Othello, and the Journal

This evening I had the distinct pleasure of a long-overdue trip to the Chicago Shakespeare Theatre. Not necessarily this trip was overdue, but one in general. I redirected my studies in college because of my Shakespeare class; I gave up the communications/sociology double major for the challenge and rigor of completing an entire English literature degree in 3 semesters. (For those of you that were wavering on my level of sanity, there is all the proof you need that I am, indeed, and have been for a long time, crazy.)

Nancy was a fabulous Shakespeare professor (and still is, I am sure), and a fabulous teacher to me, in general. It was, by far, one of the most difficult courses I took at North Park; the world of Shakespeare has followed me far beyond my degree program's end.

In any event, tonight I had the chance to attend a performance of Othello at the CST, which was led by phenomenal performances of the characters of Iago and Othello, and a great cast in general. And I was transported back to the world of 2003, where the lines of Shakespeare's tragedies and comedies absorbed me , and I them, for hours. Brilliant; he was simply brilliant.

When you shall these unlucky deeds relate,
Speak of me as I am. Nothing extenuate,
Nor set down aught in malice. Then must you speak
Of one that loved not wisely, but too well;
Of one not easily jealous, but, being wrought,
Perplexed in the extreme; of one whose hand,
Like the base Judean, threw a pearl away
Richer than all his tribe...
(Othello, Act V.2, 341-348)

Even now, as I have spent so much time away from his words, Shakespeare always transports me back to one of the times when I was happiest, and most unswerving on my path.

In searching out those memories, and looking for the passage that I had to memorize and recite to my Shakespeare class those years ago, I opened an old journal. I have always kept a journal. I have them all in a box, safely stowed away where I hope no one (self included) will ever again feel the need to read them. They start with a flowery pink diary, filled with elaborate curly-q's of letters; proceed through simple notebooks that were easy for the camping seasons; and move through various iterations filled with pages and pages of thoughts that seemed so important at the time. This particular one, begun in the fall of my junior year of college, was given to me by my high school best friend after a summer she spent in California. It really was the perfect journal, and I have yet to find a successor I have like as much.

As I flipped through it, looking for the particular entry where I had inscribed the lines I chose to memorize, I was struck by a few things. Most obviously, how much better my handwriting was then. Seriously. It was actually legible, and looked carefully undertaken.

I was also amazed at how many pages were filled with the words of other people. I have always been drawn to words speaking profoundly from the most unsuspecting places. To famous quotes or infamous proverbs. To passages of scripture and lyrics from songs. Words inspire me, and I have often found that others have written of my own soul far more accurately than I could express it. Many entries are simply others' words that I found more apt than my own. Others are places I was searching for encouragement when I could find little in myself to sustain me. One passage like this is, ironically, from a book that I can't remember if I have ever read completely through.

"...If I don't seem to need help, it is because I have a better friend, even than father, to comfort and sustain me. My child, the troubles and temptations of your life are beginning, and may be many; but you can overcome and outlive them all, if you learn to feel the strength and tenderness of your Heavenly Father as you do that of your earthly one. ..."
(Louisa May Alcott, Little Women, Chapter 8)

I inscribed this to my journal more than 4 years ago, at the beginning of a new year. Fast forward to present day, where I have not written for months in my journal, one that I agonized over purchasing in the Pike Place market in Seattle, and have written even less of others' words. I get a melancholy feeling considering this; maybe I have given up something, at least for a time, that is more deeply connected to my life-blood than I am comfortable admitting?

There is no astounding conclusion to this line of wondering. Just this question to consider. So I will leave you with more words, not my own, to which I have often turned:

To him who is able to keep you from falling and to present you before his glorious presence without fault and with great joy - to the only God our Savior be glory, majesty, power and authority, through Jesus Christ our Lord, before all ages, now and forevermore! Amen.
(Jude 24-25)