Why I love slow processors

I'm one of those kids who went through school, hand raised, always ready with an answer. Not a "you-better-call-on-me-before-I-explode" hand raised, but a confident, occasionally wiggly hand, and an arm that frequently shifted from side to side as it fell asleep, waiting to be called on.

In bible studies and Sunday school I was the "know-it-all." I always had an example from my own life that (usually) applied to what we were talking about. I tried not to be cocky or prideful, but I'm afraid I usually came off that way.

I was the one eagerly hopping in the van after a full day of school, stories brimming to be told.

Basically, if a question is asked, I'm all there, ready with an answer, bursting at the seams, but usually containing it, trying really hard to let others have a turn until I finally feel so bad for the question-asker that I just go right ahead.

I've been frustrated with the kids that take forever to answer a question, that can't express themselves, that wait for what seemed like eternity before announcing they "forgot," a simple way to get out of actually having to answer the question.

And then. I met some slow processors. And I learned some amazing things.

While I typically want an immediate answer to my questions, and I want a fast-paced, lively discussion, I appreciate the silent mulling-over done by a slow processor...

I used to talk right over them. If there was silence in a conversation, I would jabber away, simply to make it disappear. I would ask another question. I would answer my own question. Anything to make the awkwardness go away.

I became friends with a slow processor. Our long "talks" on the phone involved mostly silence at times. I became frustrated. I used to multitask and wait for the voice on the other end to finally break the silence. Then I would put down my homework or whatever else I was doing and finally listen. I was always shocked at the depth that came out of the silence. The stuff I had been missing in all my lightning-fast processing. The depth of wisdom, the depth of patience, the depth of understanding, and finally the vulnerability that sprung out of time.

It was still uncomfortable leaving that silence. I began tutoring in the Writing Lab. My boss and mentor listened to my sessions with students. "You're not letting them answer you. You keep redirecting them too quickly," was something I heard daily. I thought the two seconds of wait time was plenty. But I began to leave a gap. A gap long enough for seat-shifting discomfort to set in. And the answers to my questions became deeper, longer, harder.

Then I began tutoring Koreans and other ESL students. I made friends with people who struggled with communicating easily in a second language. Sometimes I would wait a whole minute in silence for them to speak. I began to learn the art of facial expressions. I watched their mouths slowly form the words, practice them, before the sounds left their lips. I watched their eyes, searching for words they knew, their fingers quickly hunting for a word on their electronic dictionaries. I knew something was about to happen. So I would wait with pregnant anticipation. Then. They would express their true hearts, share their culture, their struggles with adjusting, and their frustration at being misunderstood. Ironically, they felt comfortable with me because I gave them time to think, to say what they were trying to say, and to get their thoughts across without interrupting them. I celebrated moments of growth.

Sometimes my students will come back in my room crying. I can keep teaching and hope it goes away. Or I can slow time down for them, let them know I'm here. I can give her a hug, and give her the choice: now or later, paper/pencil or voice. I can listen to his needs, teach him how to express his emotions in a healthy way. 

Even in my closest relationships, I am learning the beauty of silence. Of gaps of thinking space. Of revisiting old conflicts gently, with minutes of deep thought before diving in. I can now sit and wait fifteen minutes for someone to speak. I watch their face. Their eyes. The words dance on their lips before being released, ready to catch them. I have learned to be slower to speak, and quicker to listen. I have learned to be still.

I realize that slow processors are the people that have some of the best insights. I have learned that when they are ready to speak, I better be ready to listen. Because they have something they've been chewing on. And when they are ready to share, who knows when the opportunity will arise again (especially in our fast-paced world). I have made so many mistakes in my eager responses, my quick quips, my thoughtless remarks. But slow processors are deliberate and cautious with their words. They understand that their words can make a huge difference.

I now realize it is in the silence that the greatest thoughts are born. That the guarder of secrets decides to be open. Where the thumping heart-beat escalates into the throat, into the back of the tongue where the words form, until they have been uttered, and yet met with acceptance.

My heart's desire is to be a safe place for slow processors. Where silence is not only tolerated but embraced. Where time can slow down, ears can be open, and mouths closed.