We knew he was coming and yet we sat there, breath held, silent, waiting, tense and excited, anticipating his arrival as if we might not really be so lucky to see him this close, this intimately, this personally. He walked on to the stage from the audience's left and we applauded lavishly, happily, in collective awe. He silently greeted us, he graciously bowed to the entire symphony, he acknowledged the conductor and the first chair violin with warmth and respect. He turned again to his still-clapping audience and greeted us again, smiling, moving peacefully and unhurried. He clapped lightly towards us and towards the symphony and turned to his chair, placed on the podium left of the conductor, slightly back and left of the first chair violin, sat behind his cello, burnished, glowing, worn, loved. Again, we were silent.

The first note, strong, single, focused, powerful, perfect. With one note, Yo-Yo Ma sets himself apart from all others. I felt it in my bones and I was aware that I was sitting in the presence of greatness. Greatness of talent; greatness of practice, study, work; greatness of inspiration; greatness of passion and greatness of presence. He plays with his entire body, tense, energized, of singular purpose. He listens to all the other instruments, one by one, musician by musician. His hands move slightly to the song when he is not playing, his whole body attuned to the music.

He is forward in his chair, his feet move quickly to balance him, his eyes are closed, he sweats and it runs down his right cheek in a small trickle. He does not bother to wipe it away. His strings break. He ignores them until he rests, pulling at them lightly, slowly, gracefully snapping them from the ends of his bow, letting the pieces fall to the floor at his sides. He continues to play, used to the intensity, unfazed by broken strings. He plays the Concerto in B Minor for Cello and Orchestra, Op. 104 by Dvorak and we are transformed, transported, transcended. I close my eyes for many parts of the performance and hear his heavy breathing, his cello, the orchestra. I am not in a chair, ten feet from Yo-Yo Ma, I am not sitting next to two people, in front of one and behind another. I am floating, I no longer have a corporal support system, I simply am. I am in the music, in Yo-Yo's intense performance, his energy his gift to all of us. I am where I go on my deepest meditations and his playing, like no other's, has taken me there in an instant.

The concerto over, we applaud loudly, joyfully, powerfully. We stand. We applaud louder, more joyfully - using our voices to shout "bravo!", more forcefully. He bows, he hugs the conductor, the first chair violin. He bows slightly, smiling, smiling. He offers us the entire symphony to appreciate. We do. He offers us the wind instruments to appreciate. We do. He offers us the bass section to appreciate. We do. He offers us the other cellist, the violins, all the sections. We appreciate with loud, boisterous applause. He claps towards us, towards the entire symphony. He waves and bows slightly and walks off stage. We continue to stand. We continue to clap, but increase our volume, our speed, speaking our desire for him to return, without words, but with our bodies and our minds, as he performed for us.

He returns. Our volume increases for a brief moment. He sits. We sit and are silent. The symphony players are silent, still, heads cocked, eyes riveted, bodies tensed and leaned towards him. There is no audible breathing, or rustling or coughing. Nothing falls to the floor. No one opens a purse. We are still. We are waiting.

He begins and it is divine, it is joy and rapture and bliss and light. It is one man and one cello, combined to make something entirely its own. He plays Air and Simple Gifts for us. And we are transported, delighted, unmoving, deeply moved.

He finishes, stands, bows slightly, waves, never speaking a word, but thanking us with his own clapping, his small bows, his gracious presence, his smiling, his calm. We stand, we clap, we give him as much back as we can, though I believe the gifts he gave us far outweigh any admiration or show of thanks we show.

He has created his own instrument from the cello. What he plays, how he plays, his timing, his emphasis, his infusion of himself into his playing, creates a sound inspired, inspiring, devastating in its singular beauty. I have never read an article on Yo-Yo Ma, watched a video of his or heard him speak. But what he told me when he played is this: there is bliss, there is joy, there is redemption and release, there is beauty beyond what we see or think is possible. Seek what makes you electrified and give yourself wholly to it. Be and do fully. Anything and everything is possible.