Ripples, Rain clouds, and the Language of Touch

Gregory Stock’s The Book of Questions Prompt — Do you feel you have much impact on the lives of people you come in contact with? Can you think of someone who, over a short period of time, significantly influenced your life?

It’s strange how long it can take to understand the ripples we leave behind.

For years, I didn’t think I mattered that much. I assumed I was just passing through people’s lives — a bystander, a shadow, a temporary guest in rooms filled with brighter souls. But then, I started hearing things. Not loud things. Quiet ones. A thank you, years later. A message out of nowhere. “I still remember what you said that day.” Sometimes I don’t even recall what I said. But it mattered. Somehow, it mattered.

I’ve had people tell me that I helped save them — not in any grand way, but in the way you pause someone from falling by simply holding eye contact. A moment of listening. A line of encouragement. A shared silence.

And I've had people save me too. People who walked into my life like flashes of lightning — burning bright, terrifying, unforgettable. One teacher in high school told me I was “meant for something more.” At the time, I was failing math and barely speaking in class. Her words clung to me when everything else fell apart. Another friend, just an acquaintance really, once said, “You're one of the kindest people I know,” and I hadn’t thought of myself as kind in years. That sentence became a mirror. I began to behave differently because of it.

We don’t always know who we’re impacting. But we’re always leaving echoes. I believe that now. Every small act — the kind word, the honest apology, the unexpected phone call — it all ripples, even if we never see where it lands.

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Gregory Stock’s The Book of Questions Prompt — Would you rather be happy, yet slow-witted and unimaginative or unhappy yet bright and creative? For example, would you rather live the life of a brilliant, yet tortured artist such as Vincent van Gogh, or that of a happy but carefree soul who is a bit simple-minded?

There was a time when I would’ve chosen the fire.

The pain, the brilliance, the beauty in torment. I wanted to bleed brilliance, to die with paint on my hands and poetry in my lungs. I thought suffering was noble, even necessary.

But now? I want joy.

Give me the sun through the trees and the clumsy laughter over dinner. Give me the artless days of slow mornings and warm tea. I’ve known both sadness and intelligence intimately. I’ve wrapped myself in the agony of thought, of creation, of being “too awake” in a world asleep.

It wears you down.

And perhaps I’m less quick now — slower to solve, slower to burn. The sparkle in my mind is softer. Sometimes I forget names. I lose my train of thought. But I laugh more. I hug more. I wake up and feel light more often than heavy.

And if I never write a masterpiece, that’s okay. I don’t need to be Van Gogh. I just need to love the sky he painted.

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Gregory Stock’s The Book of Questions Prompt — When you are with your friends do your interactions include much touching - for example, hugging, kissing, roughhousing or rubbing backs? Would you like to have more of this?

Touch used to terrify me.

It wasn’t that I disliked it — I just didn’t understand how to accept it. My body tensed under hugs. I’d freeze when someone touched my shoulder, unsure whether to lean in or pull away. It felt dangerous, like letting someone read a secret tattoo only I could feel.

Then came hug therapy.

No, not the clinical kind. The real kind. Friends who didn’t ask, just opened their arms. Strangers at recovery meetings who wrapped me in warmth without needing to know my last name. Eventually, something cracked open.

Now, I crave it.

Not the careless kind, not touch without meaning. But the good stuff — the long, soul-rearranging kind of hugs. The kind that says “I see you” without any words. I hug my friends tightly. I rest my head on shoulders without apology. I squeeze arms when I’m grateful. I let my body speak the language it was always afraid to learn.

And when the pandemic hit, and touch was pulled away like a blanket in winter — I grieved. Huggers don’t do well in isolation.

But we’re coming back. Elbow bumps are fading. People are leaning in again. And I find myself holding on a little longer now — not out of fear, but because I remember what it’s like to go without.

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We don’t always notice the way we matter.

We don’t always know what joy is worth.

We don’t always realize how hungry we are for touch until we’ve gone too long without it.

But we do wake up. Eventually.

And if we’re lucky,

We find ourselves changed —

A little softer, a little slower,

But filled with more light than we ever thought possible.