I always did each show for about two years. So if you play the

The words of Gwen Verdon — “I always did each show for about two years. So if you play the music, it just comes back to me.” — speak not only of the craft of the stage but of the mysterious power of memory and music. She reminds us that what we give ourselves to with devotion, repetition, and love becomes etched into the very fibers of our being. A performance lived night after night does not vanish when the curtain falls; it is stored within the body, within the heart, waiting to be awakened. And the key that unlocks it is always music, the eternal reminder.

The ancients knew this secret. The poets of Greece recited their epics not by reading from scrolls but by memory, and it was the rhythm of the verse, the music of the words, that carried their stories across generations. The Iliad and the Odyssey lived not on parchment, but in the minds of men, summoned whenever the harp was struck. Just as Verdon speaks of her dances and roles returning when the music is played, so too did the ancients feel the past come alive through melody. Music was not only sound; it was the guardian of memory.

This truth is seen also in the warriors of old. Roman legions marched to drums and horns, and years later, veterans could recall entire campaigns when they heard those sounds again. The clash of the trumpet would summon visions of battlefields, the faces of comrades, the sweat and the glory. In the same way, Verdon’s words reveal how the stage lives within the performer, and how a single note can awaken years of discipline, sacrifice, and triumph.

But beyond the stage and battlefield, there is a universal truth: what we practice faithfully, what we give ourselves to wholly, becomes a part of us forever. A craftsman who carves wood for decades finds his hands remember shapes even when his eyes grow dim. A scholar who recites wisdom each day finds the words return to him unbidden in old age. Verdon reminds us that the soul is shaped by discipline and devotion, and that nothing given with constancy is ever truly lost.

There is also beauty in the connection between art and memory. Verdon’s life on the stage was not stored in journals or archives alone, but in her very body, waiting to be awakened by song. It is the same for all of us. A lullaby sung long ago can summon the presence of a mother. A hymn can recall the sacred hush of childhood faith. A melody can bring back a lost love, a forgotten joy, a moment of courage. Music is the bridge between past and present, and those who give their lives to it live forever through its echoes.

The lesson, then, is clear: give yourself fully to the work you love, for in doing so, you will carry it within you for all your days. Let your practice be steady, your devotion unshaken, and your heart will remember long after the world has forgotten. And when you are weary, when you wonder if your efforts vanish into nothing, remember Verdon’s wisdom: the music will bring it back, and your labor will rise again like a living flame.

Practical action lies before us: live your days with intention. Repeat not only the motions of your craft but the spirit of it. Let discipline engrave upon your soul the things you wish to carry into eternity. And when you hear the music of your life — the sounds, the words, the rhythms that shaped you — pause, and let them remind you of who you are and what you have built.

Thus, O listener, take Gwen Verdon’s words as both comfort and challenge. What you give yourself to returns to you. What you practice, you become. And when the music plays — whether on a stage, in a memory, or in the quiet chambers of your heart — your life’s work will rise once more, ready to dance.