After our dinner at home on Saturday, it was off to Othello. Three girls were seeing The Clay Cart which is an ancient Indian play, which they enjoyed, but I cannot imagine having missed Othello. It was the only play of the weekend that was pure Shakespeare, in full Elizabethan garb, not a word of the script changed.  We were all apprehensive, having read the play.  I read all three plays back at Viento State Park, and I had cried the day I read Othello, falling into a deep funk over how dark our hearts can be.  So I thought I knew what I was in for as the darkness covered the stage and the grim Iago filled the night air with a dread that rose from his sinister soliloquies.  Seeing Othello may very well be one of the most powerful experiences of my entire life.  I am prone to gross exaggeration I know and to extremes as far as descriptions go, which makes my recommendation of a thing hold perhaps less weight than if I measured my words of compliment more carefully.  But put that aside and just know that this play, this night, this cast and this experience will be something I will still be speaking of when I am (very) old and (more) gray.  If I could play Desdemona with so much eloquence or Emilia with such wry timing, I would perhaps do nothing else in life.  I sat on the very edge of my seat for the entire three hours.  I was sad that we had to stop for intermission…not wanting the momentum to be broken even for a minute.  I might have distracted those around me with my sighs or had the noise of hope from my heart been audible it would have shaken the stage with my longing for the action not to go as I already knew that it would, and as it must of course, go.  If it did not move to its inevitable tragic end then of course, Shakespeare would not be the playwright that he is.  Timeless and brilliant.  He did not shy away from the darkest places in man’s heart.  The most powerful moments of the play were when words were uttered that I could have believed, or worse, that I could have said.  At the beginning when Desdemona’s father basically disowns her, his words to her and Othello completely devastated me.  To purposely admit such bitterness into a relationship with one so dear to you is so sad, and yet it was the tip of the iceberg as far as the grief that would pass over that stage that night.  So much  brokenness and devastating consequences.  It was only after we discussed long into the night the scary Iago, the duped Othello, the beautiful Desdemona and many words and scenes from the play that I begin to also remember how I had been completely taken in by the exquisite costumes, the well placed  bits of color and the powerful use of light or lack thereof.  Every detail down to the last blackout with the loud thunder of a drum served its purpose in stringing me along, hanging on every word.  I read in my journal that is littered with quotes on traveling the following morning that sometimes you just have to go to know.  This trite remark could be applied to so many experiences in life, but if you have the opportunity in life to see Othello, played in Ashland, and especially this particular season, do not let it pass you by.

When we finally settled down and went to our beds, of course I could never fall asleep after such a night, my roommate and I talked for hours.  After we realized that we both grew up in Young Life families, we had many comparisons to make.  It is wonderful to discover someone with whom you have a lot in common and it turns out that we share much more than our mutual love for Laura.  Funny things like that we both like Tom’s toothpaste.  And when we finally stopped chattering and I grew sleepy enough to stop seeing Desdemona’s flowing white dressing gown in my mind’s eye, I drifted into sleep hardly being able to believe that the next day I would actually get to see another play.  It is like a buffet of entirely too much good food, so that you must continue to eat even after you are full because you will be sad at the treats you did not yet get to taste.  The delights of Sunday would be like candy after the full palette of Othello, but really nice candy.  Dark chocolate from a specialty chocolatier.

Yes, I am glad our tragedy is being sandwiched  between two comedies, remarked one of the gals present.  After our aforementioned glorious Sunday morning brunch at the Winchester, several of our company had to begin to make their way back to California, which left four of us to attend the final play, A Midsummer Night’s Dream.  Could our time in Ashland have been more perfectly planned?  To end with such a fun play, and one of my favorites to boot.  And if it were not enough to end on such a note, this season’s version of Midsummer Night was set in the 60s and 70s.  Yes, the mechanicals arrived in a volkswagon bus painted with multi-colored flowers and Bottom had long wavy hair, red velvet bell bottoms and sunglasses.  Friends, he was beyond hysterical.  Just the memory of him is eliciting a giggle even at this very moment.  Add in a Duke that could have hailed from South Chicago, cross dressing fairies, Shakespeare’s eye for the foolishness in all of us and a happy ending…then you have a well spent final afternoon in the fairyland that is Ashland.  Even better, one of our company knew of and arranged our invitation to a talk that a Westmont Shakespeare professor was giving (in a park!) before the play.  He was leading a group from Westmont through the same series of plays we had been attending and he was leading a post-Othello discussion and giving a pre-Midsummer Night lecture.  So great.  I appreciated all that he had to say and he prepared us well for our afternoon, even stating that the fool says in his heart…there are no such thing as fairies.  It was a precious and perfect addition, fitting in beautifully with the magical flow of our weekend.

After the play, we grabbed more fish tacos (of course) and then drove the four hours back (talking nonstop) to where my friend lives and where our husbands and children were enjoying one another’s company, the pop up welcoming me in their driveway.  My kids were super sad to be leaving early the next morning after just meeting up with their long lost friends, but we would all be together again the next weekend when we would be passing back through on our way back to Vancouver.   I feel like Viola when she says to Shakespeare in Shakespeare in Love,

This is not real life.  It is a stolen season.

Tis absolutely true of my life right now and most especially of the three glorious days I had the fortune to spend in Ashland.