My heart felt so full.
So full that I turned to the trends reporter next to me and shook my head in disbelief. There were goosebumps on my arms as I panned the camera across the half-lit stage of dancers draped in illuminated white costumes.
I didn’t want it to end. I was shaky from the coffee wearing off and from the power of the music that came up from below where the orchestra played and beside me where the choir sang from the shadows. And the dancers were there in front of me, composing perfect lines with every movement they made. I felt like I couldn’t absorb it all, but that my memory card would save some for later when I replayed the performance again and again to breathe in the perfect musicality that was interesting enough without the help of a videographer to frame or edit it. The size of the theater and the clean newness of the walls, lights, and unscuffed stage made the arts as grand as they ever would be to an artist-soul possessing none of the talent, but all of the appreciation for it. The way the curtains glided away and that the rows of seats seemed to lean forward themselves conveyed this respectful awe that I felt in my full heart and in my hands urging my camera to make sure it captured all of this magic.
I felt a power in being privileged enough to preserve it, felt the power in my hands and my tool of choice. I felt entirely in the present from the moment the lights dimmed to when the last pair of hands applauded the bowing performers. I felt enough. I felt alive, fulfilled, and untouchable, except by the art that expanded through the darkness between the stage and audience.
I felt at home, and I realized at that moment that for me, home was right behind the camera.