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.
