I'm realizing now that I was always really curious about inviting

Hear, O listeners, the words of Esperanza Spalding, musician and seeker of communion: “I’m realizing now that I was always really curious about inviting people into a space and sharing information that way. But I didn’t have any context for it. It was just fun because I was homeschooled and lonely and bored, and I’d do things to get people to come over.” This confession, tender and unguarded, is more than a memory of youth—it is a reflection on the eternal hunger of the soul: the hunger for community, for learning, and for the transformation of isolation into creation.

The meaning is layered like music. At its core lies the truth that human beings are creatures of connection. We long not merely to know, but to share what we know; not merely to dwell in solitude, but to open our space so that others may enter and be enriched. Even in the emptiness of loneliness, Spalding found herself compelled to create gatherings, to weave together voices, to turn absence into abundance. Her curiosity was not idle play but the seed of artistry, the desire to make knowledge and joy communal.

The origin of this impulse can be traced to the oldest traditions of humanity. Around the fire, the first storytellers invited others into their space, not only to pass the time, but to share survival, wisdom, and wonder. The teacher in Athens, the sage in India, the griot of Africa—all have known that truth becomes deeper when it is shared, and that information becomes wisdom when it passes from one heart to another. Spalding’s childhood instinct echoes this ancient pattern: to gather others not merely for company, but for exchange, for the alchemy of shared presence.

Consider also the tale of Helen Keller. Deaf and blind from early childhood, she was locked in a silence deeper than most could imagine. Her loneliness was profound, her boredom unbearable. Yet when Anne Sullivan entered her life and taught her the language of touch, Keller did not hoard her newfound knowledge. She reached outward, inviting the world into her inner space, lecturing, writing, and inspiring countless souls. Like Spalding, she discovered that the path from isolation to greatness often lies in the act of opening the door and beckoning others to join.

And yet, Spalding’s words remind us that great callings are often born in humble beginnings. She speaks not of noble visions or grand plans, but of simple childhood acts—games, invitations, gatherings made to soothe loneliness. This is the secret of destiny: what begins in play, in curiosity, in boredom, may ripen into a lifelong vocation. The greatest musicians, leaders, and thinkers often begin as children trying merely to fill the silence of their days. From such seeds grows the oak of legacy.

The lesson for us, O listener, is this: do not despise your small beginnings. If you feel lonely, if you are bored, if you lack context or clarity, still follow your curiosity. Invite others into your space, share what you have, however small it may seem. For the act of opening your heart creates pathways you cannot yet imagine. What feels like mere survival may, in time, reveal itself as the shaping of your life’s purpose.

Therefore, practice this in daily life. When you feel disconnected, resist the temptation to retreat further into silence. Instead, reach outward. Host conversations, share your skills, create moments of gathering. Transform your space, however modest, into a place where others may find light. In doing so, you not only heal your own loneliness, but also weave yourself into the great tapestry of human community. And perhaps, like Esperanza Spalding, you will look back and realize that in every simple act of sharing, you were already rehearsing your destiny.