I’m writing a book, discovering that it is about what it means to be seen. Below is a page from it.
But first — as part of my work with Epic Ordinary, Jordan and I are offering something new: An Hour to Be Seen. One unhurried conversation — on Zoom or in person — and within forty-eight hours you receive The First Portrait, a one-page story of this moment in your life, written by a human who actually listened. Something AI can never do. And something you can reflect on, read aloud, or share.
Fresh story matters most at a threshold. A career ending, or a new one beginning. A divorce that’s turning your story in a new direction. A health diagnosis. A death, a birth, a loss, a joy. A stuck place. A breakthrough. These are the moments we need to hear our lives speak to us (as Parker Palmer put it). That story is pivotal — worth the hour, the effort, and the cost.
There’s a sample on the page too — a portrait written for our associate Viji — that you’ll enjoy. Worth a click before or after you read on.
Now, here’s the page from the manuscript of the book that is finding itself.
A Common Misconception
It was a morning like every other, me, happy with myself, walking down Frederick Douglass Boulevard to the coffee shop, when a man crossed the street to intercept me.
As he came close, I expected him to start with, “May I ask you a question?” It is how people who need something often begin because the only decent answer would be, well, yes. I knew that once the conversation started, he would ask me for money.
He stood before me calmly and stated, “I need a cup of coffee.”
He was a black man with a well-framed haircut, elegant, in worn-out clothes that had once been classy. Late forties, maybe fifties.
“OK,” I said, looking down. “I’m headed for coffee too.”
We walked a whole block together.
“I’m Keith,” he started.
“Good to meet you, Keith. I’m Samir.”
“Do you know the meaning of your name, Samir?”
I was glad he asked. My name made me proud. Growing up in Croatia, I don’t remember meeting anyone with my name. Samir is Arabic, quite out of place in a Slavic Catholic country. I would tell anyone who cares to know that Samir means Storyteller — more literally, companion into the night, the person you end up talking with for hours after the stars come out. In the old times, Samirs were traveling culture and memory keepers of sorts, migrating from tribe to tribe, carrying news and telling stories around the fire. It was a name for a calling.
So, I told him: “My name means Storyteller.”
“That is a common misconception about your name,” he said.
I stopped walking. I turned to him. “What do you mean?”
He stopped walking and turned to me, “Your name actually means Listener.”
“Really?” I said.
“Really,” he said.
“How do you know that?” I said with a worried smile.
“I was stationed in Jordan for six years. A lot of Samirs there, you know.”
“Aha,” I said.
“It was a real discussion in the region — the actual meaning of your name. Companion into the night means Listener.”
I nodded my head and looked down to buy myself some time to absorb the revelation.
My story of being a storyteller goes a long way back. I first published an article in the newspapers in Croatia when I was in elementary school. I started a theater. Storytelling is how I wooed my wife Vesna. Telling is my work. The New York Times said, “Selmanovic is a storyteller,” an exact quote.
And now Keith shows up.
We came to the coffee shop. I opened my wallet to get money, saw my photograph on my ID, and thought to myself, “Who are you?”
“Would you like breakfast?” I asked Keith while waiting in line. “Anything you want.”
“I need a cup of coffee, thank you,” he stated again.
He took the cup, nodded politely, and was gone.
I thought he might have been an angel. Showing up like in the old times when the world was enchanted.
I knew he wasn’t an angel. An angel would never say, “I’m Keith.”
That whole day, I kept talking to myself, “How is this possible? Listener?”
Late at night, I dug through the caverns of the internet following the etymology of the word I have been called since the first day when my family drove me home without a ready name, when, the legend goes, my five-year-old sister said, “Until we come home, let’s call him Samir.” I stared at the computer until my eyes hurt and, damn, Keith’s theory held up.
Listener?
Listener.
That day, life gave me a command to shut up. No — an invitation. And I felt lighter in the world.
If any part of you recognized yourself in that story — holding a tired story about yourself and perhaps waiting for someone to help you see yourself again — that’s exactly what An Hour to Be Seen is for. Use it for a fresh LinkedIn bio, your artist statement, a letter to your family, or woven into a talk, a sermon, a workshop — wherever your story needs to do the work only your story can do.
Paid subscribers to The New Glossary get $100 off. If that’s you, reply to this email, and I’ll send you the code.
Let your epic ordinary life be seen,
— Samir
Or maybe the angel was named Keith… 😊