Every Brilliant Thing I Noticed
Some days don’t announce themselves as anything more than what they are.
My husband and I celebrated our wedding anniversary last weekend with a trip to New York City to see Every Brilliant Thing with Daniel Radcliffe.
On the way up, settling into the lower level of the train, I noticed the view. Train tracks, trash, and graffiti on concrete walls. I realized I’d prefer the upper car with a view of the landscape and the brilliant blue sky. This prompted a move at the same time the train gained its own momentum. Swaying down the aisle, in sync with the speeding train, we dropped into a row where I claimed the window seat.
Only to notice that the glass was blurred and no view was available.
Without distraction, our hushed conversation was relaxed. Along the way, I noticed the woman eating her lunch, two people quietly speaking behind me, a woman reading How Proust Can Change Your Life, and the way the light moved across the seats.
There was nothing remarkable about that journey. And yet, it was not nothing.
Arriving in the city, the wind caught my ears in that intense, almost surprising way it does between buildings. Cold, immediate, alive. I didn’t rush past it. I noticed it. And again, blocks later, when the cold turned sharp within my ears.
New York City is not my favorite place. To me, it’s loud, fast, dirty, and a bit abrasive to my system.
I wasn’t concerned with navigating the terrain as I followed my husband’s lead. Leaving me relaxed and free to notice the architecture, traffic, souvenirs, and food trucks lining our path. I saw the street artists, cautious venders of knockoff purses, bike couriers with their food orders, and the unhoused hoping for assistance.
The city felt different this time. Not better or worse, just available, there for the noticing.
We spent a few relaxed moments in Times Square. Out of the way of the crowds and costumed characters angling for a photo opportunity and a donation.
I looked up at the billboards, Broadway show marquees, news feeds, and advertisements. Color, movement, creativity, pleasure, and ambition stacked on top of itself.
We spoke about shows we’ve seen, memories we’ve shared, and new stage stories that looked interesting.
Without the need to plan or make a decision, I enjoyed taking it in as part of the landscape I was moving through. There was a kind of ease in not needing the moment to become anything else. And a sigh of pleasure when dropping into the perfect table in a quiet, warm restaurant.
A break from stimulation. A nourishment of the body. An opportunity for more enjoyable conversation.
Followed by a relaxed stroll to the theatre and quiet time waiting in the short line for entry. Settling inside the theater, my sense of delight and awareness broadened and deepened. Without effort, I was inhabiting a new experience.
Every Brilliant Thing is simple in its structure and expansive in its reach.
A single performer on a small stage telling the story of his life with a mother with depression. A list revealed.
Ordinary things that, somehow, hold the weight of living and perhaps, hopefully, invite some realization of the good of it all. Participation from some of the audience and a fair amount of improv all around.
In the center of the back row, I had a birds eye view of the orchestration that was unfolding.
I watched Daniel enthusiastically greet people as they claimed their seats. Offering them an opportunity for participation in this unique show. Handing over an index card with their lines, sometimes elaborating upon what was asked of them.
In real time, I noticed collaboration with the actor, director, and audience members as this specific performance was being set up … for whatever was to unfold.
I could feel the moment when the room was set.
The people were seated. Index cards had landed. The actor and director gazed out from the stage, gave a synchronized nod, shook hands, and the show continued.
It didn’t feel like the beginning, although officially it was. It felt more like a continuation of the day I had already been inside of.
I was enraptured from the first utterance through the last bow. The story itself was brilliant. True. Deep. Joyful. Sorrowful. Real.
And there was room for the entire audience to meet this real experience easily, without effort. At times with laughter at the wit, improv, and generally funny ways humans move through life. In moments that landed through the entire body, like a soft recognition passing through. A slight tightening. A warmth. A pause. A tear. A deep, resettling breath.
The return to laughter, delight, and spontaneous appreciation of the way an audience member showed up. Put on the spot. With Daniel Radcliffe. Imperfectly perfect in that moment.
At times, I felt the stillness of the crowd as if we had been paused in flight. A shared breath held. The joy of movement returning with a well timed laugh. I sensed a current moving through the group, the shared acknowledgment of the depths and heights of human experience, and a recognition of ourselves in a single story.
The truth of it moving through the room in different ways for different people. Without any need to interpret or analyze, it landed. Touched the room. And took flight once again.
There is something about being in a space where life is being reflected back, not as an idea, but as a lived texture.
Small things. Ice cream. A song. A moment of connection. A heartbreak. An unexpected action. The kinds of things that don’t ask for your attention, and yet hold everything.
Throughout this full day, I wasn’t thinking about being present. I was just not somewhere else. And that feels important to say.
Because this rich experience didn’t come from effort. It didn’t come from reminding myself to stay in the moment. It was more like the absence of leaving.
After the show, the city received me again. The same streets. The same movement. And still, that quiet thread of being inside of it continued.
The train ride home was softer. A short nap offered a small kindness to the body after the motion and the movement of the day.
There is a way of living where the meaningful moments are the obvious ones. The show. The peak. The thing you went for.
And there is another way that has been quietly revealing itself.
Where the walking there matters. Where the cold air matters. Where the looking up at a billboard for a show you may never see matters. Where the way your body sits in a chair, or breathes in a room, or softens into a moment is not separate from the experience, but the experience itself.
The events of the day may look ordinary from the outside, yet from the inside, it felt full. Not full in a way that needs to be held onto. Just full in the sense that nothing was missing from it while it was happening.
I am noticing more and more that this is less about creating a certain kind of life, and more about inhabiting the one that is already here. Not perfectly. And certainly not with effort.
To notice not only the moments that move through the day, but where I am standing as they do.
Living inside the life that is unfolding, however ordinary or brilliant it may appear on the outside.
Recognizing that, like that swaying train, crowded city, and engaged audience, life is already unmistakably alive, responsive, and coherent.
Ripe for the noticing.
Peace be with you and with all. No exceptions.
HeartWarming
News
Studies suggest that attending live theater increases empathy and emotional connection, as audiences share a collective experience in real time. Sitting together, responding together, something subtle happens. Even a simple story, told well, can remind us of the depth, humor, and tenderness woven through ordinary life.