"The answer must be, I think, that beauty and grace are performed whether or not we sense them. The least we can do is try to be there." ~ Annie Dillard
I forgot, I always do, that performances make me cry. An orchestra tuning up can make me shed tears and watching my children watching art (in big, grand halls) fills my eyes and my heart.
But really, what touched me the most was something entirely unexpected.
I think the ballet company we saw is used to much larger venues. Their dancing was beautiful, their leaps seemed to linger in a way I've never noticed before (like little commas hanging in the air) but something also felt muted. The stage felt too cramped. As I watched closer I saw how often accidental fingers grazed the props, how too many times paths crossed too closely. Slight bumps, not-quite stretched limbs - I could feel what was being held back.
It was magnificent (don't get me wrong - I gasped out loud more than once) but I felt the promise and power not displayed, more than the beauty of what was shown.
It made me think about what is hidden when there isn't enough room to be all we have in us to be. And what it means to create space for others to be that. How maybe sometimes bumps and brushes and things withheld aren't due to lack of talent, but to lack of place.
I kept wanting to lengthen my arms for the dancers tonight, to see them leap with all the air they needed. I wanted to see the burst of capacity I could feel just beneath the surface.
How many times have I interpreted grazing, a collision as a personal affront rather than seeing it as potential? As a body pleading for room to soar? To be who they are trained to be, made to be?
It made me think again about making space. How do I tune my days to see beyond how it impacts my margins and create more for those around me? How do I dance with them and give them all the room they need?
"I know nothing, except what everyone knows ~
if there when Grace dances, I should dance."
~ W.H. Auden