I love the confidence in a good story.
There’s something so satisfying
watching, listening, to someone
tell a story about a memory or
their life; they’ve told it
a hundred times but have a
sure knowledge that the story
will kill every time they tell it.
It’s amazing to see their eyes
dance with such surety. The
disco-ball of confidence, twirling
in their iris as they get to the part that
always gets the laugh yet only begs
for more details. The part that leaves
the listener wanting more. That one,
awesome part that baits everyone’s attention.
It’s marvelous to watch.
Even better to be a part of it,
and even more wonderful to be
the one telling the story to that
small sea of faces, eagerly
anticipating each word, motion,
and epic sentence. To see the
light, reflected, in their eyes.
A story told well has a million
lives. It’s re-told, embellished,
re-crafted, and embarks on new
journeys to new ears and eyes.
It’s no wonder we, as a species,
are so fascinated by a well told
story, tale, anecdote. We love
them, we love the tellers.
Let me tell you about the time I…