The Phantom of the Opera

 In a remote existence, before our lives were graced by precious children, and life's vocation entirely shepherded by their needs, my wife and I were privileged a trip to New York. To take a break from work. For fun. Indulge in touristy things. While I would have been entirely content sampling restaurants, savoring all manners of Asian foods alien to a Maine resident, riding trains to probe this majestic city, my wife insisted that we go to a Broadway show. "What's the point of coming to New York if we don't even go to a Broadway show?" must have been the exhortation. I conceded and we purchased tickets for "The Phantom of the Opera." It's a classic, my wife assured me. 

What I experienced at the show was thoroughly new. A sensory experience my body system, and conscience, had never before undertaken. A stage at the center accentuated by palpable awe and adoration of utterly silent spectators. Every sound amplified in import. Even a flicker of light simmering in  significance. Any movement, human or non-human, pitching a ripple in the air. Myriad of artists concocting splendid things, realtime. With instruments- flutes, oboes, keyboards, clarinets, trombones, tubas, string instruments, and who knows what! With mere speech- all kinds of pitches of sounds, flows and modulations. With body movements- precise, speedy, slow, smooth, unexpected, and entirely predicted. Stage lights dancing and shifting with the artists. Stage setup changing at marvelous speeds, almost magically. 

The result was a performance that reaches somewhere deeper in your body. The emotion at the stage penetrates your heart. Sends chills down your spine. Raises your hair in goosebumps. It is as if the body has vaporized and the particles have  amalgamated with the aura emanating from the stage. The stage has a grip on you. You willingly surrender to the sublime, entranced. 

"Humans are capable of doing this!" was the more tangible exclamation I could ascribe to my extraordinary experience. And I recall another distinct experience from that time. The wall of individual identities, of you and me,  was non-existent. The artists were not "American," "White or Black," "English-speaking or non-speaking." I was not a Nepali or a man or a short person. Any ascribing hindered the relationship. So we bared our identities. I was nothing. They were excellence. 

I have wondered, here and then, this relationship with excellence. When I have admired Einstein during my formative days, I have not thought of him as a German Jew, American citizen. While weeping, reading a book detailing Gandhi voluntarily taking a beating in South Africa, I have not seen him as a primarily Indian brahmin from Gujarat. Marveling at the magnanimity of characters in Coetzee's writings, thoughts of Coetzee as a white man from South Africa do not really situate in any immediate strata of conscience. They are just "my" people. There is no need for any other identity to intrude this relationship. 

When I think of myself immigrating to a different country, I have wondered how much of this experience with excellence has been a factor in lending courage to move. Immigrating is an uprooting experience, however voluntary it may be. We create myths to summon courage, I am certain, at some unconscious levels.  I suspect this blinding awe of excellence may be one of the factors that pumps our hearts as we set sail for the foreign lands.