We are in the midst of a million stories, but we are blind to them all
Every body has a story. Every thing has a story.
Inspiration is everywhere.
Our lives are not our own. Every attempt to go from here to there is inherently risky. We could die, be maimed, or fail. But we attempt anyway. We have to. It is in our blood.
It has all been done a million times before. Do you think your gesture is unique?
It is not your gesture that is unique, but rather it is you, the specific place and time where you live, that transforms your gesture from one of a thousand leaves waving in the air into something more poignant.
It is my attention to you that changes your gesture into something dear to me.
It is my attention to the others that creates the story.
The story is not my own. I do not own any story. The story is out there, waiting for me to unearth it. The story is made up of the bones of countless insect lives, all lived in the darkness of the soil. The story is made up of the white gases that float around our sphere, unaware of your gesture that causes my heart to lurch.
We are all in the midst of a million stories, but we are blind to them. Our eyes can only focus on our own small story. Our ears hear the dangerous blades of mortality rushing even closer. We are afraid to listen to all of the other stories.
But now it is quite clear — in the absence of respect all the other stories are filled with contempt. With the application of attention, we lose contempt and find respect in all the other stories.
The only thing that I could ever teach to a student is to respect all of the other stories.