Eyes closed, he unselfconsciously bobbed and swayed, occasionally mouthing lyrics only he could hear. On a shuttle from Flagstaff to Phoenix’s Sky Harbor Airport, I was sitting behind a middle aged man lost in his mp3 player. He was the metaphor I was seeking. He reminded me that “when we don’t hear the music, the dancers look crazy”.
This crazy dancer reminded me that our stories are our music. We’re all dancing to our personal storied lives. We’re dancing to the stories that animate us. When I remember that we’re all crazy dancers, I hold the world, and my opinions, more lightly. I’m more inclined to listen for the narrative tunes that animate others, and to recognize the unfamiliarity that my narrative tune may pose for them.