Soaring...

Friday, 24 October 2008

There are moments in each person's life that on the surface appear ordinary and mundane to others, but for them hold the significance of finding the Holy Grail, or like Frodo finally being able to let go of that blasted ring! The D.E.B.’s wise, sage older brother, “The Guru,” refers to such moments as “passing through a doorway.”  Yesterday, I passed through just such a doorway.

I delivered the “Thursday Seminar” lecture at The Shakespeare Institute. This was the most significant lecture of my life.  More than any snarky conference, or snarly gathering of surly scholars in New York City, this lecture at the Institute meant everything to me.  I was a student at The Shakespeare Institute some 12 years ago. And I as said to the assembled scholars and students, back all those years ago I never ever imagined that I would ever even finish my Ph.D. successfully, let alone become a “Shakespeare scholar”, nor could I have dreamt that I would have my Ph.D. research published, and certainly never fathomed the possibility of returning to my alma mater, and being invited to give a guest lecture there.

The big day came and went, and not without much trepidation. I procrastinated for weeks, uncertain as to what I should speak on. My goals were quite simple: I wanted to impress, and, I didn’t want to be publicly humiliated. My NYC chums: “Boy Genius Playwright” and “She Who Must be Obeyed” emailed me routinely to remind me of the importance of my recent experience with Shakespeare in Alaska, and how I should speak on that. They were of course absolutely right.

Last April, I went to Alaska in search of Shakespeare. (A recurring theme in my life.) I was teaching an undergraduate seminar on Shakespeare in America, when I came across details about a provocative, touring production of Othello in Alaska, wherein the play was being re-visioned with Othello as a Native Alaskan. Before I knew it, I had written the theatre company a letter, and booked a round-trip (return) ticket to Yakutat, Alaska.

In Yakutat, I re-discovered Shakespeare. But not only this, I was adopted by the Eagle clan of the Tlingit tribe; and met the most amazing people on the planet, who I am proud to call much beloved friends. How could I not talk about this? How I could not share this with the Shakespeare community here in Stratford-upon-Avon? How could I doubt this? Quite easily, actually.

I panicked. I doubted the “scholarly worthiness” of what I had to say, then, two days before my lecture, I had a rather unfortunately conversation with a leading Shakespearean who off-handedly dismissed the Alaska production I’d intended to speak about as, “absurd.” More panic.

I fretted, I sweated, I cried. It was too late to switch, and develop another topic. I considered my options, I could feign illness and cancel, or, I could feign illness and cancel. There was no way I could cancel, so I resigned myself to the fact that it was too late, I had see this through as I had planned, come what may. I sent out frantic SOS messages to my friends in NYC and to my friend/mentor/hero, Cicely Berry.

On Wednesday evening, the D.E.B. rushed home from work to cheerlead me through the eleventh hour. After the lovely dinner he prepared, we sat at the table, and I read my lecture aloud to him. Darling English Boy that he is, after I struggled through and finished reading, we both fell silent. He took a deep breath, gathered me into his arms, and said softly: "Darling Girl, I don't know whose voice that is, but it's not yours. Just talk to them. Tell them what you saw." I, of course, reacted just as one might expect: I flipped out, burst into tears, and went to bed.

The wee hours of the next morning found me laying on the bathroom floor and dry heaving into the toilet. And I wasn't hung over. I have never, ever been dizzy like that, even when I have been hung over! It is completely ridiculous that I had gotten myself into such a state over this lecture. On the bright side, I thought, I did now have a somewhat plausible excuse for canceling…

The D.E.B. helped me back to bed, and I did sleep for a short while. He woke me before he left for work, and left a card for me on my bedside table that said: "I am always so proud of you. Just be yourself.”

I slept for a few more hours and was then awakened by the phone. It was Cicely Berry urging me to remember that Shakespeare can and does change lives, regardless of what some scholarly-types would like to think. Then, I checked my email, more messages of support...and then, BANG! The clouds broke, and with new zeal and fresh resolve I shouted, well, swore, actually, very loudly. I grabbed my laptop and started lacerating my lecture. I cut pages and pages of academic crap. I re-typed the entire thing. I was still re-typing my lecture up to the moment that the D.E.B. came back home to drive me into Stratford-upon-Avon for the lecture.

With guns a'blazing I walked right into The Shakespeare Institute, and yes ... I ROCKED, THEIR, WORLD!

I finally realized I had nothing lose. So, I went for it. And the response was overwhelming positive. I had to, in the words of Polonius, be true to myself, and to my friends in Alaska (who are getting quite a beating in the world press just recently, due to their controversial Governor).

In many ways, my talk was just an open love letter to them, and to Alaska. Amazingly, after a night on the town to celebrate my success at surviving my lecture (which included a dinner of Fish’n’chips from my favo(u)rite “chippy” in Stratford), when the D.E.B. and I made it home, we discovered that a parcel had arrived for me earlier in the day. It was from Alaska. A care package from Yakutat.  My dear, dear, cheeky friend, Kris, had filled a box full of (would you believe it?) Tylenol!!! Benadryl and…Nyquil (oooooohhhh!!!!). God, bless her! There were Snickers bars, granola bars, assorted other American goodies, and a freshly canned jar of Nagoon berry preserves. (That smells and tastes of Alaska.) I could not help but see this precious gift as a great reward for holding faith with the remarkable work that I had had the good fortunate to experience in Alaska.

I spent the rest of that blissful, victorious night, strung-out on Nyquil and chocolate, and high on a post-traumatic-stress adrenalin rush. Before bed, I checked my email, and found another incredible reward. An email from my Tlingit Eagle clan sister—who had had no foreknowledge of my intended talk, nor the angst I’d experienced around giving it. She wrote:

“Hello my dear friend. It is so cold out. As I was walking home, I looked up in the sky and saw a young, graceful eagle soaring in the sky, so lovely and free. It reminded me of you.”

(Cue soundtrack: "Theme from the film 'The Magnificent Seven'")

Blue Monday: Sniffles and My First Faux Pas

Have come to the end of a very blue Monday. I’m battling what is either a bad case of hay fever/allergies, or a cold. Whichever, it has brought with it a quite annoying ringing in my left ear.  All of this has me longing for the comfortable familiarity of my former home. Drugstore giants Duane Reade and CVS were never far away. In my little corner of the Greenwich Village, there were in fact three (3) large Duane Reade stores less than 7 minutes walk from my apartment. Out here, in the rural Warwickshire countryside, Boots – a wonderfully elegant alternative to Duane Reade or CVS, more akin to Target -- is a half hour bus ride to Stratford-upon-Avon, or a 20 minute bus ride to Warwick. Ugh. Thank God, then, for Sainsbury’s, and of course, the D.E.B.

But, access to a drugstore (chemist’s) is only part of the problem. On days like today, and I think whenever one is under the weather, or “poorly,” one hankers for the familiar. I need/want remedies and cures that I know, love and trust. Heaven knows there is probably no difference whatsoever between Benadryl and Benalyn, or Nurofen and Advil. As Shakespeare wrote, “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other name, would smell just as sweet.” Now, I love the Bard more than most, so I have always taken his words to heart, but sometimes, when a girl needs Tylenol, just she needs Tylenol!

All this has made me think I should have done a better job of greasing the wheels in New York City, and convinced someone, anyone, to send me routine care packages full of American necessities: any and every variety of Tylenol; Popcorn, Indiana - Gourmet Popcorn (Sea Salt flavor, mmm…); TIDE laundry detergent; Lysol spray, (“Crisp Linen” scent); real Diet Coke, Nutter Butters, and a manicurist.

But, a part of acclimatizing, is, well, … acclimatizing. So, I’m sure the British remedies will do their best.  

Committed my first faux pas this weekend. At the St. Peter’s-C of E  “Harvest Supper,” no less. Thankfully, I did not, as I was wont in the ‘90’s, get drunk and start performing a karaoke rendition of Madonna’s “Like a Virgin”. No, this infringement was far worse. Suffice it to say, the lesson I learned, the hard, but utterly polite way, was that most Britons over the age of 60 have not yet “forgiven” Wallis Simpson, and still view her as a “selfish, American, two-time divorcee from Baltimore.” Yikes.  And, I made the mistake of feeling the need to “stand up for my fellow countrywoman.”  Double Yikes.

Don’t you just hate that awkward silence that happens after you’ve said something truly asinine?  You can just see and feel that metaphoric tumbleweed drifting slowly across the room. Realizing I had rushed in, where a more angelic—or at least more sensible—woman would have feared to tread, I attempted to dig myself out of the hole I was in, by musing, “Well, for whatever else, she (Wallis Simpson) certainly had incredible style.” The women around the table had to agree with me.  The tumbleweed cleared, and we were all friends again. Phew!

In the end, it was a truly incredible evening. The D.E.B. and I actually had a super time, and even led our table to victory in the “Search Your Pockets & Your Handbag” relay. A miracle, really, given that Mavis on table 3, had us stumped when she was able to produce the requisite “unworn pair of tights.” (Don’t ask.) Ah, the English and their “party games.” (As if I don’t already carry enough useless items in my last season’s Kate Spade!)

We, the victors on the “top table,” celebrated our win with an extra bottle of red wine and a huge tin of choccies (chocolates).  In the midst of this afterglow, the very dear gentleman, with whom I had had my Wallis Simpson impasse, smiled broadly across the table from me, and reminded me that Winston Churchill’s mother was American. He then leaned forward, as if to indicate a shift to a more serious tone, looked me straight me the eye, and said with great earnestness, “We are all pulling for Obama, you know.”

The American presidential election, so remote and distant as it sometimes feels and seems (I must say, I’m pleased to have avoided the “party games” that seem to be running amok in the States right now), this moment reminded me that there is no remoteness, no distance in our world.  Whatever our differences of time, place, age or opinion, our collective destinies are, and have always been linked. America has had, and continues to have, a significant impact on British history, culture and life. More than we Americans are even aware of sometimes. 

p.s. Spent the evening unpacking countless boxes that just arrived from New York. After wading through mountains upon mountains of bubble wrap, and those dreadful, dreadful “plastic peanuts,” I am painfully aware that, true to my Southern belle upbringing, I have accumulated an unreasonable amount of china, silver and stemware -- the way some people collect stamps, or rocks. 

p.s.s. D.E.B. sits across the room from me as I type. He is strumming away softly on his guitar. He is so talented and creative. [Between us we have amassed five (5) violins, two (2) mandolins (both his), two (2) guitars (both his), and one (1) cello (mine). We are more musically stockpiled than the Von Trapp family in The Sound of Music! ] Sitting here, watching and listening to him, my thoughts drift… how magic it would be to create life with this man. This man, so like me—same birthday—and yet so different.