On the Swan Lake

The red curtain lifted slowly, and the first thing you see are arched feet on white pointe shoes. The dancers appear, as tough they were weightless, sylph-like.

It didn't matter (so much) that we can't distinguish between an arabesque, a pirouette, or a pivot. It didn't matter that you've never heard of Tchaikovsky. There were real people on the stage, dancers, phenomenal performers exuding so much grace that none of it seemed real. We were up close, near the orchestra pit. We saw their skin covered in sheets of glimmering sweat, their limbs jiggling, their feet knocking on the wooden floor as they landed from faultless, incredible turns. We saw them inhaling and exhaling. I can see the conductor's facial expressions, the bows of the violins moving uniformly. This rhythm that never got old even after 200 years. Then I saw the orchestra players rush to the bathrooms during the interval. Those lights were blinding bright. And I watched you both, in your pure awe.

The music and the dancers commanded your attention. You were engaged, much better than you are when you watch the videos on your iPad. I always thought you watched too many videos on that thing. "They don't realize that their iPhones and iPads aren't real life." A student told me yesterday. But this, this is real life. We watch a princess turn into a swan, a swan turn into a princess. Unbelievable, and most certainly beautiful.