Upon Seeing the Play Hamlet, an Elizabethan's Tale

My most honored friends, I share with you this day of our Lord the 23 of January a most felicitous event of yestereve. When with our own dear cousin and the right honorable Lord Mayor I assayed to frequent the Globe Theatre during a performance of William Shakespeare's Hamlet, a happier time I have not spent. The performance was nigh unto four hours, yet willingly I could waste my time there on another occasion. Having seen Kyd's Spanish Tragedy a fortnight ago, I anticipated a tale of revenge and tragedy that would make my pulse, yea, my very heart, race. But what happened in Act the Third could not have surprised me more. The character of the new king did not die in the midst of the “Murder of Gonzago.” Aye, murder most foul, it was, for in the story’s glass playgoers all saw the selfsame tale that fretted and strutted itself upon the stage—a tale not of bawdry but of a king bereft of life by one closest to himself.

My friends and I thought the character of Hamlet one of exquisite introspection, such that he would fain have contemplated that most heinous of acts and that which the Almighty has fix’d His canon against, even self-slaughter. Indeed, Hamlet did himself agonize over this very thought in a speech beginning “To be or not to be” with such piteous dolor as would make one cry “Woe!” Our happy group did find the presentation of the ghost most frightening (more real and more ominous than that of Don Andrea or Revenge), Ophelia’s drowning most tragical (more so than the fearful end of Isabella and of Bel-Imperia in Kyd’s tale), Hamlet’s woeful end most regrettable (far surpassing any sorrow at Hieronimo’s death), and indeed the entrance of Fortinbras most heroical and hopeful for the state (beyond what lay in store for that wretched Spain).

For me the high point of the drama was the woeful moment in the final Act when Hamlet and his wretched mother realize too late that her husband, the wicked king, has murthered them both alike. The envenomed tip, the poisoned cup, the knowledge betwixt them both did force mine eyes and the eyes of all around me weep to look upon the sight. The actors did make us every one believe that they were in verity the persons whose grand story they represented so that we Fortinbras did say “Go, bid the soldiers shoot,” we looked around to spy the regulars discharge the guns.

The Rice Method

Rain outside my office window

It's raining. It rained yesterday. And maybe the day before that. I'm not really sure at this point because the soggy, boggy days are all running together (pun mostly intended).

During a break in the clouds yesterday, I went for a 5-miler. Steps from my house, the heavens opened and rain deluged down in big, hard, plopping drops that soaked me cap-à-pie. I embraced the raindrops and kept slogging.

Sadly, my iPhone also embraced the rain . . . right in its top speaker, so when I returned home an hour later, I could receive calls but could not hear the other person talking at all. Sadness.

So I did what any responsible reader of Internet wisdom would do: I put my phone in rice. Brown rice in a Rubbermaid container. I waited five minutes for the rice to work its magical rice powers before I asked my son to call me to see if I could hear anything yet. I couldn't. I waited 30 more minutes and had him try again. Still nothing. At this point this darling teenager said, "Ya know, Mom, you could maybe wait overnight or something." Right.

So I carried my little Rubbermaid with me to a friend's house later that evening. I checked on my phone often. Sure, I could receive texts, a strange glow would emanate from the brown rice and the bowl would buzz. But then, dear reader (not to be whatever the antithesis of a spoiler is—an anti-spoiler?), the sun broke through: Some 10 hours after placing my phone in brown rice, I successfully took a call. Ta-da! I now have firsthand, conclusive, empirical data confirming this method of iPhone resuscitation using brown rice. Next time I'm gonna try Basmati.

Graduation 2013

Here's a word from my Word-a-Day calendar 2013 that describes my relationship with high school graduation (our daughter is graduating)this year:

And that about sums it up.

And Jeff & I are loving every second of it. Don't let us tell you otherwise.

Determination

Out for a 5-mile run the other day with my husband. It was hot and humid, and we were sweating it up a fairly steep hill.

I'm not saying we were outright complaining. But we probably were on the inside. Then we saw this tough little violet growing through the asphalt. Now that's perseverance—made the rest of our climb seem a little easier.

Opportunity

Another author visit last week—this time a class of high school seniors who are in the middle of writing their own children's books for a creative writing class. They were a fairly attentive bunch during my PowerPoint-directed ramblings about lessons learned along the publication pathway. They really seemed to perk up, however, when I read Mumsi Meets a Lion. I think they enjoyed it—at least as much as high schoolers can enjoy a children's picture book. Or should I say "as much as high schoolers will allow themselves to enjoy a children's picture book."

One sweet girl asked to meet with me about her hopes of becoming an author. I look forward to trying to mentor an aspiring writer!

Maundy Thursday

The Easter season is upon us.

Around this time each year I'm reacquainted with the strange word maundy, as in "Maundy Thursday." I like the way it sounds, especially when one pronounces the "day" part with a long e sound. Maundy is from the Latin mandatum ("mandate") and referring to Christ's command about washing the feet. (See below.) Or it may perhaps be derived from an old English word, maund, which meant "to beg" and referred to a small basket held by beggars (maunders). I also found references to "maundy money," which was a coin specially minted by the monarch around Easter. In contemporary usage and when combined with the day of the week as it is at Easter, maundy refers to the religious ordinance of foot washing.

Now my husband's being raised a Free Will Baptist means, among other things, that he is familiar with this tradition. John 13 talks about Jesus' washing His disciples' feet and exhorts them to wash one another's. I've heard my husband say many times what a humbling experience it was—not to have an older man wash his pre-teen feet but rather experiencing one of God's choice men kneel down in front of him and wash his smelly feet. I've never participated in a religious maundy myself. Perhaps some time I'll have that privilege.

I'm contemplating Christ's death and burial today and looking forward to resurrection day (Sunday), when Christians rejoice with a resounding, "Hallelujah! He is risen!"

Walk with a View

Here's one of the lovely views I get to take in on most of my daily walks (or runs).  Morning is the best time to stroll by this nearby lake—the hazy air, the reflection of trees and sunrise in the silvered water. It inspired me this particular morning to write a haiku. Now I don't pretend to know all the ins and outs of kigo and kireji and all that. . . . I'm mostly a 5-7-5 syllables gal. But here goes:

Spring morning mist clings
To rosy sun-glow blushing—
I breathe the new air.