Our stories come from our lives and from the playwright's pen

Maya Angelou, with the depth of a seer and the fire of a prophet, proclaims: “Our stories come from our lives and from the playwright’s pen, the mind of the actor, the roles we create, the artistry of life itself and the quest for peace.” These words resound like the beating of a sacred drum, reminding us that the tapestry of human existence is not woven by chance alone, but by the harmony of our choices, our struggles, our art, and our eternal longing for peace.

When she speaks of our stories, Angelou does not mean mere tales upon a page, but the living narratives etched into the fabric of time by every soul that breathes. They arise first from our lives, from the blood and dust of our journeys, from the laughter of our youth and the tears of our trials. Each day is a line, each decision a turning point, each triumph and sorrow a scene. In this way, life itself becomes the grandest drama, with every soul both actor and audience, both playwright and character.

Yet Angelou does not stop at life alone—she invokes the playwright’s pen, the timeless art of those who capture human truth and carve it into words. From Aeschylus to Shakespeare, from Sophocles to Angelou herself, the pen has been the instrument that preserves our struggles, our passions, our crimes, and our redemptions. Without the hand of the writer, the thunder of human experience would vanish into silence. It is through the written word that memory becomes eternal and our fleeting lives rise into legend.

But even the pen is not enough without the mind of the actor. For what are stories if they are not lived, embodied, made flesh before the eyes of others? The actor breathes life into words, just as each of us, in our daily roles, give substance to dreams and values. Consider the great Laurence Olivier, who once said that acting is the art of holding a mirror to nature. He stood upon the stage not to pretend, but to reveal truths about ambition, love, and despair. So too do we, in our homes and streets, play our roles as parent, friend, worker, or guide. Through these roles, our inner truths become visible.

History itself is filled with such living stories. Think of Mahatma Gandhi, who chose the role not of conqueror but of servant, not of tyrant but of liberator. His artistry of life was not painted upon canvas nor written upon parchment, but lived through simplicity, sacrifice, and unyielding devotion to nonviolence. His life became a narrative that moved nations and inspired generations. In him, we see that the artistry of life itself is as powerful as the greatest play ever staged.

Yet Angelou adds one final note: the quest for peace. Here lies the heart of her teaching. For all our stories—whether tragic or triumphant—seek in their end the restfulness of harmony, the reconciliation of conflict, the stillness after the storm. From the epics of Homer to the struggles of modern times, mankind longs for a peace that is more than the absence of war: it is the unity of the soul with itself, the reconciliation of man with his brother, and the harmony of humanity with the divine.

Thus, the lesson is clear: we are not mere observers of life’s grand play—we are its writers, its actors, its audience, and its heroes. To live well, we must take up the pen of truth, the role of integrity, and the artistry of courage, while never abandoning the eternal quest for peace. This means embracing each day as part of a larger story, treating others as fellow players upon the stage, and creating a life that, when remembered, will inspire rather than diminish.

So, O listener, take these words to heart. Live with awareness, as though every act were a scene upon eternity’s stage. Write your truth with courage, play your role with dignity, craft your days as works of art, and above all, let your life’s journey be guided by the pursuit of peace. For in the end, it is not wealth, nor fame, nor even victory that endures—it is the story you leave behind, and how that story leads others toward light.