On the one hand, then, Primary Trust is a story about trauma response, and the slow road towards a better life. On the other, it reminds us that fiction keeps us going: speaking to and salving feelings when there seems to be no other way to express them, and no one else to tell. 

In front of a hazy violet skyline, below twinkling stars, a man steps onto the stage. Kenneth, the protagonist, begins the play with a monologue addressed to the audience, breaking the fourth wall. He spoke to us as if we were characters, too. His tone was so earnest I felt as if I were a personal acquaintance of his, and was curious what my role could be in this small town of Cranberry, NY.

Walking into Legacy of Light, I was immediately dazzled by the number of glittering chandeliers suspended from the ceiling, a visual embodiment of the theme of enlightenment. Enlightenment here refers to both the historical period inhabited by the play’s protagonist Émilie du Châtelet and the dawning understanding she and her contemporary counterpart Olivia Hastings Brown experience as they struggle to balance their scientific careers with the new challenge of motherhood.

The story of a concerto, more so than a symphony, tells a story that you cannot adequately verbalize. The beauty of classical music is the unraveling of this story, unto which it obliges you to be present. This story cannot be speed-read, skimmed, or summarized (hark the “cabin'd, cribbed, confin'd” Macbeth.) It only unfolds in terms of its own time, and time is everything to music. Which is why Dvořák’s turn to Czech folk melodies in his piano concerto’s final movement eviscerated me.

Upon making contact with humanity, the incomprehensible divine oft utters the phrase noli timere: “be not afraid.” Echoing these last, loving words of Irish poet Seamus Heaney to his wife, himself quoting the Vulgate Bible, choreographer Rebecca Lazier, sculptor Janet Echelman, and their team frame the production of Noli Timere as one of reassurance and affection.

I gasped and lifted my eyes towards the stage once she sang in falsetto. Her voice drew the breath out of my lungs. She would later describe how naked she feels to perform with just her guitar. Then came another shout from someone sitting to my left— “¡Nunca estás sola!” (“You’re never alone!”).

When prompted to give advice to those who are trying to create their own path, Laufey reassured the audience: “Doing something different probably means you’re doing something right.” She encouraged the audience to claim ownership of their difference and to be a little more delusional. 

I have a confession: I walked into Empire Records: The Musical without having watched the cult classic film. Surrounded by audience members referencing the movie’s iconic lines, I worried that I would feel adrift without the knowledge or (perhaps, more importantly) nostalgia of the film. Lacking the fond memories of being a record-buying teenager in the 90s, would the show hold up?

When is a theater performance over? Is it when the final line is spoken? Or when the actors take their final bow? Or when the audience stops talking about and thinking about the show? Winnie Holzman’s Choice makes a convincing case for the latter.

What is it that makes us simplify ourselves for others? How hard do we follow the dream of being uncomplicated, free of our mess of contradictions, so that we might have a story about ourselves, and about a world we’re sure we know how to change?

Different hair, different woman, different decade...but it hurts just the same. And that right there is the key to women’s country music—thank you Dolly! The details might be different, but it’s all the same story, and that story is by, about, to, and for other women.

Whether looking at a painting, reading a poem, or going out on the town, we encounter inspiration that moves us, oftentimes literally. I was reminded that the identity of ‘dancer’ has no barriers, no prerequisites. As long as we are moving, we are dancing. 

This October, we shared  a temporary, never-again-to-be-experienced musical rendition in a shared space, shoulder to shoulder with our fellow audience members. Live music is a full body experience, Coco is a full emotional experience, and theater-going is a fully shared experience.

Most of us will never receive the gift of a neat third act that tidies the loose ends of family mysteries and answers questions we have carried with us. We learn to live with our unknowns, carrying them, sorting them, and passing them down. Some of us carry histories of violence, trauma, and dehumanization. Others of us struggle to find a place to belong, our feet placed in homes separated by oceans and/or geopolitical borders. Some of us yearn for dreams we cannot articulate, hopes we cannot speak aloud because no one has cared to listen before.