Dance in Your Kitchen

A small lesson in joy I never forgot.

Image created by Wilcox PhotoArt.

A small, personal and inspirational story for Sunday to share with you.

Dear Readers,

Sometimes the advice that stays with us the longest comes from people we never see again.

Not from experts. Not from books. Not from someone who sits us down and tells us how to live.

Sometimes it comes from a stranger on a patio on an ordinary evening, and for whatever reason, it stays.

This is one of those stories.

Years ago, when Paul and I were living in Arizona, we would occasionally take a road trip to Tubac, a small historic village south of Tucson that always felt like a bit of an escape.

Tubac has long been known as an artists’ village, filled with galleries, shops, cafés, and old adobe charm. It was established in 1752 as Arizona’s first Spanish Presidio and sits not far from the Mexican border. But for me, what made Tubac memorable was less about its history and more about its feeling.

It always felt as if we had gone somewhere farther away than we actually had traveled.

There was something about it — the slower pace, the desert light, the artists, the architecture, the sense that life there unfolded just a little more gently — that made it feel almost like visiting another country without ever leaving Arizona.

And during those years, that feeling mattered.

It was a decade marked by uncertainty. The Great Recession had unsettled so many lives, and even if your own footing remained steady, it was impossible not to feel the strain of what was happening around you. We knew people who were losing homes, losing work, losing confidence in the future. It was hard to watch.

And as I’ve learned more than once in life, when the world feels unsteady, creativity often does too.

Those occasional trips to Tubac felt restorative in a way that is hard to explain unless you have had a place like that yourself — somewhere that doesn’t solve anything, exactly, but somehow helps you breathe again.

When we visited, we usually stayed at Tubac Golf Resort, situated on the old Otero Ranch. What I loved most about the property was its Spanish Colonial architecture and the way some of the original ranch buildings had been restored and repurposed rather than erased.

The restaurant, Stables Ranch Grille, was one of those places I always looked forward to. It was named for the building’s original purpose, and from there you could look out over the golf course and toward a distant pasture where cattle grazed peacefully. There was something so expansive and calm about the whole setting.

Even now, I can still picture it.

One evening after dinner, Paul and I wandered outside to the patio where live country western music was playing. It was one of those mild Arizona evenings that makes people want to linger a little longer. The patio was full — guests from the resort, local residents, and no doubt a fair number of creative people who had made Tubac home.

By pure luck, we managed to grab a couple of seats.

People were enjoying the music, talking quietly, sipping wine or beer, and now and then some would get up and dance. It felt easy. Unforced. The kind of evening that doesn’t ask much of you except that you be present for it.

And then I noticed a couple dancing.

There were several people on the patio floor at that moment, but this pair stood out. Not because they were flashy or trying to draw attention to themselves. Quite the opposite.

She was tall and slender, with long dark hair streaked with gray silver, and dressed casually in an oversized sweater and jeans. He was tall, with a rustic kind of good looks, wearing a plaid shirt and jeans. They looked like ordinary people you might pass in a grocery store and never think twice about.

But when they danced, they were absolutely beautiful.

They moved together so effortlessly that it didn’t seem practiced at all. They glided in time to the music as if they had been doing it forever. He would twirl her now and then, and there was such joy in the way she moved — not performative joy, just the real thing. Ease. Pleasure. Comfort in the moment.

It was lovely to watch.

When the band took a break, the couple happened to walk past where we were sitting, and I stopped them to compliment them on how beautiful their dancing was.

Then I asked what I really wanted to know.

“How did you learn to dance like that?” I said. “Are you professional dancers?”

The woman smiled at me.

“No,” she said. “We’re not professional dancers. We heard the music from our kitchen window and decided to walk over.”

That alone would have been memorable. But I was still curious, so I asked if they had taken dance lessons because I told her I would love to learn to dance like that.

And then she said something I have never forgotten.

“No,” she said softly. “We just dance in our kitchen.”

I looked at her and said, “Really?”

She smiled again.

“Yes, honey,” she said. “You can do the same thing. Just dance in your kitchen.”

That was it.

A simple sentence.
A passing moment.
And somehow, a lesson I carried with me.

I never forgot her.

I never forgot the softness in her voice or the way she said it so naturally, as if she were offering not advice exactly, but permission.

And over time, I realized that what stayed with me was not really about dancing.

It was about how people hold on to joy.

Not the big, planned joy. Not the expensive kind. Not the kind that waits for a vacation, a celebration, or a season when everything is finally in order.

Just ordinary joy.
The kind you make room for.

I think many of us spend years waiting for life to feel less demanding before we allow ourselves more delight. We tell ourselves we’ll rest later, travel later, create later, enjoy later — once the bills are paid, the uncertainty passes, the work eases up, the world settles down.

But life has a way of continuing to be life.

There is always something.
Always a worry.
Always a headline.
Always a practical reason not to stop and enjoy what is right in front of you.

And yet, it seems to me, the people who move through life with the most grace aren’t necessarily living without difficulty.

But they are the ones who quietly make space for simple joy.

A favorite song while making dinner.
A walk at the end of the day.
A cup of coffee in a quiet corner.
A place you return to because it restores something in you.
A kitchen floor and the decision, however briefly, to dance.

Over the years, I took her advice.

Not because I suddenly became a good dancer. That definitely did not happen.

But because I understood what she meant.

When life feels stressful — and in this world, that can happen more often than any of us would like — or when we simply want to step outside of whatever heaviness the day has brought, Paul and I sometimes dance in our kitchen.

Not often enough, probably.
But enough.

Sometimes it’s just for a minute.
Sometimes it’s because a song comes on that takes us back.
Sometimes it’s because one of us needs to laugh.
Sometimes it’s because there are moments in life when the most sensible thing you can do is stop being sensible for a little while.

And every time, I think of that woman.

She likely has no idea that a brief exchange on a patio in Tubac, Arizona stayed with someone all these years later.

But it did.

Because now, whenever life begins to feel too serious, too uncertain, or too loud, I remember what she said.

You do not need a special occasion. You do not need to be talented. You do not need to wait until life becomes easier.

Sometimes, all you have to do is just dance in your kitchen.

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Thanks for being on this Journey with me.

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Until next time…

Obrigada!

Carol.