It was only a phrase. An imperative, encased in but four notes.
The Broadway musical Hadestown tells the story of Orpheus and Eurydice, and his journey into the underworld to bring his bride home. I learned about myths back in third grade, though there was no music. Or dancing. I hadn't experienced death yet, nor a broken heart. But the illustrations in the children's book were vivid enough to convey Orpheus' enduring love for a beautiful woman.
The actors look much different than those pictures, and the stage with multiple moving parts was more dramatic than the paper pages. Either way, it makes me cry. Me and most of the people in the theater. Certainly my daughter sitting next to me, squeezing each other's hand.
Two rows in front of us there was a man with a white cane. His companion whispered in his ears, but surely that could not replace the visual extravaganza that unfolded for the rest of us.
Or could it?
It is safe to say this man has dealt with his own share of loss, maybe screaming into the blackness to bring back his eyes. But sight was lost, and color with it.
Orpheus risked stepping into the shadows, crooning his sweetest song to calm the three headed dog. He even managed to soften the crusted heart of Hades enough to allow Eurydice to follow him back to the land of the sun, with the condition that he not look back to see if she walked behind him.
Which, alas, he did.
What is this power that doubt holds over us, to render us unable to step bravely across the threshold? I was moved that the man two rows ahead was not so hindered. He came with courage and a friend into the teetering balcony seats of a New York theater, surrounded by sighted people, to rekindle the belief that one day soon he too will come into the light.
