One summer night before the millennium changed Michele and I had tickets to see Cirque du Soleil in Houston. Before they were an over-commercialized Vegas show, they had a traveling show tent set up in the Astrodome parking lot, and getting to see them seemed like a big, avant-garde deal. The entire show was a weird magical fantasy and if you haven’t seen a cirque show you definitely should and blah blah blah…

The main reason I wanted to go was because my favorite juggler had been a consultant and helped them design a new juggling routine that was designed to express waves on the ocean. I’m including that piece of detail so you have more evidence as to exactly how huge a nerd I am. 

The thing that really amazed Michele and I was two performers that we still refer to as Adam and Eve. They performed a series of acrobatic and balletic balances and lifts that I don’t have the skill to capture in writing. They were physically beautiful, as many athletic bodies are, and painted in neutral, white, marble-like makeup from head to toe. The indelible thing was that it was done in such slow motion. I’ve googled a bit and though there are many iterations on YouTube, none of the videos captures what I remember exactly.  What I remember is more a series of sculptures than a dance. This act took place close to where we sat. The transitions between poses were honey-slow, and we could see perfectly, so each muscle twitch of strain was just as stunning as every rock-still hold. Their intimacy was more than just physical proximity, it was their connectedness. The trust and support they must have given each other each show was insane. I’m sure there was music, because it was a Cirque show, but my memory of it is entirely visual. I’ve frequently thought about how profound seeing that particular act, just as we began our marriage was: so much of being a partner is holding as still as you can, bearing the weight of the other, trusting them to keep you in balance, while your muscles tremble.