Give, give, give - what is the point of having experience

Host: The evening light spilled through the café window, painting everything in a soft amber glow. The tables were scattered with half-finished cups, the faint smell of espresso mixing with the sweetness of fresh bread. Outside, the city was alive — horns, footsteps, laughter — but inside, time had slowed to the steady hum of conversation and quiet reflection.

Host: At a corner table, Jack sat with a worn notebook open before him. The pages were filled with sketches, notes, and names crossed out — the raw anatomy of something unfinished. Jeeny sat opposite, her fingers wrapped around a steaming mug, her gaze calm but intent, the kind of look that saw through excuses.

Host: A single candle flickered between them, its small flame steady as a heartbeat.

Jeeny: (softly) “Isabel Allende once said, ‘Give, give, give — what is the point of having experience, knowledge or talent if I don’t give it away? Of having stories if I don’t tell them to others? Of having wealth if I don’t share it? I don’t intend to be cremated with any of it! It is in giving that I connect with others, with the world and with the divine.’”

Jack: (smirking faintly) “She makes generosity sound like a religion.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. A better one than most, at least.”

Jack: “You really believe that? That giving connects you to the divine?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because giving is how we remember we’re not alone.”

Host: Jack leaned back in his chair, the candlelight catching in his eyes, making them glimmer like wet glass. He looked tired — not from the day, but from the weight of unspent energy, of creation hoarded and unshared.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? I’ve spent my life collecting. Skills, stories, even people. But the more I collect, the emptier it feels.”

Jeeny: “Because you’ve been hoarding light instead of letting it shine.”

Jack: (quietly) “And what if there’s not enough of it to go around?”

Jeeny: “That’s the lie fear tells. The truth is, the more you give, the more you have.”

Host: The candle’s flame fluttered briefly, as if stirred by her words. Outside, the streetlights blinked on — small constellations forming above the city.

Jack: “You sound like a preacher tonight.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Maybe I’m just tired of watching people mistake keeping for living.”

Jack: “You think that’s what I’m doing?”

Jeeny: “I think you have stories you’re too afraid to tell.”

Jack: (pauses) “And what if no one cares?”

Jeeny: “Then at least you cared enough to share. That’s how connection starts — not in applause, but in honesty.”

Host: The hum of a distant violinist drifted through the open window, the music faint but unmistakably human — imperfect, beautiful. Jack looked down at his notebook, fingers tracing the edges of the paper.

Jack: “You know, I’ve seen people give everything — time, talent, love — and still be forgotten.”

Jeeny: “You’re confusing giving with transaction. Giving isn’t about being remembered. It’s about leaving behind warmth, not monuments.”

Jack: “Warmth fades.”

Jeeny: “Yes, but it always finds someone new to touch.”

Host: She leaned forward, her voice low, steady.

Jeeny: “You remember my grandmother? The one who used to make soup for anyone who showed up at her door?”

Jack: “The one who fed half the neighborhood?”

Jeeny: “That’s the one. She never made much money, never owned anything worth stealing. But when she died, people filled the street just to say goodbye. That’s legacy. Not wealth. Not fame. Connection.”

Jack: (softly) “She gave everything.”

Jeeny: “And that’s why she was never poor.”

Host: The rain began suddenly — soft at first, then steady. The candle flickered again, its flame mirrored in the window beside them. The reflection of the city lights mixed with the falling water, turning the glass into a painting of movement and memory.

Jack: “You ever think giving’s dangerous? That people take advantage?”

Jeeny: “Of course they do. But that’s not a reason to stop. The world breaks plenty without our help — it doesn’t need us to withhold kindness too.”

Jack: (looking out the window) “Maybe that’s why Allende said she didn’t want to be cremated with her stories.”

Jeeny: “Because she understood the truth — that hoarded gifts become ghosts.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “And ghosts don’t change the world.”

Jeeny: “But shared stories do. Shared love does.”

Host: The sound of rain filled the space between them — rhythmic, cleansing, alive. The candle flame danced with it, small but unwavering.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack… giving isn’t charity. It’s communion. Every time you give — a thought, a story, a kindness — you tell the universe you trust it to keep going.”

Jack: (after a long pause) “And maybe that’s the closest we ever get to faith.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: She reached across the table, tapping his notebook lightly.

Jeeny: “You’ve lived enough for three lives, Jack. Stop keeping it locked up in pages. Let it out. Tell the stories. Give them away before they start to rot inside you.”

Jack: (looking at the notebook) “You think anyone would listen?”

Jeeny: “If they feel even a piece of your truth — they will. That’s the point. Giving isn’t about control. It’s about release.”

Host: A moment passed. Then, quietly, Jack opened his notebook, turned to a fresh page, and began to write.

Host: The scratch of the pen was soft against the rain — an offering, a prayer, a beginning.

Jeeny watched him for a while, then smiled — not the wide smile of joy, but the small, sacred one of witnessing someone return to himself.

Jeeny: “There it is. You’re giving.”

Jack: “Feels strange.”

Jeeny: “That’s how you know it’s real.”

Host: Outside, the rain began to slow, leaving the streets glistening — a world freshly washed, waiting to be seen again. The candle burned low, its last inch of wax glowing like a heartbeat refusing to quit.

Host: And as Jack’s pen moved across the page, Isabel Allende’s words seemed to fill the quiet room — not just as wisdom, but as instruction:

Host: “Give, give, give — what is the point of having experience, knowledge or talent if I don’t give it away?... It is in giving that I connect with others, with the world and with the divine.”

Host: Because the soul doesn’t grow by keeping.
It grows by spending — by sharing its stories, its love, its light.

Host: And in that small café, with rain still whispering against the glass, Jack finally understood:
the divine isn’t something above us — it’s what passes between us when we give ourselves away.