"These nymphs, I would perpetuate them.
So bright
Their crimson flesh that hovers there, light
In the air drowsy with dense slumbers.
Did I love a dream?"

—Stéphane Mallarmé, "Afternoon of a Faun" (1876) (excerpt)

People often don't think about the accomplishments they've made until they've learned to live without them for a while. For example: A few weeks ago, I took a very familiar trip back to the steps of the Pennsylvania Ballet to watch their world premier performance of "Don Quixote." The entire experience rekindled a certain spark in me, one that, despite being pushed aside in favor of academics and the act of writing itself, still played a crucial role in my development.

I remember the spring that my college preparation program unveiled a new club. Its title was "Ballet: Writing the Experience." And, being only a tenth grader who knew next to nothing about who a choreographer was or the different elements that comprise a ballet, I dove towards the subject matter headfirst, hoping something would stick.

A typical event would have me going to the ballet to watch a performance—generally it would have been either one large production, or a series of smaller ones—and fixating myself directly onto the stage, no matter the consequences of my seating position. Then, as advised, I would take notes of the many elements at present: the style and garments of the characters' clothing, the use of light and space to create dramatic effects, the background's support in conjunction with the emotions of the overall plot, and the like. Then I would write reviews, namely in the forms of essays, with a thesis and all the details supporting my claims. Of course, trying to write about something you barely have knowledge on can prove to be a difficult task, but with enough time, focus, and patience, it becomes another muscle memory to work with.

That being said, watching the ballet applied to many facets of my life, especially my writing. There are some common similarities between ballet and poetry; regarding the slow texture and movement of the moment, how the entire production counts on every single word, enjambment, or punctuation, and the aesthetic quality behind each image/word, there's a certain shelf life that further adds immortality to a poem's memory. It's a function similar to those who say that reading makes you a better writer, or watching makes you a better performer. With ballet, I had not only the opportunity to watch my idea of motion be twisted, manipulated into flexible splits, strong heeled rotations, and gargantuan lifts with similes to the Titans in mythology, but also the ability to assess my own shortcomings as a person/writer through my physical standing in front of the stage, and how my own experiences relate to my own perception of viewing the performances. Through this, I can create works that only I can write through my own diction, my own private vocabulary. Now, I can't help but have a certain affinity for ballet: the costume designs, the acts, and all that follows.

After three long years of ballet immersion, I found myself back at the Pennsylvania Ballet, but with a different group of students. And while I was in that theater, I was also watching another performance: one featuring myself and the development I gained. And as I remember back to those Sunday afternoons where I forced myself to stay awake through the music's soothing lullabies and dimmed, massaging lights, I look back to myself and say: This is something worth watching.