Look at her hands, he said.
Look at how the beauty of the whole dance is
expressed in her hands.
The twisting, flying graceful movements of the
flamenco dancer’s hands were, indeed, exquisite.
My gracious neighbor at the dinner table explained
where the traditional dance came from and told me
how it was part of his upbringing in the south of
But what drew me in so intensely was the passion.
The pillars and dome of the grand hall were draped
in colored light with dramatic effect. The
windows were long and wide, overlooking the
spectacular architecture of the surrounding
buildings, each one signifying a different era of
the history of this simply beautiful Spanish city.
The eyes of the dancers and the expression on
their faces told the story that was mirrored in
their movements. I imagined the longing, the
estrangement and the reuniting of hearts, bodies
and souls. I was intrigued and delighted,
delirious and heartbroken all at the same time in
the magical space of the dance.
It was astounding, it was gorgeous!
Coffee was served in tiny cups, hot and strong,
with leaf-like slivers of chocolate. The
conversations around the table danced between the
delicious food, wonderful music and spectacular
So what IS your story?, I asked. He blushed,
looked down at the table and his eyes danced. Oh,
I’m sorry, I said, I don’t mean to pry.
It’s okay, he replied, it’s just I haven’t really
told that story before.
And then he gave me the gift of his story; a
story of duty, sadness, madness, loss and enormous
love. I took his hand and thanked him.
After we finished the meal, we all ascended the
grand, regal staircase to the floor above where
music and dancing awaited us. And we danced until
the early hours, weaving in and out of strangers
held together by the throb of music and intimacy
of the moment.
The next day, when we said our goodbyes, my dining
friend came up to me and took my hand. Thank you,
he said, thank you for asking me to tell you my
story. It has made all the difference.
His eyes were shy but his voice strong. He
nodded, smiled and walked away.
When you tell your story you discover who you are.
Telling your story helps you heal, simply by the
telling. And it connects you deeply with your
Every time I have been blessed by the gift of
someone’s story, a part of it lives in me forever.
We are all collectors of these magnificent stories
of the human condition. We experience our stories
and the stories of others as an emotional,
It is powerful beyond measure.
When have you given or received a story gift?
Why not today?
Please share it here.
Best wishes and best stories