Act 3 Scent 1: Chosen Groundlings
The people we choose as family ~
On a warm midsummer evening in London, the breeze from the Thames attempts to whirl itself into the Wooden O, Shakespeare’s Globe. The vibrancy of each patron counters the cooling effect with its own kinetic energy, the crowd heated by anticipation for the opening act. As the twilight glows around the theater, my own curtain rises, its fabric beginning to extend its reach, unbeknownst to the connections that would take root among us.
These strands can often begin streaming along the dotted lines before the endpoints take shape, their paths curling into cursive movements that slowly form the words of friendship. A fountain of ink remains italic and bold—an elusive visibility heightened by one another’s presence, withholding any signs of drying out. What begins as a soliloquy toward a crowded room soon becomes an intimate dialogue between connecting souls.
An unspoken auditioning of characters takes center stage, illuminating what may become a performance of a lifetime. Hand gestures in all directions, attempting to make sense of the emotions defined within our scripts and the undefined exchanges where one hand reaches for another without rhyme or reason. When no explanation is needed, “I see you” is just enough.
Atmospheric seeds flock through the majestic barriers and settle into the open-air yard. An innocent emergence germinating from where we stand—fanning a play of togetherness in its own right. Glimmers of purplish meadows sprouting along soft tangents—rising at the heart of the galleries. An arc of purity and serenity, adorned with the early glitters of English lavender.
The lingering trail of sweetness gracefully reaches the foraging community of bumble bees. They greet each floret with gentle precision and a delicate bond of salutations, a surrender to the viscosity of the nectar-infused lavender. Whether these are humble beginnings or flamboyant surgence, the calm perfumery of this kinship maintains a centripetal force, growing into a sacred relationship of trust.
A calming aurora begins to fill the Globe with hedges swaying side by side as the spears erect themselves with a glowing confidence. Fresh blossoms brushing along the bareness of the soles fermenting into the souls. Halos forming and shielding the authenticity funneling through the lavenderish hourglass that beholds innocence, defiance, and congruence.
“Here’s flowers for you: Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram, the marigold, that goes to bed wi'th' sun, and with him rises,weeping.”
— William Shakespeare, Perdita in Winter’s Tale (Act IV, Scene 4)
Coming-of-age tales sprinkle through the maturation of the aromatic notes. Literature spawned by a caricature of subplots, morphing as each collection lives through a timeless act of longevity. With tragedies strengthening the pledge we have toward each other. A bracelet soldered together in a covenant—even the blistering molten of passivity cannot unbind.
With each blossom, a vocal presence is fine-tuned among the instruments each of us play—not to merely mirror one another, to be complementary. What can appear a moment of concerto is actually a collective piece guided by a familiar pulse. A crescendo that withstands the precipice of the summer foehn, conducts itself into a devoted silence—
…a standing ovation from the heavens above.
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