I’ve been unwell.
I’m sure my wife will be the first to tell you that I’m not good when I’m unwell. Very often I can push through but this last week or so I’ve been bunged up with all kinds of nastiness meaning I can’t hear and I’m dizzy as hell. I’ve been to the doctor and it was there that I saw a very interesting site.
Sat in the office waiting for my turn in with the doctor and just listened to the goings on, I heard a couple of people chatting. To be fair it started out as one person talking ‘at’ someone else but then the conversation started in earnest.
An elderly man began to explain details of his life to another member of the public and all kinds of bits and pieces of history tumbled out into the wheeze and cough filled air of the doctor’s waiting room. I listened to stories from the war, tales of funny goings on and everything in between and all the way through it was incredibly clear that the story teller was having a wonderful time recounting all of the details from his life and I listened on and really enjoyed just witnessing the love of the story.
But we all have the same feeling in us. We all want to be heard in some way or another. Being listened to is such a simple thing yet is so easily overlooked. All through our lives we clamour for people to pay attention to what we have to say, almost just as a proof to us that we both exist and matter.
Today we see so many different methods for people to communicate with each other, to have people listen to what someone else has to say. Blogging is a great example. It’s just a way for me to have the chance to explain my thoughts, to lay my ideas open and connect with anyone who wants to read them.
As a writer, my stories are all a way for me to connect. A way for me to spread the ideas that I have and just know that others can recognise them as something worth taking notice of, a proof that I exist and matter.
As I walked in to see the doctor, the old story teller was still going strong and the person who he’d started out just talking ‘at’ was now totally engaged in what was taking place. And the story teller looked like he was happy to exist and matter.
Shouldn’t we all?