"If this be magic, let it be an art as lawful as eating"

Today I saw BYU's production of Shakespeare's The Winter Tale.

I was unsure of what to expect--it's a hard play to produce, and I was worried that it wouldn't be what I was hoping for. Of course no production will be exactly how I imagine it should be. But BYU did an excellent job. There were things I had forgotten--like how long and complex the play is. And how terribly funny the character of Autolycus is (because he is both--terrible and funny). And how much I love the character of Paulina.

I left the play this evening basking in that after-theater glow, fresh tears on my face.

Because Winter's Tale always makes me cry.

The Winter's Tale is one of my favorite Shakespeare plays. Most people haven't heard of it. And if they have/if they have seen it, they have usually one of two reactions. They either love it or are really confused by it.

I fall into the camp that absolutely loves it.

In fact, I don't think I've met anyone who loves it as much as I do.

Once I explain the plot to people (or once they see the play after I give it a glowing recommendation), they often look at me sheepishly, as though they feel bad that they don't like it as much as I do. It's like giving someone my favorite Ukrainian treat (halva), and then they don't have the heart to tell me that they thought it was, well, kind of weird.

I don't blame people for thinking the plot strange. Because it is a very complex plot. And honestly, it is kind of weird. It doesn't fit nicely into either the comedy or tragedy. It's more of a tragi-comedy . . . one of Shakespeare's romances, if we want to get all scholarly. The first and second halves of the play seem completely different from each other. There is an element of magic realism in the play, not to mention the seeming absurdity of a king who seems to go from reason to madness in a millisecond. And, it has Shakespeare's most bizarre stage cue ("Exit, pursued by a bear").

So, why do I love it so much? What is it about this seemingly crazy play that I love so dearly?

Part of it has to do that it feels like a fairy tale (and you know how much I love fairy tales). Another reason is that it has two of my favorite female characters in Shakespeare--Queen Hermione and Paulina. I love Queen Hermione for her dignity, grace, and quiet confidence. And I love Paulina for her sass, straightforwardness, and courage. Another reason I love this play is because my Shakespeare professor loved this play and so we studied it in-depth. That means that I understand the symbols. And boy, are there so many symbols in this play. And so many themes. Deep themes of forgiveness, grace, renewal, and trust.

These are themes that Shakespeare was reflecting on when he wrote the play toward the end of his life. These are concepts--and realities!--he wanted so badly in his own life. Reconciliation. Mercy. Hope. Miracles.

And they are realities we want in our own lives, too.

Because sometimes . . . sometimes things seem so bleak and hopeless. Sometimes we feel like we have either completely ruined our own lives, or else we are innocently suffering because of the unfair actions and decisions of others. And some time or another, all of us are going to find ourselves in both of those camps.

And so I say we need to hear stories of miracles. Of faith and of wonder. To believe that even in the depths of winter, the promise of spring is still there. "Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise."

Can I share with you my favorite part of the play? (Like you have a choice. I mean, you do. You always do. But let's be real.)

It is the very last scene. I know, I know. I'm telling the ending before you even know what the play is about. So let's do a recap, shall we?

Basically, Leontes is the king of Sicilia. Hermione is his queen. They are expecting a second child. Polixenes the king of Bohemia. Leontes and Polixenes are best friends. Polixenes is going back to Bohemia, but Leontes doesn't want him to go, so he asks Hermione to entreat him to stay. Hermione does, and Polixenes decides to stay for a little while longer.

And Leontes gets jealous. Terribly jealous. Murderously jealous.

He thinks that Polixenes and Hermione have been going behind his back, and suddenly--out of a foundation of absolutely nothing--believes that Hermione is pregnant with Polixenes's child, not his.

So, he tries to kill Polixenes (who barely escapes back to Bohemia), arrests his innocent wife on charges of adultery and treason, banishes his newborn baby daughter, and refuses to listen to reason or the truth, believing that his skewed perception is the truth. Even when the oracle of Apollo says that Hermione is innocent and Leontes wrong, Leontes refuses to believe it, saying that it is "falsehood."

And when he says that, the floodgates open. Violently.

Immediately, their four-year-old son dies, Hermione dies upon hearing that news, and King Leontes is suddenly awakened to his guilt and that he "believed too much my own suspicion."

He tries to pray to the gods, asking for restitution, but it's too late . . . and Paulina, Queen Hermione's noblewoman, tells him so. She chews him out, in the truest Shakespearean fashion. And even though the king's noblemen tell her to stop tormenting the king so much with her true words, the king realizes that Paulina is right, and he vows to do somehow repent, even if there is no hope for him or the kingdom.

If the play ended there, it would be a tragedy. It would end as a commentary on how our pride, skewed perceptions, and bad decisions harm others. It would be something akin to Othello, and we'd leave the theater wondering if there was any hope for humanity.

But there is still so much left to the play.

16 years pass. Remember that banished baby daughter? Well, her name is Perdita, and she's been found and raised by shepherds on the shores of Bohemia, and grown into a beautiful, graceful girl who has caught the eye of Florizel, Prince of Bohemia, who just so happens to be Polixenes's son (convenient, right? I know.). It's the annual sheep-shearing festival, and Florizel and Perdita (who is the queen of the sheep-shearing festival) are in love. Deeply in love. And Florizel's father knows about it and is not happy that his son is courting a shepherdess. So, king Polixenes breaks up the sheep-shearing festival, forbids his son to marry Perdita, and threatens to kill both Perdita and the old shepherd (her surrogate father).

Sooooo, we're back to the angry kings. Great.

But Florizel won't take no for an answer, so he and Perdita decide to run away--to Sicilia, of all places. The old shepherd finds out, tells king Polixenes, and find the young couple in the court of king Leontes, who has been grieving for the last 16 years . . . since he has lost everyone dear to him, after all. Anyway, there's a lot of misunderstanding and frustration until the old shepherd takes out the letter and locket that were with baby Perdita when he found her--and it's discovered that she is the lost princess. Which is great for many reasons. One, she and Florizel can officially get married without Polixenes freaking out that she isn't a princess. But more importantly, Leontes and his daughter are reunited and the kingdom has an heir again.

Are you still with me? (It's complicated, I know.)

Again, the play could end there. And this time it would be beautiful and bittersweet.

But, there's more. And it all adds up to my favorite scene. The last scene.

It is absolutely transcendent.

It takes place in a chapel, where Paulina unveils a statue to King Leontes and Perdita. The statue is of the dead Queen Hermione. Both Leontes and Perdita are entranced by its likeness to Queen Hermione, and they want to touch it. Paulina stops them from touching it, saying that the paint is not yet dry. Leontes and Perdita continue to look at the statue—it obviously pains Leontes to look at his wife and remember what he did to her, their family, and the kingdom. 

Paulina asks him, “Shall I draw the curtain?” an invitation to close the curtain, to end the torture . . . but also to end the magic. Leontes decides to keep the curtain open, look at the statue of Hermione, and by doing so, shows that this “affliction” is necessary—he is facing up to what he did to Hermione . . . he is facing the past.

As Leontes and Perdita look at the statue, Paulina says that she could make the statue do more—even make it seem as though it could come to life . . . but only if they believe: 

Paulina

Either forbear,

Quit presently the chapel, or resolve you

For more amazement. If you can behold it,

I’ll make the statue move indeed, descend

And take you by the hand; but then you’ll think—

Which I protest against—I am assisted

By wicked powers.

Leontes

What you can make her do,

I am content to look on: what to speak,

I am content to hear; for ‘tis as easy

To make her speak as move.

Paulina

It is required

You do awake your faith. Then all stand still;

On: those that think it is unlawful business

I am about, let them depart.

Music, awake her; strike!

‘Tis time; descend; be stone no more; approach;

Strike all that look upon with marvel. Come,

I’ll fill your grave up: stir, nay, come away,

Bequeath to death your numbness, for from him

Dear life redeems you.

With these words, Hermione comes back to life. She turns from stone into a living woman, and she finds herself in her husband’s arms:

Leontes

O, she’s warm!

If this be magic, let it be an art

Lawful as eating.

There is so much even in these lines. There is so much I could talk about—the symbolism between Hermione’s “resurrection” and Jarius’ daughter, the line “it is required you do awake your faith,” King Leontes’ exclamation: “O, she’s warm!” There is so much beauty in this scene—a beautiful scene of reconciliation. Of healing. Of a family being reunited. 

Where is the mercy? Where is the grace? It’s right here. 

Some people don’t particularly like this scene. It is too fantastical and they think that Leontes doesn’t deserve this reconciliation.

Guess what?

He doesn’t.

And neither do we.

We don’t really deserve anything. If life was about what we deserved and didn’t deserve, we’d all be a lot worse for wear, I think. Because, in the end, we don’t want what we “deserve.”

We want mercy.

We want redemption.

And we want forgiveness.

I think that’s one reason I love this scene from A Winter’s Tale so much. It seems ridiculous—a statue coming to life (or—perhaps even more ridiculous—a queen deciding to return to her husband and daughter after being so deeply hurt). But, this scene is the epitome of transcendent grace. Grace we don’t deserve. But grace that is possible through divine love. 

I love that Shakespeare lets us decide if Queen Hermione was really a stone statue turned into a living woman, or if Paulina kept her in hiding 16 years, keeping her alive with the hope that one day Perdita would be found and the family and kingdom could be restored. 

This time, I preferred the latter explanation. 

But even as I was walking out of the Pardoe Theater, I heard someone behind me say, 

"I liked how this production made it seem more magical. I don't like the idea of Paulina keeping Queen Hermione in hiding for 16 years. I don't like the deception." 

It made me smile. 

Because it's our choice. We decide what to believe. 

But I think that's why I like the explanation of Hermione being in hiding for 16 years. 

Because it was her choice. 

Her choice to forgive. 

Her choice to heal. 

And her choice to come back. 

"You will burn, and you will burn out; you will be healed and come back again." --Dostoevsky, Brothers Karamazov. 

And so, watching the family be reconciled, I wept. I cried at this expression of love, grace, and healing. And walking back home, with the true spring all around me and blossoms littering the sidewalk and finding their way into my hair--like a crown of May--I felt the March sunshine touch my heart. 

Winter is over. A "sad tale's best for winter." 

But winter is over. 

And spring is in the air. 

And filling my heart. 

A heart that had turned to stone for a time. To protect herself. 

But now "dear life redeems me."

And it is glorious, beautiful, and a real thing to feel in this terribly false world.  

The reconciliation scene in The Winter's Tale might seem impossible. And maybe, on our own, it is. Because if we are so consumed by our own pity, pain, and pride, then we’ll never look out—reach out—and find that others are reaching toward us. Maybe, it really is required for us to “awaken our faith.” To believe that this can happen. Because if we don’t believe, it never will—our own pride will crush any possibility of hope, any possibility of mercy.

But I choose to believe.

I choose light.

I choose hope. 

And I choose love. 

And in His name all oppression shall cease

Nativity, Brian Kershisnik 

(love this painting. so, so much.) 

I love Christmas. Sometimes it's in a "Buddy the Elf" kind of way, where I just want to deck the halls and make snow angels for two hours, go ice skating, eat a whole roll of Tollhouse Cookie Dough as fast as I can, and spread Christmas cheer by singing loud for all to hear.

It's fun. Christmas is--and should be--really fun. And I love spending time with family, making Christmas treats, going to (and hosting) parties, caroling, seeing Christmas lights, and singing Christmas music.

Oh, how I love the music.

It's hard to think of Christmas without music.

The music reminds me of the reason why we celebrate. Why we rejoice. Why we sing.

Last week, I had the opportunity to go to a Christmas concert at BYU. It was absolutely stunning. All of the arrangements were just beautiful. The last song they sang was "Carol of Joy," by Dan Forrest. I was introduced to this song while on my mission, and the lyrics combined with the haunting music are transcendent:



Listen to it. No, really. I promise that your life will be better because of it.

Here are the lyrics:

Green leaves are fallen, withered and dry;
Brief sunset fading, dim winter sky. 
Lengthening shadows, Dark closing in . . . 
Then, through the stillness, carols begin! 

Oh fallen world, to you is the song--
Death holds you fast and night tarries long. 
Jesus is born, your curse to destroy! 
Sweet to your ears, a carol of Joy! 

Pale moon ascending, solemn and slow; 
Cold barren hillside, shrouded in snow; 
Deep, empty valley veiled by the night; 
Hear angel music--hopeful and bright! 

Oh fearful world, to you is the song--
Peace with your God, and pardon for wrong! 
Tidings for sinners, burdened and bound--
A carol of joy! A Saviour is found! 

Earth wrapped in sorrow, lift up your eyes! 
Thrill to the chorus filling the skies!
Look up sad hearted--witness God's love!
Join in the carol swelling above!

Oh friendless world, to you is the song!
All Heaven's joy to you may belong!
You who are lonely, laden, forlorn--
Oh fallen world! Oh friendless world!
To you, a Saviour is born!

Isn't that beautiful? I love the juxtaposition of light and dark, sorrow and joy. The tapestry that makes up life. And I love that Christ came to heal. We live in a fallen world. We are all broken. But He was "bruised, broken, torn for us." And He knows how to heal us and save our souls, because He's been there. I believe that. He is the God who weeps. He left glory, comfort, and praise--His own kind of Eden--to overcome the effects of the Fall and to heal our broken world. "Ris'n with healing in His wings."

He did not come to a world or to a people who had everything going well for them. He came to the "lonely, laden, forlorn." He came to the friendless. He came to a world that is bent on self-destruction. A world that so desperately needs the peace He offers. He entered this world of blood, death, and loneliness so that He could be "filled with mercy" and know perfectly how to heal our broken hearts. 

We live in a fallen world. The more I live, the more I realize how often there is no answer, or at least no answers I can understand. There are moments when I despair because "there is no peace on earth. [. . .] For hate is strong and mocks the song of peace on earth, goodwill to men." No one gets out of this world without breaking in some way or another. But He offers the way for "the healing of nations" (Revelation 22:2). He is the healer of nations, and the lover of our souls. 

One song which I feel captures the essence of the beauty of the Savior's role and the wonder of His grace is "What Child is This?" This song has meant so much to me since Ukraine, for many, many reasons. One of these reasons is because there is something absolutely beautiful about singing hymns in Russian. I don't know what it is, but there is something haunting and rich in the words that, combined with the melodies, makes the experience more meaningful. "Russian is a very rich language," as people would always say to me on the streets. There are some Russian words that just mean more. And there are some Russian hymns which just touch your soul in ways that English cannot. 

I always enjoyed the fact that the Russian hymnbook includes "What Child is This?" in its Christmas hymns. Maybe I like it just because it's different. But there is something deeper. The song in Russian becomes a plaintive plea; a holy, hushed hallelujah: 

"But why does he lie in a manger 
Where lambs are given their feed? 
So that every one of us 
Can lay down our sorrows at his feet." 

Call me elitist, but I just cannot find an English rendition which matches the feeling of the Russian translation. It is the one song that is missing from my personal Christmas playlist because I cannot find one which captures the feeling I want. For me, that song is a perfect memory. I remember as my companion and I sang Christmas carols in a dirty red bedroom in a dilapidated apartment in eastern Ukraine. I sang in a clear soprano, and she sang in her rich alto--we sang in blissful harmony. We sang about the condescension of God--about the beauty and necessity of His Atonement. We sang about love in a lonely, forsaken place. A place where the darkness could be suffocating--both literally and figuratively. But my companion and I found peace as we sang about the perfect love which "veiled the Lord in flesh." And about the love which allowed us to lay down our sorrows at His feet. Fall on our knees at the feet of the manger King. 

I have not found an English rendition to match our Ukrainian duet. The closest I have found is the Mormon Tabernacle Choir's version from the 2012 Christmas Devotional. 



The dips. It is the dips in the music which make it rich. Which make it full of life, meaning, and longing. 

Longing for healing.  

How can we understand the meaning of all things? How can we understand the hurt, the anguish, and the condition of the soul in this fallen world? How can healing take place? 

There is no clean, shiny answer. Life isn't a bedtime story. Life doesn't allow itself for clean answers, and even miracles can turn into nightmares. Still, we are commanded to have hope. Without hope, faith withers and dies, and without hope, we cannot have charity. 

We trust in the hope of His light and love. And believe in Christ. Christ overcame death and hell. He "marched into hell for a heavenly cause," but not so that we don't have to. Rather so that we would know where to turn for help and healing when we do enter our own Gethsemanes and carry our crosses. 

"For God so loved the world that He sent His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life. For God sent not His Son into the world to condemn the world, but that the world through Him might be saved." 

We rejoice because a Savior was born to heal us. 
To heal our broken hearts. 
To comfort our wounded souls. 
To strengthen our weary shoulders and lift our sad heads. 
To wipe away all tears from our eyes. 
To mend the rift between death and life. 
To heal the split. 

O fallen, fearful, friendless world, to you a Savior is born. I think that is absolutely beautiful. We fall to our knees because we are overwhelmed with love. We are not only overwhelmed with love for Him, but we are overwhelmed by His love for us. All hearts, nations, and people can find peace in Him. And that is beautiful and wonderful to me. A miracle. 

Seeking vs. Assuming

Last summer I had the wonderful opportunity of interning at the Church History Library in Salt Lake City. In addition to working in the archives and getting to learn and write about the lives of incredible Mormon women, I also enjoyed time to ponder to-and-from work on the Front Runner and during lunch on Temple Square. Another perk of the Church History Library is that they have good Mormon artwork on all of their walls--the kind of artwork that you wish your chapel had. [Now, I know a lot of people would disagree with me. I know that what makes "good" art is an entirely different debate and not one I want to enter right now. I also know that Church art serves its purpose . . . but for this blog post, just know that my favorite Mormon artists are Walter Rane and Minerva Teichert. And that the Church History Library has a lot of paintings by Walter Rane and Minerva Teichert, so it made me happy.]

Anyway, one of my favorite things was when I first got to work. I would climb up the back stairs of the Church History Library, reach the third floor, open the door, and turn left.

And there, on the far left wall, was one of my favorite paintings of the First Vision.

by Walter Rane 

I love this picture for many reasons. I think what I love the most is the look in Joseph's face. That look of surprise, relief, and awe that is evident in his eyes. He had no idea what his question would bring. But I love how he looks straight up and is bathed in light--an answer after months and years of seeking. He looks up in wonder, never expecting that the greatest theophany since the New Testament would happen to him. He had faith that God would answer him, but Joseph did not know that Heavenly Father and His Son, Jesus Christ, would appear to him to answer his heartfelt question and soothe his fears. 

In Ukraine, there was a dear investigator who also loved this painting of the First Vision. "That's how I feel," he said. "I feel like that boy. Looking up, asking, but confused. Not sure what's going to happen next. But asking." 

I think that's beautiful. Because when it comes down to it, the story and experience of the First Vision is our own. I'm not saying that each of us will--or that we even need to--see the Father and the Son in this lifetime. But I do believe that we have to find out for ourselves that God lives and that He loves us. We have to seek His face, because if we do not comprehend God, we cannot comprehend ourselves. 

And in order to gain that light and knowledge, we have to seek. We have to seek, ask, and knock, and be willing to receive. 

As a student of history, and especially as a student of Church history, I think a lot about the connections between faith and history. Some people think that it's not possible to combine faith, reason, and history--that no true historian can bring faith into her studies, and that history is godless and undermining to faith and testimony. 

I disagree. 

My study of history has strengthened my faith. Not because I blindly believe what I am taught or that I refuse to accept historical facts. Because it is important to be thoughtful when learning by study and by faith. But in all areas of study, it is important that we do not come from a place of assumption. To assume from a place of belief or disbelief is dangerous because the assumption of  "Oh, I already know that," or, "There's no way that could have happened--it just doesn't work that way," leads to intellectual and spiritual pitfalls. 

The body and spirit, heart and mind need to go together. To place one over the other leads to neglect and makes it so we miss out on beautiful insights. Assuming closes us off to finding truth, and it closes our hearts to empathy and understanding. 

In matters of faith, reason, and history, it is important to seek rather to assume. Seeking requires action. It requires humility and going outside of your intellectual and spiritual comfort zone to ask questions . . . and to realize that there are some things that you might not ever understand. Not because the answers aren't there, but because our understanding or tools we have at the moment are inadequate. But we keep looking and keep seeking. Someday the answers will come. 

A willing, seeking mind is the first step to receiving revelation from God. It is also the first step in learning--whether academically or spiritually.  Just as Joseph Smith would not have received increased light and knowledge if he had not prepared himself  to seek answers to his questions, we close ourselves off to more light, knowledge, and truth if we choose not to seek. 

Seeking and faith go hand-in-hand. And something I have learned as I have tried to be a seeker of truth is the power of mercy and redemption. History is messy. It just is. It's not pretty. Church history is not pristine, either. Because history--any kind of history--deals with people. Imperfect, vain, clueless, scared, trying people. But, just because history is messy does not take away from those things that I have learned for myself to be true. Most importantly, I have learned about the absolute need for a Savior. We all need saving. We are a people in need of a Savior. His Atonement is real, and His work will go forth. 

But we have to find that out for ourselves. It is an individual journey into the Sacred Grove. But the answers are there. 

The question is whether or not we will choose to seek them.