Each person has a story

Fog rolled across the windshield as we parked our car against the driftwood.

We got out, zipped our coats all the way to the top, and fastened the buttons over the zippers. Waves lapped against the shore as we moved from the hard surface of the asphalt to the squishy sand. We picked our way through the washed up redwoods with our flashlights aimed at the ground, calling out to each other as we moved toward the water, eyes glued a half dozen feet in front of us.

Finally my older brother yelled out. He got one.

We all rushed over to the spot and looked at the object in his hand, flashlight shining through.

“No, that’s just quartz,” I called out.

“It’s not, see here. It’s got a milky band on the edge.”

He handed it over for closer inspection. Sure enough, I saw banding along the side, and quickly shot my own flashlight toward the ground to see if I’d get lucky.

Time moved on as we continued our progress down the beach. In some places we left the first footprints. Eventually other flashlights appeared, moving out of the parking lot toward us. We pushed forward, racing against time, eyes glued to the ground, searching for the prize that made getting up before dawn worth it.

Stories matter

That’s just one of many stories from my childhood. And taking the time to recall the details puts a smile on my face. It also tells you a little bit more about me, and might draw you in to hear the ending.

In today’s world it feels easy enough to dismiss the value of people, along with taking the time to hear their stories. But stories draw us in, surpise us, offer ways to understand the world.

Idividual stories make up people’s lives, each offering a tiny glimpse from our world to theirs.

It’s easy to imagine our own journey is the only thing that matters. We think ourselves unique and special (we are of course; but not at the expense of others), and the path we walk should be cleared of everyone else’s concerns with magical powers.

But that’s not how the world works. We operate amongst billions, our days moving in and out of step with others.

Even our closest loved ones aren’t on the same journey (parallel yes, but with diagonal turns), instead weaving in and out of like intertwined threads in the tapestry of life.

When we take the time to pause, to listen, to hear another’s story, we honor their time with a selfless act that says we care about who they are.

As a teen I was always curious to learn from others, figure out what made people tick, what drove them, what led to the paths they chose in life. I’d chat and listen to others for hours—especially people older than me, and try to piece together how they’d arrived at that point in life.

Did it all make sense in the context of my life up to that point? Of course not. Was it all relevant to my own interests? Not always.

But, the stories others tell give a tiny glimpse across the veil of our own consciousness into the trials and joys of another. We learn things we’d never uncover on our own. And most importantly, it shows showing that the person across the space from us matters.

Listening, though, is an intentional act.

This can only happen when we’ve setup our lives to have space, when we’re not so hampered every day that all the gaps are taken up.

Our partners, children, parents, siblings, grandparents, not to mention dearest friends, acquitiances, colleagues, are all brimming with tales of their own. We don’t have the time, of course, to hear all of them. But we can take some time to digest bits and pieces.

Just showing that we want to hear is often an invitation for someone else to open up and share.

Ok, so this all sounds fine and good, and frankly, a bit altruistic. What’s in it for us when we stop to listen to someone’s story? Everything.

Through hearing we process, piece together parts of how the world works, and have the opportunity to retread the steps of others with the knowledge of what they’ve done before.

We grow through listening, build our muscle for empathy, and just maybe offer a glimpse toward making the world a tiny bit better place for the ones coming after.

Finding the prize

We had a limited time each morning to find the rocks we were seeking. By sunup the fog mostly burned off, and the beach filled up, not with swimmers (it was way too cold), but with locals and visitors trying out their luck to find agates.

For a year our family lived alongside the northern California coast. On Saturday mornings our mom would drag us kids out of bed and to the beach. We’d spend our time clambering across the sand in search of those tiny rocks. On net the value of agates is quite low, unless you get lucky with an outsized piece. But collecting them, and spending time in one of the most beautiful places on earth was a core memory of my childhood. Each piece added to my collections had its value, and brought joy to ourselves and those we shared with.

That’s a tiny bit of my story. Now let’s hear yours.