Partway through this morning’s Music Theory class, our teacher walked us to a school courtyard, where we’d need to go if there was a fire.

As the group of us headed to our destination, a young woman who’d been sitting near me came up and said “Tell me about your life.”

I was stopped … and thoroughly pleased.  Very few people have asked me this.  Been curious about my adventures.

As we stood in the courtyard waiting for instructions, I opened my mouth and remembered the important stuff.  I love telling stories.

Back in class, I leaned over to her and said “Thank you for asking.”

My new friend told me that her parents taught her to teach out to people.  Good parents.

My version with people usually comes out as “Tell me what’s important to you.”  I too seek to know the other human being.

I think of the magnificent John Denver song “Islands”:

And the mighty blue ocean
Keeps rolling on every shore
Like the spirit that binds us together
We are so much more than islands

***

Thank you for the moment of asking

Dear fellow student of music

Deep down, all of us just want someone to notice us
Notice when we’re hurting
Notice when we’re scared
Notice when we’re happy
Notice when we’re brave

My daughter gave me her school progress report. It was full of good check marks, except for one that stood out.

“How am I doing, Mom?” she asked, looking up at me. Her glasses were a little crooked and smudged. She pointed to her teacher’s comment next to the one different check mark.

It said: “Distracted in large groups.”

But I already knew that. I had seen it since she was a little girl. She has always been very aware of the world around her.

After telling her all the good things on the report, I gently read her the comment. She gave a small smile and said quietly, “I do look around a lot.”

Before she could feel bad, I knelt down to look into her eyes. I didn’t just want her to hear what I was about to say—I wanted her to feel it.

“Yes,” I said. “You do look around a lot. You noticed when Sam was sitting alone with a skinned knee on the field trip, and you went to help him.

You noticed that Banjo had a runny nose, and the vet said it was good we brought him in early.

You noticed how hard our waitress was working and said we should give her a bigger tip.

You noticed Grandpa walking slowly and chose to stay with him.

And every time we cross the bridge to swim practice, you notice the view.”

Then I smiled and said, “And you know what? I never want you to stop noticing. That’s your special gift. It’s something you bring to the world.”

Her face lit up with pride. In that moment, I saw how powerful her way of seeing the world really is.

Because deep down, all of us just want someone to notice us.
Notice when we’re hurting.
Notice when we’re scared.
Notice when we’re happy.
Notice when we’re brave.

And the person who notices—that person is a rare and beautiful gift.