 

That is always the question. 

What do we want to resist and what do we want to embrace? 

In the beginning, when I was younger, 

I wanted to embrace everything. 

Now I only want reassurance that everything will be okay. 

Of course it will be, 

if I stay in the moment. 

Once I went to a wise woman. 

Confused, I didn't know which decision to choose. 

She said it didn't matter. 

I would learn something either way. 

What is it about pacing? 

The walking back-and-forth, seeking important work. 

Something to do. 

A task that will change the course of a river 

with tributaries leading in many directions. 

Thinking while pacing. 

What to make to stop this aimless walk to nowhere? 

I wait without pacing. 

Soaking up impressions.

This evening I will eat alone. 

Something small. 

I won't watch a movie, either. 

I like the quiet.

I keep writing in the midst of chaos. 

That place I can't think my way out of. 

"Wrap me in silk," she said.

Simplify, simplify, simplify, it has been said. And I agree. Makes life much easier. I have been dying some beautiful fabrics. I have decided to simplify by making them all into wraps and shawls. That is, after all, how I got started.

I watched the movie, “Frieda.” I loved her dramatic wrapping of herself in fabric. In shawls and scarves. I can do that. I can make those, I said. Only different. And, if you want one of my cloaks, shawls or scarves made into a bolero, jacket, or duster. I can do that!

Cape/shawl

It all started when I was dressing to go to a professional luncheon and I couldn’t decide what to wear. I wanted to wear some of my art boleros, jackets or dusters, but they felt too elegant for an afternoon. I chose a dress but it was sleeveless and I wanted something to keep my shoulders warm. You know how restaurants are. That’s why business men and women wear suits.

Wear as a cape, or drape if like a scarf or wrap like a shawl.

With a shawl or wrap, no matter how large, I can arrange, move and manipulate the fabric as needed. I can drape over a chair, or tie it around my waist. It will always be beautiful to look at.

What I love about this piece is all the colors. It will complement anything!

Laverne's Radio Writing Workshop

Lexington Community Radio 
WLXU 93.9 FM
Laverne’s Radio Writing Workshop

A process designed to encourage dialogue when critiquing writing.

Based on Liz Lerman’s book, Critical Response Process

All writing counts. Talking about writing counts. When we write, we have something to say and a desire to be heard. In 1990 I started the Working Class Kitchen for the purpose of creating an arena for writers to read their work.

Today, I explore workshopping writing on the radio. A risky thing to do. But the willingness to take risks is what makes a writer successful. Workshopping our word on the radio creates another arena to share not only what we have written but also our process.

This gives the listener the experience of our work on a deeper level. With a focus on making statements of meaning and asking questions dialogue occurs and a deeper understanding or what a writer intends to say is gained.

There are four writers gathered to talk about writing. Let’begin by introducing our selves and a brief comment on where we come from.

I’m Laverne Zabielski
I come from
the daughter of Methodist missionaries 
the son of Catholic, Polish immigrants
kiełbasa, whiskey and golumki

I come from sewing machines
fried chicken Air Force bases
cotton fields, fences, flat roads and drought

take one day a time, mother said
What do you think I’m made out of?
Money? Daddy asked

I come from seven kids
1 pair of shoes each
cub scout meetings cost 10 cents
the whole house searched for that dime

Meaning is at the heart of our writing.

Step one: Statements of meaning

What has meaning for you in this piece? What did this piece mean to you?
What spoke to you? What was significant? What was stimulating? 
What was provocative? Surprising? Evocative? Memorable? Touching? Challenging? Compelling? Delightful? different? Unique? 
Nothing is too small to notice.

The more focused the writer on their questions, 
the more intense and deep the discussion becomes.

Step two: Writer as questioner

What would you like more of?
Where should I expand?
Did it work when….?
How did you experience….?

When defensiveness starts, learning stops.

Step three: Neutral questions for responders

Informational and factual questions
Form opinions into questions. “It’s too long” can become “Why are your pieces so long?”

Maintain dynamic and challenging dialogue

Opinions can often feel like objects thrown at us.

Step four: Permissioned opinions

Name the topic. As permission.
I have an opinion about the setting. Would you like to hear it?

Dig deeper. Make something beautiful.

Let’s dive deeper into our art making experiences. Summer is the time for experimenting. I appreciate Peggy’s insightful comments about the classes she took this past winter and spring. 

“Having an interest in felt, after dappling in wet and nuno felting, I took two FeltLoom classes under the guidance of Laverne Zabielski. Inspired, I also have completed the Sibori dying class.

“More than a teacher, Laverne Zabielski mentors and guides her students through art theory and color theory while demonstrating the process of the art form she is teaching.  

“Laverne’s teaching methods are based upon sound educational pedagogy: demonstrating, explaining, and collaborating.

“After displaying  examples of  FeltLoom products and listening to her students, Laverne introduced some wool rovings, silk, and ribbon embellishments that could be incorporated into the silk and wool batting scarf that would be created in the beginning FeltLoom class. She reminded students of the color wheel and simple art theory concepts to help guide us in designing our pieces.

“I left class with Laverne, inspired and empowered, believing in myself as a creator of art.  

“Since the first class, with guidance from Laverne and the magic of the FeltLoom, I’ve made a shawl and then repurposed nuno felted scarves, and completed a 4’ x 6’ wall hanging. 

“I’m looking forward to expanding my Sibori dying abilities. Laverne Zabielski is unique, being a creative, skilled artist and teacher.” —Peggy Workman

Check my event page to see what’s scheduled.

Woman Who Hunts

Woman Who Hunts

She flies over, 

pursues, perseveres, 

dives down, dives in, 

picks up, flies on, 

spreads her wings, 

flaunts, flows, 

proud and determined.

She glides above. 

Sees all, knows much. 

She careens, guides.

Sharing her technique 

is her vehicle for teaching

manifesting control of vision, 

fostering independence.

Comforting Indulgence

Five things I notice

Something hot to sip first thing in the morning is a comforting indulgence. Today it’s mate.

I like to get up before daybreak when the house is quiet and I am the only one awake.

 My reflection in the sliding glass door to the patio as I sink in my hand me down chair and wonder if I should get a new one so a bookshelf would fit up against the wall and my books would not pile up.

Silk with the shibori dyed magnolia flowers moving gently in the doorway

reminding me how important movement is.

Remembering conversations from yesterday. So many stories. All from a different point of view. My questioning truth. Is there even such a thing? Realizing there are only stories with different perceptions. Different for every person. Questioning how much one’s future is determined by the story they tell.

Turning Points

It is so much easier to look back. I’m sure I’m coming across some turning points at this very moment. They are too close to glean any insight. Except for spring flowers. They are immediate. They let you know the season is about to change. the lightness of spring is imminent. The brilliance of summer is not far off. My formulas for shibori dyeing fabric begin to change.

Looking back for turning points, I ask, how far back can I go? To my junior year in high school when I changed my style wearing a borrowed, white, v neck dress with a circular, cinched-waist skirt to a civil air patrol dance on the Air Force Base where I lived. Guys out numbered girls ten to one. I danced and danced.

The time when I was 20 and I went shopping in at expensive boutique. I tried on linen pants, fuchsia and orange. They were bold and bright. I hated them. Wanting a change, I bought them. My dad said I was stunning.

I was working in an office. I sewed a deep sea bluegreen maternity skirt and floral print top. Wore it to work, brazen and pregnant. So many compliments.

My first divorce. It was not a bad marriage. Ms Magazine arrived. It was intellectual conversation I was seeking.

Letting my kids go live with their dad. It was the right thing to do. I wanted the divorce. It was my idea. I knew I could handle being a better mother away than he could be a father so far away.

There was a recklessness in the decisions to divorce and custody. A recklessness that gave me a freedom to seize my vision.

There was chaos and disorder in the second marriage. I divorced again. With a clear vision that I deserve to be with those who appreciates who I am and what I can do.

Today I am following my curiosity. That will lead me to my passion, Elizabeth Gilbert says. I believe her. I am most curious about how to deepen my relationships. To know more. To understand more.

Michelle Obama says, “It is hard to hate up close.”

Maybe that’s true. That’s what I want. But most times my arrogance gets in the way. Like when someone takes a different stance and I stand back, with hands on my hips, and say to myself, how could you?

I had a fantasy the other day when we were at my daughter’s house. They had created a new “pub room.” They had arranged it with a little bar, a few tables scattered around. There were several different conversations going on at each table. Every one was smiling, nodding, laughing, listening. Most likely all in agreement since we are all like minded.

I had a thought. What if that wasn’t true? What if the conversations at each table we’re radically different? Opposing views were being expressed. And everyone was still listening, nodding? What if it was like the game of musical chairs and when the band of brothers and cousins stopped playing one person would shift to the next table and enter the conversation? One they might totally disagree with? Could it be done? Could the knot in their stomach be pushed down when they heard things they disagreed with? Could they be silent for two beats and let the conversation flow without the need to be the lone dissent? Could they let listening be the path to deepening?

My husband said, “No, there’s too much at risk.”

“Isn’t being silent and listening equally powerful? “I asked. “Doesn’t living by example mean anything?”

Curiosity has lead me to explore the distinction between empty silence and the the silence of listening.