Thursday night was looking dull: psets and papers loomed ahead on my horizon, dinner had been meh, just one more day until Friday, (you know the deal). But things brightened up when, in a turn of (very) fortunate events, Facebook reminded me of a performance in Farkas, opening at 8pm.
What Moves You?
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Well, what moved me at 7:30pm was my feet. Right then left, quick as I crossed through traffic, slower upon reaching the red-brick sidewalk. What moved me was an 8pm deadline. What moved me was the promise of dance, the allure of art.
The first dancer appeared even before the lights had dimmed. Walking tall and proud, dainty -- yet somehow powerful, and full with the dance which she was about to perform, the story she had yet to tell. More followed. Some in blue, some in black, they made their way across the stage, sitting on a bench, hands on knees, the lights finally dimmed.
The performance was a combination of dance, music, and poetry. There was dark, then dim, then bright lights. There was running. There was heavy breathing and twirling and heart beats echoing throughout the theater. The members of the Harvard Dance Project were more than just entertaining, they were insightful, they were powerful, they made me self-aware.
What Moves You?
Well, what moved me was the way the dancers' feet created rhythm within the song, the way their bodies swayed and spun and jumped. Victim to the stillness which is expected of audience members, it was only my eyes which moved -- my eyes and my heartbeat, fluttering with every precise, crafted motion on stage. And sitting there in my seat, trying not to breathe, for fear its noise would interrupt the delicate beauty before me, I tried to see inside each dancer, behind their gestures and body language and into their hearts. I tried to look deep, and see what moved them?
It was made easier, this search, by the moments of spoken word, performed by each dancer throughout the show, at one of two microphones nestled in the corners of the stage. What moved them was inspiration and the hope to inspire, the love of motion, the rejection of numbers as our only form of record-keeping, of storytelling. What moved them was the moments in their lives yet to come, the fulfillment they had yet to feel, the realities they had yet to even dream. Again and again they told me their answers, and I continued to ask myself,
What Moves You?
Life can be hard. We are all (almost all) aware of this. Yet, we all go marching forward. We do not fall victim for long, there is motivation, there is determination, there is something which pushes us forward. Harvard is a place constantly in motion. For centuries, students here have thrived, have invented, created, dreamed, imagined, accomplished, and eventually graduated. But in between all that action, in the shadows, and off-stage, they have also failed exams, cried during lunch, doubted their abilities, overslept and missed class, and we, the current student population, are no different. But something keeps us going. Something makes us dance when there is music, and sing in the shower, and take pictures of sunsets, and run when we could be walking. Something motions us forward, past the bad days, onto the good. Something pushes, pulls, drives, directs, lures, coerces, moves us from our depressed stagnancy, out of our frustrating, and saddening standstill.
Something moves us.
So, what moves you?
