Reader,
Sometimes, simply listening and holding space is all that’s needed.
Last week, I went to my usual café about an hour away, and when I got to the bus stop, I was surprised to see someone else there, in my spot. Normally, it’s just me waiting on my own for this bus that sometimes shows up and sometimes doesn’t. I rarely see anyone, aside from maybe the odd person walking their dog along the gravel trail that lines the empty road. I had my headphones on, resisting the urge to sit down next to him (I don’t like infringing on personal space).
He motioned for me to sit down.
“The bus should be here in five minutes,” he said. “What’s your name?” When I told him my name, he tried to spell it out, and then I shared that I was a writer. That’s when his eyes lit up. In the next few minutes, we found ourselves grieving the lost art of cursive writing, getting riled up about how the way we communicate has changed forever, and how, as people, we don’t really see each other the same anymore.
We both agreed that at times, it can feel like we’re living in fragments, Just floating around in space, tethered to nothing real.
The bus pulled up and he asked if it was okay to sit with me.
“That would be great, I said.”
“Wonderful. Grab a window seat.”
We boarded the bus and as we sat down, he started to share a deeply personal story about unimaginable violence in his family.
“People have told me I should write a book,” he shared.
“Tell me all about it.”
We talked about the systems in place, and the current state of the world. He cried more than once, and I just listened.
We talked about an amazing book he read on forensics and how every crime scene speaks, tells a story.
Does he know that I’m working on a novel that touches on all of these things?
He then floated out of his family story and into how he has a titanium hip and once he had dislocated it and although difficult, he managed to click it back into place. It was painful as heck.
“Sounds like a metaphor for the story you just shared with me, what if that was your narrative shape?”
His eyes widened. He just smiled and looked out the window.
After the hour-long bus ride, he thanked me. But really, all I did was listen to a story he already had. Then he apologized, saying he didn’t mean to “purge” on me, and I told him I was grateful for the share.
It’s amazing what the power of listening can do. The environment it can create, and the ripples that can trickle out.
It’s funny, though. The older version of me would’ve done everything I could to keep my creative bubble intact. I had my plan: headphones, daydream, ponder. But something told me to put that on pause, just for that day. I said no with love to my carefully laid plan.
Sometimes, I worry I won’t have anything to share in these newsletters—or worse, I worry that I won’t feel strongly about anything worth writing about, and that’ll be it for me and my books. But the universe always seems to surprise me. THIS is what we chase as writers, as people.
Everything that stranger shared with me connected to the novel I’m working on, and it felt like a nudge to keep going. Hearing his story and seeing the effect it had on him moved something in me, and reminded me why I write, but also what it means to be human. The power of story is real. You can be the best writer in the world, but if you can’t listen, pay attention to the way people respond, and hold space for their experiences… then your stories will always be missing something.
Reflective Question: What might your writing be missing if you haven’t been listening deeply enough?
with love
Chelene
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