I’m sitting on the edge of my seat and I don’t even realize it.
I am watching an art form I don’t truly know how to appreciate and yet I am mesmerized by what is happening on screen.
In the days of reality TV, where we all know someone who has embarked on their fifteen minutes of fame, I’m watching the DVRd program from a few nights ago, where one of my Goddaughter’s BFFs is having his moment in the spotlight.
He is a dancer, but what is transpiring before my eyes is movement that transcends everything I know to be dance.
I am a kid again on The Seaside Heights boardwalk watching the salt-water taffy machine spin into endless loops, never missing a beat, hypnotizing me with its so very familiar movement.
I’m listening to an Aria in an unfamiliar language and yet it is whispering sweet nothings to my heart’s love of music.
I am watching raw, pure talent manifest its way into the national mainstream and it fills me with joy.
As a writer, I equate his moves to a well-crafted sentence with crisp subject-verb agreement. Off to the side of thought, is a dangling participle that doesn’t belong and yet has no other place but to exist in this sentence. It completes the message. It brings the words home. This is how he dances – a prepositional phrase that leaps off the stage, through the camera and into our love of art.
These are these boy’s movements – oddly composed moments of grace that leave footprints of innovative greatness in their wake.
I am moved in ways that conjure pride and envy all at once – pride for his accomplishment and envy for the hunger he demonstrates as he devours this moment – for this is his moment.
It is all his own. It is his turning point. This is a palpable, deliberate instant where destiny is delivering on its promise and a young man is grabbing the brass ring with his feet.
Hence, why I’m on the edge of my seat and you should be on yours too.
Dance well, dance proud, we are watching.