Author Elizabeth Stroud makes the point, in at least one of her books, that every person is the receptacle of myriad untold stories. "When the elderly die, a library is lost and volumes of wisdom and knowledge are lost." Who said that? Why is there so little interest in the stories persons carry? Numerous times I've dropped into conversation things like "when I was in Laos" or "I was saved by lightening" with the person to whom I'm speaking who does nothing to follow up the story.
What would happen if, in conversation with a new acquaintance, we'd ask "What's your story?" Of course, after positing the question we need to listen with follow-up questions. Perhaps we'd help the other by giving an opportunity for that person to share something of significance. What's the anxiety the blocks us from being listeners to another's story?
Spending significant time, as I do, in Joanne's cemetery as I look at the grave markers I wonder "what is their story?" Often I pass three children, of the same last same names', graves. No adults buried with them and I'm not aware of anyone by that name still in this community. Yet, on Memorial Day, someone remembered them by placing flowers by each marker. Who did that? The deaths were many years ago, so are they remembered by surviving siblings? So many lost stories.
When we listen with intent to another, we complement them by taking them seriously.
Takk for alt,
Al
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