Cats, a very personal review, very hard to write. (and not at all what I was expecting)
Yesterday C and I went to see Cats the musical. At the Queen Elizabeth Theatre. Closing night. Little black dress, rouge coco lipstick, vintage Swarovski bracelet, opera glasses.
I woke up in a bad mood Saturday. I don’t know where it started, or even why it started.
It was a melancholy sadness which grabbed hold of my heart and sank into the depths of my bones and ran thru my veins.
By Sunday afternoon it took every ounce of effort to go to the theatre, and only my sweet girl’s excitement kept me going.
We got there, found our seats, the lights dimmed, the conductor raised his baton to the first notes, cat’s eyes began to flicker among the audience and tears began to fall.
The last time I saw cats was about 25 years ago. It was the prelude to the most agonising two years of my life. It was a prelude to the breakdown of my first marriage, to bitterness, vitriol and a long custody fight.
At that moment, things which happened 25 years ago were just there on the stage. Illuminated by the music, whirled about by the dancers, breathed out by the lights.
You know, I don’t know who this notion of moving on came from but he got it all wrong. Yes, I know, this weekend I’ve allowed seeds of resentment space to grow in my heart and I’ve watered and nurtured those seeds until they choked out the calm. Calm hasn’t had an easy time of it lately.
Not at all
I’m not sure what I was listening to for those few moments, but I listened deeply with an open heart.
You might be relieved to know that by the time the naming of the cats came the tears stopped and were replaced with a relative calmness and peace which helped to dissolve the resentment. (For now)
Is it wrong to feel like your past defines who you have become? Does your past define you? Maybe refine is a better word.
Mine does. Yes I know it. It does.
Yes. It does.