Shakespeare and Me (But Mostly Me)

I've seen things Shakespeare has seen.

Really, that's remarkable. History considers it likely that Shakespeare had visited Italy, or even that he was secretly Italian, because of how accurate and intimate the accounts of the places he talks about are.

It's not hard to remember as you glimpse fair Verona out the window of a train. That's where two teenagers fell in love, crossing stars that would inspire so many others to cross it was like embroidery stitches. That's where Romeo beheld Juliet on her balcony and said, "what light through yonder window breaks?"

You really can't forget this when the sun comes out from behind the clouds for a minute and Verona is lighted. It's like Juliet herself commissioned the heavens for me. "She's young and she falls in love easy. She's a real romantic," she'd probably say. "Let's give her some magic." And so the clouds break and the light comes in. It is the east. Juliet is the sun. And Shakespeare and I are both romantics.

I have seen Venice. My favorite part of Venice was the bridges. My favorite part of Shakespeare's "The Merchant of Venice" is when Portia says, "The quality of mercy is not strained.
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest:
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes." It rained in Venice while I was there. I thought about mercy and prayed in the gentle, misting rain. I thought about blessings. I thought about Shakespeare. I thought a lot.

And here we have something, my dear reader.

I write because I have so many emotions, and so many words in me. I write because I want to share these feelings I have because of the experiences I have and the things that I see. I write for the illusion of companionship -- so that even though my experiences are largely experienced alone, I am able to share pieces of them with you, and in some way that means that you are here with me as I see what Shakespeare saw.

And so, I write about what I see. And I have been told more than once I have a gift for it. "You access feelings that people don't even know they have," they say. "You say the things people don't know how to say."

This is all well and good, but I worry too. When I come back home, will you still want to hear about what I see?

I want you to know that I am not only what I see. I want to write to you, not just about what Shakespeare and I saw, but about things that have nothing to do with the beauty of Europe and the sunshine in Verona and the rain in Venice. These things are very important and I want you to know about them. But I think my heart just might matter too.

Let me tell you about what I think when I'm alone, in my head. When it's just me, and I could be any old place. My thoughts could still be important, maybe, without the exotics that influence me.

Forget where I am and see instead the heart of me. Think about a person who would write herself into a hole just to share something beautiful with you. Think about how much every word means to me, and then think about this.

I am learning to love myself.

Not just to tolerate myself, which I was good at before. And not to be obsessed with myself, and dismiss many important opportunities for growth.

No, I am learning to look in the mirror and say like I'd say to my lover, or my best friend, or a family member, "you are a good, kind, gentle, beautiful person that I am lucky to know." To see the flaws that are so obviously there and make a decision, that I, even in my flaws, am worth loving and taking care of. I am learning to listen to myself when I speak and try to understand instead of just to fix. I am learning to give myself the same mercy I give to others who bruise up my soft skin, by accident or otherwise.

I'm learning to accept that I'll never have it all figured out. I'm a person, and so just when I think I know what I'm about, I change and start the whole process over again.

These are all things I could have learned anywhere. I learned them here in Italy, but not because of Italy.

And I guess what I'm saying is that I hope that after reading what I write, you love the places I've seen -- but you maybe come to know me and love me a little bit more too. I guess I hope that you don't forget that these aren't just words about traveling. They're my words. They come from me, from my head. And wherever I am, I'm starting to believe that the fact that they are my words matters.

Because anyone can write about Venice or Verona. But anyone isn't Shakespeare. And anyone isn't me, either.