The local college had a dance performance last week. One of the aspects of dancing that I enjoy is watching multiple dancers all doing the same steps, as if by chance. Apparently I am not unique, as evidenced by the thousands of instances of choreography where everyone is in sync. What a particular person is doing may look difficult, or unexpected,  yet they are all doing it so it is probably intended.

It is easy to waste, I mean invest, an hour watching dance clips on the internet. There are routines where a stage full of performers all move freely, without looking over their shoulder at anyone else for reassurance. Everyone bends at the same moment, twirls to the same unseen wind, pivots in a precise measure of the music. 

Although no one is invited to witness rehearsals, there is plenty of rubber necking then, and a spate of feedback from the director. Everyone is unsure, caught glancing at the feet of the other dancers who are also fumbling. 

But there are no chiding voices after the curtain goes up. By then the moves are part of muscle memory, and can scarcely be stopped. 

One of the surest ways to reassure someone who is experiencing difficulty in their life, is captured in five letters.

"Me too."

Really? I am not the only one to feel disenchanted with my husband? Or exhausted by my toddlers? Or confused about old age?

If we could stand back far enough to see the whole stage, we would perceive synchronicity in the moves that feel forced, and jerky. All of us are stumbling to manage the steps, and when we look up even for a blink we notice that we are choreographed in a magnificent dance.

One day the curtain between here and eternity will rise, and our efforts at generosity will have solidified. All around us will be the expanse of dancers, whose feet no longer ache, whose limbs are as light as air. The music will fill the sky as years of practice will unleash into knowing.

Magnanimity will be unstoppable.