Tchaikovsky’s most famous holiday score has swiftly replaced the vivacious one which filled my fall. We’ve plunged so steadfast into Nutcracker preparations, it’s almost as if Up Close On Hope didn’t happen!
But it did. I stood in the wings as the lights lost their lume and the theater went black. I felt the corps step silently into their wheel as those two impish notes carried Elyse’s playful chant back to us all, uh oh…
I attempted to raise my heart rate in preparation of the cardio to come. I hopped from one foot to the other, letting my achilles feel their way around satin shoes. I released all the air from my lungs, filled them again, and counted four eights. I thought about all of the things that needed thinking, and then I forgot them all.
My face smiled without cheek wiggles, my arabesque sailed around under me. I felt comfortable, and confident, challenged and true. I let my port de bras fly and my feet sing along. Post-perfornabce, by way of some strange magic, I managed to remember all of the good things I’d done, and forgot all the bad. But I guess I shouldn’t be so surprised- there is “some strange magic” in all of Mr. B’s ballets.