All You Have to Do Is Ask
Estimated reading time: 8 minutes (Or watch the video!)
I was between flights in SFO (San Francisco, Calif.), and had enough time to grab my favorite breakfast.
It’s at a place in the F concourse, and even though there are about 100 tables in the food court there, none of them were open. I rolled all the way to the E gates to try my luck over there.
Just as I arrived, someone was leaving a 2-person table. I sat down and began setting up for my meal. A few moments later, a woman approached and asked, “May I?”
I looked up to realize she was talking to me, and reaching for the empty chair across from me. Thinking she was with someone at another table and they needed an extra seat, I responded accordingly.
“Absolutely!”
She grabbed the chair and pulled it away—but instead of picking it up and walking off, she sat down and scooted herself up to my table.
Our table.
In my culture, sitting at a stranger’s table is highly unusual. Some might even use the word “audacious.” But I was pleasantly surprised to suddenly have company.
And I immediately admired this person, who was clearly already living the “Bold, dammit” philosophy.
I hated the idea of us sitting together in silence. Even though we’d never met, it wouldn’t feel right to eat at the same table without saying a word. This was an opportunity to connect.
From the warmth of her voice, I had sensed a friendly spirit. Her willingness to share space with a total stranger also suggested openness. So, in a tone that implied we had merely gone separate directions to get our breakfast and were now resuming a previous chat…
I started a conversation.
“So, where are you off to?”
“Washington Dulles,” she replied happily.
She was going to visit her son—one of three—because he had just welcomed another baby with his wife. And although we were headed to the same place, we were unfortunately on different flights.
After some chit-chat, I pointed to my wings and said, “Well, obviously you can tell what I do. But how about yourself?”
“I’m actually retired now, but I used to work in hospice, and then end-of-life counseling.”
I commented on the irony that both of us specialized in helping people through transition, as well as how emotionally taxing her work must have been. At this, she nodded emphatically.
“I bet yours can be, too,” she responded. I also nodded emphatically.
Our conversation continued to flow beautifully, and was refreshingly deeper than typical small talk. Only a few minutes into our chat, I could tell she’d love to share her song.
Her appreciation for depth and literature (and strangers) made me feel safe to talk about the Happiness Soundtrack at its best. It didn’t even have a name yet, but I knew it had potential to become something much bigger than it was. I also knew I’d do everything I could to cultivate that.
So that day, it wasn’t just a music project. I called it what I wanted it to be.
“Let me tell you about the book I just started!” I exclaimed as I dug around my purse for the journal.
“Oh, sure! What book are you reading?” She inquired.
I smiled modestly and clarified, “Well, actually, it’s a book I’m writing.”
Her smile widened in delight and intrigue. I handed her the journal and explained how it works. As she flipped through the pages, her eyes began to sparkle. It was the same twinkle most people get when I ask them to be part of the project. It’s truly one of the most endearing and beautiful sights to witness.
“This is so lovely! What a sweet concept!” She beamed.
“So, what’s your song?” I asked.
“Oh my…” She pondered momentarily. “You know that famous one where they say, ‘All I have to do is dream’? I think it’s by the Everly Brothers.”
“Oh yeah! That’s a great song! May I ask the significance?”
“I used to take my boys skiing at a place called the Dream Course. We’d all sing that together as we made our way down.”
“That is so sweet!” I responded.
She asked what prompted the project, and what I’m hoping to get out of it. I told her about my self-imposed music diet—and how it felt more like starvation—and that I needed a way to get music recommendations. I confessed that while I knew the concept was “book material,” I wasn’t yet sure how I’d turn it into something cohesive—or how a book would capture the same magic.
A collaborative journal is super cool to flip through. You’re holding something all these other people have also held. You’re connecting with something they’ve also connected with. But a printed and published version wouldn’t give the reader the same sense of wonder.
“Besides, the stories aren’t only in the memories,” I explained. “There’s an invisible story around every entry—the story of how it got there. So for now, I’m just focusing on how great a way this is to connect with people.”
“I bet!” she nodded. “I’d love to ask my kids this question and see what they’d say.”
“I’m sure they’d have an answer! I’ve come to believe that everyone has a song,” I said. “All you have to do is ask.”
“Unless you’re the Everly Brothers,” she noted. “Then, all you have to do is dream!”
When our laughter subsided, she continued.
“I really appreciate you helping me recall that memory. I hadn’t thought about that in years! Only whenever I hear the song, really.”
“That’s one reason I thought this would be a great question!” I said. “There are some songs you don’t really think about, but whenever you do hear them, you don’t even hear the music. You hear a memory.”
“It’s so true,” she agreed. “You know, there’s something I learned from working with people near the end of their lives, and I think it has a lot to do with the work you’re doing here,” said the friendly stranger as she tapped the journal.
“Oh, interesting! What’s that?”
“We have to remind people to share their stories. Sometimes, life gets in the way. Or maybe we think we don’t have anything important to say. Or, as your question proves, sometimes we can forget our stories ever happened. But we all have stories, and we all deserve to tell them.”
I nodded slowly to express how deeply I agreed. She continued.
“Our loved ones also deserve to hear our stories! When we’re gone, that’s all that’s left of us. And I never saw any loved ones wishing they had asked fewer questions, or heard fewer stories. They always wished they’d asked for more. Graveyards are full of stories no one will ever get to hear.”
“You’re absolutely right,” I said. “Maybe this question will help us remember the moments that mattered.”
“Yes. And we have to tell the people who mattered, because they would deeply appreciate knowing how much they meant to us,” she said. “I can’t wait to read your book! It’s going to be full of hundreds of people telling their stories—and whoever reads it will realize that everyone has a story.”
“Exactly!” I exclaimed in a whisper. “And all you have to do is ask.”
“That’s right. We need to ask more,” she said with conviction. “I’m going to ask more. You’ve inspired me.”
“You’ve inspired me!” I replied.
This person didn’t just want to participate in the project; she understood it. I always find fulfillment in making people feel seen through asking this question, but I appreciated feeling seen through her answer in return.
The woman checked her watch and remarked that her flight was boarding soon. “Guess I’d better head to my gate,” she said as she packed her things. “It was such a pleasure talking with you! I’m Cynthia, by the way!”
I finally introduced myself as well, and we wished each other safe travels. Then, she grabbed her bag and chuckled, “Well, have a nice life!”
“You, too, Cynthia!” I replied with a friendly wave.
That was the last we saw of each other—and this was before the project had any online presence I could point her to if she wanted to follow it. Sometimes I wonder if I’d even recognize Cynthia if we crossed paths again. I still think about our conversation, though, and the importance of telling our stories.
Telling this story has also revealed something we didn’t discuss that day, which further emphasizes her insight.
And that’s how revisiting a story can change you.
It can help you appreciate the way things were then, or the way they are now. It can help you see things from a new perspective. And telling a story that never changes also helps you notice how you have changed, whether that’s for better or worse. Or, as in this case, it can help you uncover something you didn’t notice before.
As I write this, I’ve currently asked more than 350 people for their songs. But revisiting my conversation with Cynthia, simply to share it here, has helped me realize how many times I haven’t asked.
There have been countless instances when I was too intimidated to ask someone for their song. Or too busy. Or too tired. It saddens me every time—and being confronted with it now makes me sad all over again. I still remember specific people I chose to ignore, mostly out of fear about their reaction to the question.
Which is ridiculous, because it has a 100% success rate of making people smile. It just also has a modest success rate of making me look stupid—or worse, of making people uncomfortable.
When I do look at someone and decide not to ask them, I walk away wondering what connection I’ve missed out on, what story I’ll never hear—and what stories I have deprived them from sharing and reliving. Sometimes I feel as though I’ve stolen a smile they’ll never get to have. Now I realize I might also have stolen an opportunity for them to connect with their loved ones, because many people pass the question along to someone they care about. How dare I take that away?
This story shows exactly what I would’ve missed out on if I had never asked Cynthia. And thanks to reliving it, I have a new tactic for when I feel the trepidation of asking. I’ll play the chorus of her song in my head.
I encourage you to do the same.
That’s right, I want you to ask the question. You can ask it once in your entire lifetime, you can ask your loved ones, or you can approach it like I do and ask everyone you can. Whatever you do, remember the importance of asking. It’s just one simple question, and it always makes people smile. They deserve that smile. They deserve to relive that memory. I can’t deprive them of that—and neither should you.
Ask. Ask that person, even if you’re afraid to. Especially if you’re afraid to! I can tell you from experience that the sting of discomfort fades instantly, and the pain of never asking hurts exponentially more. If this question doesn’t seem like the right fit, then ask one you think might resonate more with whoever you’re curious about. They do have a story to tell, and all you have to do is ask.
The job still takes me through SFO quite often, and every time I pass that table, I make a point to look over at it. I notice whether it’s empty, or if someone’s sitting there alone, or if other people are there connecting just like we did. Whatever state it’s in, the sight of it always makes me smile. Sometimes, the only point of telling a story is the smile it brings to relive it.
How about you?
Who are you gonna ask? How are you gonna ask? Share your thoughts below :)
I’ve found this is a very safe question—but if you’re afraid of asking, then that’s all the more reason to do it. And if you don’t wanna seem like a weirdo, then just put it on me! Tell your person the question came from this project.
Maybe you’ve got a different question in mind, or maybe it will only come to you in the moment. But I challenge you that whatever it is, ask it. Don’t wait. You might not get another opportunity.