Does anyone remember the scene in the second or third Star Trek movie -- I forget which -- when Dr. McCoy asks Jim Kirk how he's feeling, Kirk answers, with a sense of wonder: "Young. I feel young."
I feel old. More than that, I find, to my bemusement, that I am old. I am an old lady. I'm not sure how this happened, but this afternoon, I was bringing in a load of laundry from my clothesline, struggling up the back steps, all three of them, and wrestling with the laundry basket to get the back door open, and I realized what I probably looked like to the commuter traffic that was, at the time, streaming past my front door. If they even looked at all, that's what they saw: a fat old lady wrestling with laundry. Sheesh.
And I hate leaving home, these days. Tomorrow we're off to visit our son for his birthday, and I mean, come on, it's not clear the other side of the world. We're driving 400 or 500 miles to Pennsylvania, probably down through Massachusetts and Connecticut, into New York State, and across the Hudson River, maybe touching a bit on New Jersey before hitting Pennsylvania. And all I can think is two things: (1) Massachusetts has the worst drivers in the entire U.S. It's a fact, it's been proven by some insurance institute or other. And (2), HOW HIGH IS THAT D*** BRIDGE OVER THE HUDSON GOING TO BE?!?!?!?!?! I am terrified of heights, always have been. Give me childbirth any day. Yet I know he can't come home -- it's the busy season for the railroad that employs him -- and this is his first birthday away from home. And -- well, I promised I wouldn't say anything more about That Other Thing. (See back a few posts.)
Okay, so where's all that Trust In God I'm always telling my kids they should have? Why can't I just say, "OK, Lord, this trip is in Your hands, I'm just going to sit back and enjoy the scenery"?
Because I have 60 years' worth of Other People's Catastrophes rattling around in my brain. The time that a chunk of I-95 came crashing down, and all those cars hurtled into space. The 1989 San Francisco earthquake. TWA Flight 800, a whole lot of schoolchildren on their way to France for their senior trip having no idea that 11 minutes later, they'd be in pieces, floating in the Atlantic Ocean. A cloudless September day, a secretary sitting at her desk with her morning coffee, booting up her computer and looking up to see what that godawful noise was, only to find a jet-engine propeller boring down on her. 9/11.
Things happen.
Ironically, it's not even that I mind the end of life, since I know it won't be an end, but a beginning (I just hope it's a good beginning...). I just don't want to die in terror. I want my last few minutes on earth to be "painless, blameless, without shame or suffering," and I want my last thoughts to be, "Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me," not, "I can't believe this is happening" -- assuming I'm even capable of thought. What do you think about when you find yourself hurtling into nothingness??
It's so old, not wanting to travel and see new places. Old people like to sit at home. Young people like to Go.
Pray for us on this trip.
Monday, June 20, 2005
Saturday, June 18, 2005
What Happens When You Meet...?
As I think I have posted before, I have been steadily transcribing the Matins and Vespers prayers of the Church into my computer, formatting them into a Franklin Compact planner size so that I can take them with me either when I travel, or on my way to class, or just out for a morning walk. It started when I first learned of praying the Hours, when I was 12; something about having a fixed time for praise and supplication has just always fascinated me, and when I came across a Horologion for laymen (now, unfortunately, out of print), I scarfed on it. That was something like 12 years ago. Then I attended the Summer School of Liturgical Music in Jordanville, NY (being at the time a choir director), and learned that there were a whole lot of other prayers that I wasn't praying, and without them, I couldn't learn the music I needed to in order to graduate from the course.
That finished me, and over the past year, I have been transcribing first the Octoechos, then the Triodion, and lately the Pentecostarion. I do have permission from my spiritual father, though he asked, "Did another priest tell you to do this, or is this something you dreamed up on your own?" Once I explained the circumstances to him, he blessed me to keep praying these prayers, and I must say that my understanding of the Church has taken off since reading the various Canons. For example, who knew that the entire week of the Fourth Tone has Canons to the Theotokos asking for her protection specifically from Moslems?? Could have used that around 9/11!
Today I have entered the rubrics for the Matins of the final Saturday of the Souls. There is no form of death that is not covered in these rubrics. It's sobering to read prayers for people who have "been rent asunder by beasts, who have been devoured by fish, or who were buried in earthquakes or pits or under cliffs" -- among many other forms of perishing. And all of them committed into the compassionate hands of the Lover of mankind.
It brings a thought to mind, though. We all have people in our lives whom we just can't stand, who just rub us the wrong way. There are multitudes of people who have seemingly gone out of their way to wrong us. And there are people who have inadvertently wronged us, people who live to stir up trouble, and idiots with whom we share the road. And they all cross our paths at one point or another.
Now, someday, all these people will also die and face God. And what then? I mean, supposing you were already dead, and by God's mercy you found yourself in paradise, and along comes this schmuck who tried to steal your job, or who made your work or school life miserable. And he's standing there before God, being judged, and his life is the usual mess of good stuff and bad stuff that all of us have. You get to see him as he really is, wretched and trembling and possibly terrified at finding himself not in his body anymore. And -- what? Would you really stand there and say, "I hope I don't have to live with this guy in eternity, too"? Because what would be the alternative? Could you really hope *anybody* would spend eternity in hell???
I don't think I could, and I've known some doozies in my lifetime. Thing is, there are people walking around out there who, when they say they've known some doozies in their lifetime -- I'm at the top of their list. Yet I know I hope not to spend eternity in hell, so what makes me better than my own doozies? Which means...either I go to hell, or I'm gonna have to spend eternity with these characters. Including all those wretched teachers who made my son's life so miserable when he was just a kid. You have no idea what forgiveness costs until you have to extend it to somebody who hurt your kid, especially when they should have known better.
Could I really wish them in hell, for eternity??....
That finished me, and over the past year, I have been transcribing first the Octoechos, then the Triodion, and lately the Pentecostarion. I do have permission from my spiritual father, though he asked, "Did another priest tell you to do this, or is this something you dreamed up on your own?" Once I explained the circumstances to him, he blessed me to keep praying these prayers, and I must say that my understanding of the Church has taken off since reading the various Canons. For example, who knew that the entire week of the Fourth Tone has Canons to the Theotokos asking for her protection specifically from Moslems?? Could have used that around 9/11!
Today I have entered the rubrics for the Matins of the final Saturday of the Souls. There is no form of death that is not covered in these rubrics. It's sobering to read prayers for people who have "been rent asunder by beasts, who have been devoured by fish, or who were buried in earthquakes or pits or under cliffs" -- among many other forms of perishing. And all of them committed into the compassionate hands of the Lover of mankind.
It brings a thought to mind, though. We all have people in our lives whom we just can't stand, who just rub us the wrong way. There are multitudes of people who have seemingly gone out of their way to wrong us. And there are people who have inadvertently wronged us, people who live to stir up trouble, and idiots with whom we share the road. And they all cross our paths at one point or another.
Now, someday, all these people will also die and face God. And what then? I mean, supposing you were already dead, and by God's mercy you found yourself in paradise, and along comes this schmuck who tried to steal your job, or who made your work or school life miserable. And he's standing there before God, being judged, and his life is the usual mess of good stuff and bad stuff that all of us have. You get to see him as he really is, wretched and trembling and possibly terrified at finding himself not in his body anymore. And -- what? Would you really stand there and say, "I hope I don't have to live with this guy in eternity, too"? Because what would be the alternative? Could you really hope *anybody* would spend eternity in hell???
I don't think I could, and I've known some doozies in my lifetime. Thing is, there are people walking around out there who, when they say they've known some doozies in their lifetime -- I'm at the top of their list. Yet I know I hope not to spend eternity in hell, so what makes me better than my own doozies? Which means...either I go to hell, or I'm gonna have to spend eternity with these characters. Including all those wretched teachers who made my son's life so miserable when he was just a kid. You have no idea what forgiveness costs until you have to extend it to somebody who hurt your kid, especially when they should have known better.
Could I really wish them in hell, for eternity??....
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Back There Where the Past Was
Visiting my priest yesterday, and since my daughter lives not too far away, I thought I'd pop over and see what she was up to. What she was up to was lying on the sofa, the victim of a tummy bug. She wasn't writhing in agony, and she was able to hold a civilized conversation -- well, as civilized as it can get with an almost-two-year-old showing off all his toys and his Ain't-I-Cute flirty grin, which is very charming, but distracting when all I want to do is swoop her up in my arms and tuck her into bed with tea and toast and lots of mothering. Slight problem: Even when she was a little kid, she always hated that kind of fuss, and now that she's an adult and would probably welcome it -- I'm not quite sure how to go about offering it. And then there's the Grandma Thing: How do I fuss over The Baby without making my own "baby" feel as if her only use in life is producing entertainment for The Grandparents?! I like my kids, not just their offspring!
Once I was back home, a tree service showed up to do some yard work I'd contracted for -- nothing radical, just clearing out some saplings that are growing inconveniently close to the house, and fertilizing a couple of ornamental trees we bought two years ago. (I'm sure I could do this, if I knew what I was doing. With my track record, though, I'd feed them something that would be sure to kill them off.) Got chatting with the cutter, and discovered that (a) he had gone to the same college as my son, and (b) he knew my son, not from the college, but from the place where they both worked. We had a lovely chat about forestry in general and my trees in particular, and my son incidentally; then, when he had gone, I e-mailed my son to tell him this guy had said Hi.
And lurking in the background -- hope I'm not boring anyone with this same old tale -- is an awful awarenesss of two people with whom I once shared daily life, two very special people who just aren't Daily anymore. It's a weird feeling, to visit these adults in their own homes, in the environment they have created for themselves, and some of it is very familiar and some of it is so different, I wonder whose looking glass I stepped through. (Case in point: When we visited our son in November, I walked into his house and found it full of Mission-style furniture. I would never, in a million years, have chosen Mission for him while he was living at home; but the second I saw it, I said, "Yes, this IS Chris." It suits him exactly. Our daughter, on the other hand, has so much furniture from home that walking into her house isn't all that different a feel at all.) It's so strange to see these two competent, capable adults carrying on with the business of life -- and still remember when they really needed a parent to direct that business for them. I'm very proud of them. I wish I could see a whole lot more of both of them.
However, one of the great benefits of having adult children is being able to relate to them on an entirely new and much more equal level. Yesterday my daughter was telling me about a singer named Tom Waite (or it might be Waites, can't remember -- he's generally so far off my radar scope, he's in another dimension), who was described as "Cookie Monster with a fifth of Wild Turkey." And then she put on a Tom Waite CD. I howled -- the imagery was so bang-on accurate! I'll never look at Cookie Monster the same way again! Thanks, Christa.
Once I was back home, a tree service showed up to do some yard work I'd contracted for -- nothing radical, just clearing out some saplings that are growing inconveniently close to the house, and fertilizing a couple of ornamental trees we bought two years ago. (I'm sure I could do this, if I knew what I was doing. With my track record, though, I'd feed them something that would be sure to kill them off.) Got chatting with the cutter, and discovered that (a) he had gone to the same college as my son, and (b) he knew my son, not from the college, but from the place where they both worked. We had a lovely chat about forestry in general and my trees in particular, and my son incidentally; then, when he had gone, I e-mailed my son to tell him this guy had said Hi.
And lurking in the background -- hope I'm not boring anyone with this same old tale -- is an awful awarenesss of two people with whom I once shared daily life, two very special people who just aren't Daily anymore. It's a weird feeling, to visit these adults in their own homes, in the environment they have created for themselves, and some of it is very familiar and some of it is so different, I wonder whose looking glass I stepped through. (Case in point: When we visited our son in November, I walked into his house and found it full of Mission-style furniture. I would never, in a million years, have chosen Mission for him while he was living at home; but the second I saw it, I said, "Yes, this IS Chris." It suits him exactly. Our daughter, on the other hand, has so much furniture from home that walking into her house isn't all that different a feel at all.) It's so strange to see these two competent, capable adults carrying on with the business of life -- and still remember when they really needed a parent to direct that business for them. I'm very proud of them. I wish I could see a whole lot more of both of them.
However, one of the great benefits of having adult children is being able to relate to them on an entirely new and much more equal level. Yesterday my daughter was telling me about a singer named Tom Waite (or it might be Waites, can't remember -- he's generally so far off my radar scope, he's in another dimension), who was described as "Cookie Monster with a fifth of Wild Turkey." And then she put on a Tom Waite CD. I howled -- the imagery was so bang-on accurate! I'll never look at Cookie Monster the same way again! Thanks, Christa.
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
One Last Time, till next year:
Tone 8: It is the day of Resurrection;/ let us be radiant for the festival,/ and let us embrace one another with joy./ Let us say, O brethren, even to those that hate us:/ Let us forgive all things on the Resurrection:/ and thus, let us cry:
Christos anesti ek nekron,/ thanato thanaton patisas,/ ke tis en tis mnimasi, zoin harisamenos!
Christ is risen from the dead,/ trampling down death by death,/ and on those in the tombs bestowing life!
Christos voskrese iz smertvikh,/ smertiu smert poprav,/ i sushnim vo grobekh zhivot darovav!
Christos anesti ek nekron,/ thanato thanaton patisas,/ ke tis en tis mnimasi, zoin harisamenos!
Christ is risen from the dead,/ trampling down death by death,/ and on those in the tombs bestowing life!
Christos voskrese iz smertvikh,/ smertiu smert poprav,/ i sushnim vo grobekh zhivot darovav!
Friday, June 03, 2005
Wow...
I purposely kept this off the other blog, which I know these two read, just so I wouldn't exacerbate the situation. It's been a long, long time since I had to deal with this kind of...well, I guess I'd better not say it. No point making things worse.
I will say this, though. Those of you who are mothers know this: There is no worse pain than watching your kids hurt. You would do anything on earth to stop that pain, and when you can't, you need to talk about it. This is a girl whom we welcomed into our home, were prepared to accept into our family, loved not just because our son did but because she is genuinely loveable -- and to read the kind of response I just have, takes my breath away.
I notice no one is saying anything about dissing me....
I will say this, though. Those of you who are mothers know this: There is no worse pain than watching your kids hurt. You would do anything on earth to stop that pain, and when you can't, you need to talk about it. This is a girl whom we welcomed into our home, were prepared to accept into our family, loved not just because our son did but because she is genuinely loveable -- and to read the kind of response I just have, takes my breath away.
I notice no one is saying anything about dissing me....
Sunday, May 29, 2005
I could *strangle* this girl....
The inevitable has happened: My son and his girlfriend have broken up. I found out by reading his blog (he knows I subscribe), and the whole thing was about what a jerk he is.
So I called him. I'm worried about him; he's out there in PA all by himself, now that Tootsie has broken off their relationship, and I was hoping to find out what had happened.
Are you ready for this?
When they were sharing a home (not "living together," since there was never anything sexual about their relationship), she complained that he "wasn't doing enough around the house." These were the days when he was working 70 hours a week as a bus driver, so fatigued that one day he actually ran a red light; then, when he got his railroad job, he was commuting 90 minutes to work and 90 minutes back home. Not to mention all the snow-shovelling he did this past winter, which I know about because she wrote about it on *her* blog.
Now that he has his own place, she's upset because he Doesn't Communicate with her. So she writes him an e-mail to break off their relationship. This is communication?!?!
This is the same girl who got upset with me because I posted to the list that she had never had any men in her life, as far as living with one went.
This is the same girl who, get this, didn't want us to come and visit our son for his birthday because she was still so upset with me over the "awful things" I had posted to the OrthWomen's list.
This is the same girl who goes to bed at six in the morning, and gets up at two in the afternoon. No job, she Just Doesn't Sleep Well at Night.
And my son is walking around feeling like a jerk?!?!
It's taking all my self-control not to e-mail her and LET HER HAVE IT!!!!!
So I called him. I'm worried about him; he's out there in PA all by himself, now that Tootsie has broken off their relationship, and I was hoping to find out what had happened.
Are you ready for this?
When they were sharing a home (not "living together," since there was never anything sexual about their relationship), she complained that he "wasn't doing enough around the house." These were the days when he was working 70 hours a week as a bus driver, so fatigued that one day he actually ran a red light; then, when he got his railroad job, he was commuting 90 minutes to work and 90 minutes back home. Not to mention all the snow-shovelling he did this past winter, which I know about because she wrote about it on *her* blog.
Now that he has his own place, she's upset because he Doesn't Communicate with her. So she writes him an e-mail to break off their relationship. This is communication?!?!
This is the same girl who got upset with me because I posted to the list that she had never had any men in her life, as far as living with one went.
This is the same girl who, get this, didn't want us to come and visit our son for his birthday because she was still so upset with me over the "awful things" I had posted to the OrthWomen's list.
This is the same girl who goes to bed at six in the morning, and gets up at two in the afternoon. No job, she Just Doesn't Sleep Well at Night.
And my son is walking around feeling like a jerk?!?!
It's taking all my self-control not to e-mail her and LET HER HAVE IT!!!!!
Thursday, May 19, 2005
Cancel New Address
I just realized -- I have no means of notifying anyone who reads this that I changed my address. So CANCEL THAT NOTICE about the new address: It remains www.nepsis.blogspot.com.
I hope this is comprehensible. Clear as mud, probably.
I hope this is comprehensible. Clear as mud, probably.
Nicholas & Alexandra & Jim & Meg
Description of May 17th:
Wedding: $300 or so, including the gown, the rings, and the food for the reception (it was 1969, my dad was on strike, so we held the reception at the house).
Honeymoon: $200 or so (we stayed at the weekend home of my husband's cousin).
Three years in Germany: free (he was in the service).
First home: $250/mo. rent, plus, let's see, I think $750 for the furniture (bedroom suite, sofa, and kitchen table and chairs. Everything else we cadged from the homes we had grown up in).
Kids: Don't even go there. One moved out at 24, the other at 25, so figure 29 years' worth of exponentially increasing expenses. My only regret: not having more kids.
36 years together: priceless.
And now, as the Buddhists say: After ecstasy, the laundry. Not that I mind doing laundry. Just coming down off the high of the past three days of having that Special Someone all to myself. Why read Anna Karenina, the story of adultery and its fruits, when I can read about one of the greatest love affairs of all time?
Currently Reading: Nicholas and Alexandra
Wedding: $300 or so, including the gown, the rings, and the food for the reception (it was 1969, my dad was on strike, so we held the reception at the house).
Honeymoon: $200 or so (we stayed at the weekend home of my husband's cousin).
Three years in Germany: free (he was in the service).
First home: $250/mo. rent, plus, let's see, I think $750 for the furniture (bedroom suite, sofa, and kitchen table and chairs. Everything else we cadged from the homes we had grown up in).
Kids: Don't even go there. One moved out at 24, the other at 25, so figure 29 years' worth of exponentially increasing expenses. My only regret: not having more kids.
36 years together: priceless.
And now, as the Buddhists say: After ecstasy, the laundry. Not that I mind doing laundry. Just coming down off the high of the past three days of having that Special Someone all to myself. Why read Anna Karenina, the story of adultery and its fruits, when I can read about one of the greatest love affairs of all time?
Currently Reading: Nicholas and Alexandra
Monday, May 16, 2005
New Blog Address
To my intrepid readers who have been accessing my site as www.nepsis.blogspot.com: I have just changed my address to www.muttonings.blogspot.com. Makes it easier for me to find my blog. ;-)
Sunday, May 08, 2005
Reflections on Motherhood
1. I always knew my kids would grow up and move out. I just wish they had moved out closer.
2. Looking around this house, I can see that it was time for them to move out when they did. Actually, it was time for them to move out before they did. You really do outgrow a house.
3. I wonder if everything important in life assumes an air of unreality when it's over. I'm having a hard time believing I ever actually lived in Germany. I'm having a hard time believing we ever shared this house with two other people.
4. I guess that, although it was time for them to move out, I would have liked to know them better as adults before they did.
5. Rooms that seemed so big when you were small, become so small once you're big.
6. Overall, I can't think of anything I'd change in my motherhood techniques, such as they were. They weren't perfect, but they did produce two spectacular people.
7. I do wish we had played more board games as a family.
8. Once they're gone, they're gone. Even when you do see them, they have become such different people that you wonder if this is the same person you shared a life with.
9. If I had known these things when I was younger, I wonder if I would have been nicer to my mother.
10. On the other hand, I wonder if my mother would have been nicer to me, if she had realized these things when she was younger.
Happy Mother's Day.
2. Looking around this house, I can see that it was time for them to move out when they did. Actually, it was time for them to move out before they did. You really do outgrow a house.
3. I wonder if everything important in life assumes an air of unreality when it's over. I'm having a hard time believing I ever actually lived in Germany. I'm having a hard time believing we ever shared this house with two other people.
4. I guess that, although it was time for them to move out, I would have liked to know them better as adults before they did.
5. Rooms that seemed so big when you were small, become so small once you're big.
6. Overall, I can't think of anything I'd change in my motherhood techniques, such as they were. They weren't perfect, but they did produce two spectacular people.
7. I do wish we had played more board games as a family.
8. Once they're gone, they're gone. Even when you do see them, they have become such different people that you wonder if this is the same person you shared a life with.
9. If I had known these things when I was younger, I wonder if I would have been nicer to my mother.
10. On the other hand, I wonder if my mother would have been nicer to me, if she had realized these things when she was younger.
Happy Mother's Day.
Sunday, May 01, 2005
Christos voskres!
Well, it rained last night, so I missed the Resurrection service, too. I must admit that was a mixed curse, since, as a morning person, the midnight services has always been especially rough on me. But the sheer beauty and joy of it has always carried me through. Not this year, though.
On the other hand, I woke up a lot during the night. And every time I woke up, I'd think, "Christ is risen!" smile, and go back to sleep. Now it's 5:00 a.m. (5-ish, anyway), and I'm up for the day.
Spent yesterday baking two kulichi, that Russian Easter bread that is full of all the cholesterol we've been denying ourselves for seven weeks, all the butter and eggs (for cream and cheese, there's the pascha, which also has butter in it). The one kulich is for the Agape Vespers my parish in Saco is having; everyone was invited to bring something special from their paschal tradition, and since the parish is now about 70% Greek and 30% convert, there's at least a chance we'll get something other than roast lamb and baklava. Like, well, pascha and kulich.
The second kulich is something I was asked to do at the beginning of the semester. Every Monday afternoon, my Russian class holds something called "chaipitye," or tea-drinking, which is supposed to be a chance for us to sample Russian food and talk about Russian topics (in English, thankfully!). I was asked if I could provide something paschal for this meal. I e-mailed my one Russian prof yesterday as it was baking, and this morning, her comment: "My mouth is watering just reading this. I cannot wait to taste everything." The irony is, this particular professor is Jewish -- non-practicing, at that -- and my other professor is an out-and-out communist. I should see if I can find an icon of the Resurrection online, and print out and bring that along with a couple of my other icons. After all, this is an Orthodox feast. (I am so bad.)
CHRIST IS RISEN! TRULY HE IS RISEN!! Best news I've had all year.
On the other hand, I woke up a lot during the night. And every time I woke up, I'd think, "Christ is risen!" smile, and go back to sleep. Now it's 5:00 a.m. (5-ish, anyway), and I'm up for the day.
Spent yesterday baking two kulichi, that Russian Easter bread that is full of all the cholesterol we've been denying ourselves for seven weeks, all the butter and eggs (for cream and cheese, there's the pascha, which also has butter in it). The one kulich is for the Agape Vespers my parish in Saco is having; everyone was invited to bring something special from their paschal tradition, and since the parish is now about 70% Greek and 30% convert, there's at least a chance we'll get something other than roast lamb and baklava. Like, well, pascha and kulich.
The second kulich is something I was asked to do at the beginning of the semester. Every Monday afternoon, my Russian class holds something called "chaipitye," or tea-drinking, which is supposed to be a chance for us to sample Russian food and talk about Russian topics (in English, thankfully!). I was asked if I could provide something paschal for this meal. I e-mailed my one Russian prof yesterday as it was baking, and this morning, her comment: "My mouth is watering just reading this. I cannot wait to taste everything." The irony is, this particular professor is Jewish -- non-practicing, at that -- and my other professor is an out-and-out communist. I should see if I can find an icon of the Resurrection online, and print out and bring that along with a couple of my other icons. After all, this is an Orthodox feast. (I am so bad.)
CHRIST IS RISEN! TRULY HE IS RISEN!! Best news I've had all year.
Friday, April 29, 2005
Out of the depths have I cried unto Thee, O Lord...
From yesterday's high, crashing back into reality. I will not be able to attend any more services until the Agape Vespers on Sunday -- and even after that, I won't be able to stay as long as I'd like.
I drove back, that whole 40 miles, this morning, just so I could be at the Royal Hours. That was good till about 11:00 a.m., and then I had to come back home, in theory, so I could bake kulich (but I didn't. I did some laundry, then spent a lot of time on a prayerbook I'm making for myself). And I've spent the afternoon kicking myself for not having hung around for the Vespers of the Unnailing, which took place at 3:00. The Greeks do something very beautiful -- my former ROCOR parish didn't do this, so I don't know if Russians have this custom -- the Greeks have a structure that represents the Tomb of Christ, and right after the Royal Hours, they decorate this Tomb with flowers and set it on the solea in front of the Royal Doors. At the Vespers of the Unnailing, they take the icon of the Body of Christ down off the cross, process around the church with it, and place it in the Tomb. Then, at night, everybody goes up to venerate the shrouded Body, and during the Lamentations the Tomb is taken off its stand and paraded out into the street, while the entire church follows it holding candles and singing, "Holy God, Holy Mighty, Holy Immortal, have mercy on us." The Tomb is processed around the church, then held high above the door so that everybody can pass under it. At the end of the service, everyone gets a flower off the Tomb.
I could have stayed and helped decorate the Tomb. I could have had Orthodox fellowship with people I really enjoy. Instead, I was Conscientious and came home, and have been wallowing in isolation ever since. This Lone Orthodox business is FOR THE BIRDS. I want my Pascha! I want fellowship! I want to be with other people who know how beautiful an Orthodox life is!
I drove back, that whole 40 miles, this morning, just so I could be at the Royal Hours. That was good till about 11:00 a.m., and then I had to come back home, in theory, so I could bake kulich (but I didn't. I did some laundry, then spent a lot of time on a prayerbook I'm making for myself). And I've spent the afternoon kicking myself for not having hung around for the Vespers of the Unnailing, which took place at 3:00. The Greeks do something very beautiful -- my former ROCOR parish didn't do this, so I don't know if Russians have this custom -- the Greeks have a structure that represents the Tomb of Christ, and right after the Royal Hours, they decorate this Tomb with flowers and set it on the solea in front of the Royal Doors. At the Vespers of the Unnailing, they take the icon of the Body of Christ down off the cross, process around the church with it, and place it in the Tomb. Then, at night, everybody goes up to venerate the shrouded Body, and during the Lamentations the Tomb is taken off its stand and paraded out into the street, while the entire church follows it holding candles and singing, "Holy God, Holy Mighty, Holy Immortal, have mercy on us." The Tomb is processed around the church, then held high above the door so that everybody can pass under it. At the end of the service, everyone gets a flower off the Tomb.
I could have stayed and helped decorate the Tomb. I could have had Orthodox fellowship with people I really enjoy. Instead, I was Conscientious and came home, and have been wallowing in isolation ever since. This Lone Orthodox business is FOR THE BIRDS. I want my Pascha! I want fellowship! I want to be with other people who know how beautiful an Orthodox life is!
Thursday, April 28, 2005
Surfacing (glub)
A comment from a new subscriber (Hi, Mimi!) reminded me -- oh, yeah. There's a world of blogs out there, from which I have been noticeably absent lo these past two weeks. Hello, time to rejoin the human race.
Well... No, that hasn't been my problem, exactly. My problem has been more, the Dative Case in Russian, followed by the Instrumental Case, and the attendant humongous vocabulary lists. Tell me, who in their right mind starts to study Russian when they are pushing 60?!?!?!
And Holy Week hasn't helped. In fact, neither has Great Lent. It's just been the most mixed-up, squirrelly Lent I think I've ever experienced. Nothing earth-shattering, apart, of course, from having my son's Significant Other explode in my face because of the comments I posted about my son's situation on the OrthWomen's list. (Still haven't heard from her, BTW.) But you know how, when you wake up late, you spend all day trying to catch up? That's how all of Lent has been. Now it's Holy Week, the Bridegroom is at the door, and never mind running out of oil, I can't even find the dratted lamp.
Fortunately for all of us, but especially a scatterbrain like me, God is God; and being God, He is so phenomenally merciful and doggone good. I went to Liturgy this morning in a parish that's 40 miles away, which I attend every other week (the parish that's closer has Liturgy every other Sunday, so it works out). This particular parish is in Saco, ME, right on the southern shore of the state, and it's about an hour's drive from where I live in Rochester, NH. I like the priest because he is very conservative and very aware of the need for a spiritual life, as opposed to some of the Greeks I've met who truly believe the Church is about preserving Greek culture.
For reasons I have yet to fathom, this parish has Holy Thursday Liturgy at 6:00 a.m. Not too big a problem for me, since I'm a morning person anyway, except that I do have to be up at around 4:30 a.m. so I can leave the house by 5:00, to get there by 6:00. That didn't happen today, but even so, I only missed about the first 15 minutes. So I get there, they're just reading the Epistle, and then that long, long Gospel (just think of Christ on the cross, if you want to think in terms of long -- must have seemed like all of eternity to Him), and then comes the Cherubic Hymn.
Now, there are three people standing at the Chanter's Stand, but it's pretty obvious none of them have a clue what to do next. So yours truly, former choir director and person-who-sang-before-she-could-talk (according to my aunt), started singing. Great Entrance occurs, and the next Big Hymn comes, as we all know, right after the Epiclesis: "In thee rejoiceth." By this time, I've figured out that apart from the two priests celebrating, I am the only person in this building at this time who knows the music, so I sing a bit more strongly. Finish that hymn, and about five minutes later, I feel a tap on my shoulder. It's one of the people from the Chanter's Stand: "Could you please come over and give us a hand?"
OH SURE. YES! ABSOLUTELY!! Ask me if I want to breathe! The only reason I wasn't there faster is that I haven't learned to fly. After Liturgy I received several comments on how nice my voice was, and why wasn't I singing in the choir, to which I answered, quite honestly, "They sing too low for me." And they do. Last time I tried to sing that low, I got nodes on my vocal cords and had to stop singing for two years before they healed. But you know -- it was so nice to sing again as a cantor, something I haven't done since Fr. Dean left in 2001 (I acquired the nodes under his successor).
Thank you, God, for letting me use this particular gift today. I appreciated Your heads-up that maybe this Lent wasn't the bust I feel like it's been.
Well... No, that hasn't been my problem, exactly. My problem has been more, the Dative Case in Russian, followed by the Instrumental Case, and the attendant humongous vocabulary lists. Tell me, who in their right mind starts to study Russian when they are pushing 60?!?!?!
And Holy Week hasn't helped. In fact, neither has Great Lent. It's just been the most mixed-up, squirrelly Lent I think I've ever experienced. Nothing earth-shattering, apart, of course, from having my son's Significant Other explode in my face because of the comments I posted about my son's situation on the OrthWomen's list. (Still haven't heard from her, BTW.) But you know how, when you wake up late, you spend all day trying to catch up? That's how all of Lent has been. Now it's Holy Week, the Bridegroom is at the door, and never mind running out of oil, I can't even find the dratted lamp.
Fortunately for all of us, but especially a scatterbrain like me, God is God; and being God, He is so phenomenally merciful and doggone good. I went to Liturgy this morning in a parish that's 40 miles away, which I attend every other week (the parish that's closer has Liturgy every other Sunday, so it works out). This particular parish is in Saco, ME, right on the southern shore of the state, and it's about an hour's drive from where I live in Rochester, NH. I like the priest because he is very conservative and very aware of the need for a spiritual life, as opposed to some of the Greeks I've met who truly believe the Church is about preserving Greek culture.
For reasons I have yet to fathom, this parish has Holy Thursday Liturgy at 6:00 a.m. Not too big a problem for me, since I'm a morning person anyway, except that I do have to be up at around 4:30 a.m. so I can leave the house by 5:00, to get there by 6:00. That didn't happen today, but even so, I only missed about the first 15 minutes. So I get there, they're just reading the Epistle, and then that long, long Gospel (just think of Christ on the cross, if you want to think in terms of long -- must have seemed like all of eternity to Him), and then comes the Cherubic Hymn.
Now, there are three people standing at the Chanter's Stand, but it's pretty obvious none of them have a clue what to do next. So yours truly, former choir director and person-who-sang-before-she-could-talk (according to my aunt), started singing. Great Entrance occurs, and the next Big Hymn comes, as we all know, right after the Epiclesis: "In thee rejoiceth." By this time, I've figured out that apart from the two priests celebrating, I am the only person in this building at this time who knows the music, so I sing a bit more strongly. Finish that hymn, and about five minutes later, I feel a tap on my shoulder. It's one of the people from the Chanter's Stand: "Could you please come over and give us a hand?"
OH SURE. YES! ABSOLUTELY!! Ask me if I want to breathe! The only reason I wasn't there faster is that I haven't learned to fly. After Liturgy I received several comments on how nice my voice was, and why wasn't I singing in the choir, to which I answered, quite honestly, "They sing too low for me." And they do. Last time I tried to sing that low, I got nodes on my vocal cords and had to stop singing for two years before they healed. But you know -- it was so nice to sing again as a cantor, something I haven't done since Fr. Dean left in 2001 (I acquired the nodes under his successor).
Thank you, God, for letting me use this particular gift today. I appreciated Your heads-up that maybe this Lent wasn't the bust I feel like it's been.
Sunday, April 17, 2005
Wacko Drivers
Church in Maine today, one of the two parishes we visit regularly (the other parish is very small, and only has services every other week). During the sermon, the priest mentioned that it has been a very tough Lent for him, and that got my attention, since every Orthodox Christian I know has said this has been an unusually tough Lent. I wonder why?
Afterwards, we drove to our daughter's house for lunch. Our daughter became a Catholic a year or two after her marriage, so for them Easter is long over, and she had -- meat. Just meat. Around 3:30, just as we were thinking of getting underway, she trotted out the strawberries she'd been saving for dessert. That's the kind of Lent it's been. We did have a nice visit, if you ignore the counter-cultural Orthodox bits -- and the fact that the Orthodox "bits" are your whole life, somehow gets lost in translation. I'm still trying to figure out how to get that across.
Anyway, after a truly lovely afternoon we drove home our usual way. As we took a turn-off onto a side road, a van shot past us and one of the passengers yelled something at us. A mile or so later, we were on another highway -- also part of our usual route -- and the same van pulled up hard on our bumper, then passed, forcing us into the breakdown lane to avoid getting our bumper clipped, and gave us the finger once it was in front of us -- sped off down the road, having narrowly missed oncoming traffic. I hate warm weather, it brings out all the nuts. (I should add that my husband was driving the speed limit, which was 55 mph.)
Three or four miles down the road, we pulled up to a traffic light, right behind the green van. The light turned, the van didn't move, and my husband tapped the horn. The driver started up -- came to a dead stop so that we were smack in the middle of the intersection -- then took off with a roar, and a few hundred yards down the road, made a left into a gas station. I didn't like the look of that. Sure enough, shortly thereafter, who do we see in our rear-view mirror again. This time, we were close to a State Police barracks, so my husband pulled into the parking lot, giving Tootsie a chance to get a decent distance down the road. And that was the end of that -- we thought.
We get all the way into Sanford, which is about 15 miles from where all this started, and whom do we see in the left-turn lane? Fortunately (we thought) we were going straight, so we did, and Tootsie made her left. Suddenly my husband pulls hard into a side street and heads down, glancing into his rear-view mirror -- this chick had made a U-turn after making her left, and was pursuing us down the main road out of Sanford. Can you say "stalking"?
The side street seems to have done the trick; we got back onto an intersecting main road, and got home by another way. I just hope this idiot isn't roaming the streets of our town, looking in each and every driveway for our car.
What is it with female drivers, anyway?! I used to get so offended when I was young, and men would make remarks about Female (or Women) Drivers; but so help me, they were right. All the worst drivers around here are women, and I don't understand why.
Afterwards, we drove to our daughter's house for lunch. Our daughter became a Catholic a year or two after her marriage, so for them Easter is long over, and she had -- meat. Just meat. Around 3:30, just as we were thinking of getting underway, she trotted out the strawberries she'd been saving for dessert. That's the kind of Lent it's been. We did have a nice visit, if you ignore the counter-cultural Orthodox bits -- and the fact that the Orthodox "bits" are your whole life, somehow gets lost in translation. I'm still trying to figure out how to get that across.
Anyway, after a truly lovely afternoon we drove home our usual way. As we took a turn-off onto a side road, a van shot past us and one of the passengers yelled something at us. A mile or so later, we were on another highway -- also part of our usual route -- and the same van pulled up hard on our bumper, then passed, forcing us into the breakdown lane to avoid getting our bumper clipped, and gave us the finger once it was in front of us -- sped off down the road, having narrowly missed oncoming traffic. I hate warm weather, it brings out all the nuts. (I should add that my husband was driving the speed limit, which was 55 mph.)
Three or four miles down the road, we pulled up to a traffic light, right behind the green van. The light turned, the van didn't move, and my husband tapped the horn. The driver started up -- came to a dead stop so that we were smack in the middle of the intersection -- then took off with a roar, and a few hundred yards down the road, made a left into a gas station. I didn't like the look of that. Sure enough, shortly thereafter, who do we see in our rear-view mirror again. This time, we were close to a State Police barracks, so my husband pulled into the parking lot, giving Tootsie a chance to get a decent distance down the road. And that was the end of that -- we thought.
We get all the way into Sanford, which is about 15 miles from where all this started, and whom do we see in the left-turn lane? Fortunately (we thought) we were going straight, so we did, and Tootsie made her left. Suddenly my husband pulls hard into a side street and heads down, glancing into his rear-view mirror -- this chick had made a U-turn after making her left, and was pursuing us down the main road out of Sanford. Can you say "stalking"?
The side street seems to have done the trick; we got back onto an intersecting main road, and got home by another way. I just hope this idiot isn't roaming the streets of our town, looking in each and every driveway for our car.
What is it with female drivers, anyway?! I used to get so offended when I was young, and men would make remarks about Female (or Women) Drivers; but so help me, they were right. All the worst drivers around here are women, and I don't understand why.
Saturday, April 09, 2005
So Much for Silence
For the time being, since I seem to have a whopping two subscribers, both of whom know my situation, I think I can discuss it fairly freely here.
Thanks to both of you for your insight and comments. If it were a question of sinfulness, yes, being made aware of it would be a very good thing, painful though it might be. What's more painful is the frustration, as one of you so accurately pinpointed, of having to apologize for an offense inadvertently given -- that's nothing, we all do that -- but not having it accepted, and also, the notion that the remarks I made were a deliberate attempt at character assassination. Once people put their own spin on your actions, nothing you say or do makes any difference; and as you both know, this is an important relationship in my life.
I'm glad, too, to have the input on silence not being a good thing, since the description of "bad" silence -- a prison -- is exactly what this is becoming: a place to be stuck in, where my letters are not answered and my phone calls not returned, and I just don't know where else to go from here.
The answer, I guess, is patience, the hope that over time, being distanced from me will get to be more of a disadvantage than an advantage. I do have one ace in the hole: my son's favorite recipes. (The way to a man's heart...) I used to share them, but have by no means given them all out, so when he gets sick of having the same five recipes over and over, maybe then I'll hear from his Significant Other. But at this point, as things stand, I don't see what else I can do for these people, and racking my brains for a solution is wearing, to say the least.
Thanks, ladies -- your input was a big help.
Thanks to both of you for your insight and comments. If it were a question of sinfulness, yes, being made aware of it would be a very good thing, painful though it might be. What's more painful is the frustration, as one of you so accurately pinpointed, of having to apologize for an offense inadvertently given -- that's nothing, we all do that -- but not having it accepted, and also, the notion that the remarks I made were a deliberate attempt at character assassination. Once people put their own spin on your actions, nothing you say or do makes any difference; and as you both know, this is an important relationship in my life.
I'm glad, too, to have the input on silence not being a good thing, since the description of "bad" silence -- a prison -- is exactly what this is becoming: a place to be stuck in, where my letters are not answered and my phone calls not returned, and I just don't know where else to go from here.
The answer, I guess, is patience, the hope that over time, being distanced from me will get to be more of a disadvantage than an advantage. I do have one ace in the hole: my son's favorite recipes. (The way to a man's heart...) I used to share them, but have by no means given them all out, so when he gets sick of having the same five recipes over and over, maybe then I'll hear from his Significant Other. But at this point, as things stand, I don't see what else I can do for these people, and racking my brains for a solution is wearing, to say the least.
Thanks, ladies -- your input was a big help.
Friday, April 08, 2005
The Silence of the Mutton
Recent events, which I would prefer not to discuss publicly, have had me thinking about the possibility of observing an overall silence -- including shutting down my blogs. In looking back over my life, one consistent thread has emerged: It seems I can't open my mouth without somebody taking offense. I can say the most innocuous thing, such as expressing an admiration for German culture, and in somebody's mind, this automatically turns me into a Nazi. (Yes, this actually happened.) Sort of like me telling my mother-in-law that I hoped my kids would get to spend junior year abroad (they didn't), and her telling my husband that I was planning to throw them out of the house when they turned twenty.
So it's a serious temptation just to say nothing. Not nothing offensive, since that seems to be impossible: Nothing. Just my prayers. It's radical, it would almost certainly lead to isolation, which is never good, but then, neither is offending people, so who cares?
And then I opened my e-mail Inbox, and I read this:
The Spiritual Senses: St. Mark 7:31-37, especially vs. 34: “Then, looking up to heaven, [Jesus] sighed, and said to him, ‘Ephphatha,’ that is, ‘Be opened.’” Read here of a man who could neither hear nor use his ordinary physical organs of speech. However, the man heard the command, “Ephphatha!,” and “...he spoke plainly” (vs. 35). After that, there was no silencing the man nor his friends.
Who has not encountered terrible seasons when the spiritual senses are closed off to God? The Prophet David knew such inner silence and darkness: “And now, what is my patient endurance? Is it not the Lord? Yea, my hope is from Thee. From all mine iniquities deliver me; Thou hast made me a reproach to the foolish. I was dumb and opened not my mouth, for Thou hast made me. Take away from me Thy scourges...” (Ps. 39:10-13 LXX). (From the Bible study Yahoogroup Dynamis)
I'm not sure what exactly to think about this. But it was plainly the will of our Lord that this man be able to speak; in other words, not speaking was not a good thing, and He made it possible for this man to speak.
So, I guess this is also His will for me, considering that this particular reflection came into my life on the precise day I was seriously considering giving up speech; also considering that I still have the use of my vocal cords. After all, if He didn't want me to speak, I could have developed laryngeal cancer or something. As for giving offense, though -- I'm not sure there's much I can do about that, other than shutting up permanently. I can't control what people choose to read into what I have to say. I do my best to keep it non-offensive as it is, so total silence really does seem to be the only alternative; and since that's evidently not the Will of God, well.... Chill. Stop putting words into my mouth, and thoughts into my head, that aren't there. You know who you are.
So it's a serious temptation just to say nothing. Not nothing offensive, since that seems to be impossible: Nothing. Just my prayers. It's radical, it would almost certainly lead to isolation, which is never good, but then, neither is offending people, so who cares?
And then I opened my e-mail Inbox, and I read this:
The Spiritual Senses: St. Mark 7:31-37, especially vs. 34: “Then, looking up to heaven, [Jesus] sighed, and said to him, ‘Ephphatha,’ that is, ‘Be opened.’” Read here of a man who could neither hear nor use his ordinary physical organs of speech. However, the man heard the command, “Ephphatha!,” and “...he spoke plainly” (vs. 35). After that, there was no silencing the man nor his friends.
Who has not encountered terrible seasons when the spiritual senses are closed off to God? The Prophet David knew such inner silence and darkness: “And now, what is my patient endurance? Is it not the Lord? Yea, my hope is from Thee. From all mine iniquities deliver me; Thou hast made me a reproach to the foolish. I was dumb and opened not my mouth, for Thou hast made me. Take away from me Thy scourges...” (Ps. 39:10-13 LXX). (From the Bible study Yahoogroup Dynamis)
I'm not sure what exactly to think about this. But it was plainly the will of our Lord that this man be able to speak; in other words, not speaking was not a good thing, and He made it possible for this man to speak.
So, I guess this is also His will for me, considering that this particular reflection came into my life on the precise day I was seriously considering giving up speech; also considering that I still have the use of my vocal cords. After all, if He didn't want me to speak, I could have developed laryngeal cancer or something. As for giving offense, though -- I'm not sure there's much I can do about that, other than shutting up permanently. I can't control what people choose to read into what I have to say. I do my best to keep it non-offensive as it is, so total silence really does seem to be the only alternative; and since that's evidently not the Will of God, well.... Chill. Stop putting words into my mouth, and thoughts into my head, that aren't there. You know who you are.
Monday, April 04, 2005
To Be the Tree
If you ever get a chance, try to locate a recording of Krysztow Penderecki's "St. Luke Passion." Penderecki is/was a very modern composer (I'm not sure if he's still alive), so this particular Passion is a chaos of some of the most god-awful sounds human voices can make. But I recommend it because of the very, very last chord of the piece, when three four-part choirs come together for the final "GLORIA!" -- a masterpiece of harmony, when you suddenly realize that the piece had to be chaotic, because the Crucifixion was a triumph of chaos -- but God's perfect harmony is still more triumphant. What genius.
Yesterday, as I'm sure we all know, was the Feast of the Holy Cross. In typing up the material for this Sunday, I was struck by this Ode from Canticle Nine of the Canon: Let all the trees of the forest dance and sing, as they behold their fellow tree, the Cross, today receiving veneration: for Christ, as holy David prophesied, hath exalted it on high. Some years ago, I belonged to an Orthodox list, now sadly defunct, on which we encouraged one another to write poetry about specific events. This was my offering for September 14, the Elevation of the Cross:
To Be the Tree
"Cursed is he who hangs," they say,/ as though there were nothing worse./ But I tell you, to be the tree,/ on which hangs the One Who created me/ -- now that's a curse.
No matter to me He rose from the dead./ I hide myself for shame./ Those others with me, on whom others died,/ in terror and trembling also hide,/ for fear of the flame.
Three hundred years I lay in the earth/ before I felt it turning./ Now, in the light of day I stand,/ exposed to all by a woman's hand,/ and await my burning.
But wait! What does St. Helena say?/ "Behold the life-giving Tree/ by which salvation came to man!"/ Even I, it seems, was part of God's plan./ Salvation comes -- even for me.
Let all the trees of the forest dance and sing, as they behold their fellow tree, the Cross, today receiving veneration....
Yesterday, as I'm sure we all know, was the Feast of the Holy Cross. In typing up the material for this Sunday, I was struck by this Ode from Canticle Nine of the Canon: Let all the trees of the forest dance and sing, as they behold their fellow tree, the Cross, today receiving veneration: for Christ, as holy David prophesied, hath exalted it on high. Some years ago, I belonged to an Orthodox list, now sadly defunct, on which we encouraged one another to write poetry about specific events. This was my offering for September 14, the Elevation of the Cross:
To Be the Tree
"Cursed is he who hangs," they say,/ as though there were nothing worse./ But I tell you, to be the tree,/ on which hangs the One Who created me/ -- now that's a curse.
No matter to me He rose from the dead./ I hide myself for shame./ Those others with me, on whom others died,/ in terror and trembling also hide,/ for fear of the flame.
Three hundred years I lay in the earth/ before I felt it turning./ Now, in the light of day I stand,/ exposed to all by a woman's hand,/ and await my burning.
But wait! What does St. Helena say?/ "Behold the life-giving Tree/ by which salvation came to man!"/ Even I, it seems, was part of God's plan./ Salvation comes -- even for me.
Let all the trees of the forest dance and sing, as they behold their fellow tree, the Cross, today receiving veneration....
Saturday, April 02, 2005
Addendum
I just realized that in these times of excessive Political Correctness, the final paragraph of my last entry may offend somebody; so I should clarify that the word "Polak" is simply the Polish word for a man of Polish descent. I grew up hearing about "good Polaks," and never realized it was anything but a compliment until I was married and said that to somebody, who automatically assumed I was being facetious as well as anti-Polish. Some people assume too danged much.
From one "Polak" to Another...
This afternoon, my husband and I drove to a local restaurant to celebrate my stepfather's 90th birthday, which was yesterday. We had a wonderful time, and around 2:30 we started drifting out of the restaurant on our way home. As Jim and I left the restaurant, one of my brothers, on his way out of the parking lot, rolled down his window and said, "Turn on the radio when you get into the car -- the Pope just died."
This particular Pope is very special to me because he was Polish, and my stepfather (who's really the only father I've ever known -- mine died when I was two, and my mother remarried when I was three) is also Polish; his mother was a Polish farmgirl from the Lodz area, and his father came from a rather more cultured family in, I believe, Krakow, the Pope's hometown. My grandmother used to refer to him as her "boyfriend," and kept a large portrait of him -- maybe 24" x 48" -- in a place of honor on her wall. She was so thrilled when he was elected. Although I left the Catholic Church right around the time he was elected, I always felt that he was a "good" Pope, in the sense that it was obvious he truly cared for his Church and for his vocation as its temporal leader. It was never about power for him. I felt bad for him because it must have become obvious to him, as the years went on, that he would never be able to undo the damage caused by Paul VI; but he had to keep trying. Now he can rest from his labors.
My husband and I were just speculating about the next Pope, where he might be from and what direction he might take, and I realized: Religiously, it's not going to affect me. For the first time in my life, the election of a Pope will have no direct affect on me. Will the new Pope choose to admit women to the priesthood, or reinstate liberation theology (Marxism in a cassock)? Or will he affirm the policies of John Paul II and continue to try to stem the liturgical abuses that have eviscerated Catholicism? I don't know, and I almost don't care, except that whichever direction he takes will affect everyone in the world -- that's the nature of being the leader of a large body of human beings. Whichever direction he chooses, he's bound to annoy somebody; somebody, somewhere, will declare that "this is the final nail in the coffin of the Catholic Church." What a very great shame, how sad, that people who are depending on this man to be their shepherd will continue to be buffeted about spiritually, just when and where they are at their most vulnerable. For their sakes, I do care.
Meanwhile, on a much more personal level, I'm dealing with the dichotomy between life and death: The 90th birthday party of one old Polak, and the death of another Polak five years his junior (John Paul II would have turned 85 this year). The old Polish song, "Sto lat," "May you live to be 100 years," keeps drifting through my head. It was sung so often for the Pope. It's sung at every Polish celebration, and I heard it many times, growing up. Sto lat, Francziszek Swienty (not my maiden name, but close); may your memory be eternal, Karol Wojtyla -- our Polish Pope.
This particular Pope is very special to me because he was Polish, and my stepfather (who's really the only father I've ever known -- mine died when I was two, and my mother remarried when I was three) is also Polish; his mother was a Polish farmgirl from the Lodz area, and his father came from a rather more cultured family in, I believe, Krakow, the Pope's hometown. My grandmother used to refer to him as her "boyfriend," and kept a large portrait of him -- maybe 24" x 48" -- in a place of honor on her wall. She was so thrilled when he was elected. Although I left the Catholic Church right around the time he was elected, I always felt that he was a "good" Pope, in the sense that it was obvious he truly cared for his Church and for his vocation as its temporal leader. It was never about power for him. I felt bad for him because it must have become obvious to him, as the years went on, that he would never be able to undo the damage caused by Paul VI; but he had to keep trying. Now he can rest from his labors.
My husband and I were just speculating about the next Pope, where he might be from and what direction he might take, and I realized: Religiously, it's not going to affect me. For the first time in my life, the election of a Pope will have no direct affect on me. Will the new Pope choose to admit women to the priesthood, or reinstate liberation theology (Marxism in a cassock)? Or will he affirm the policies of John Paul II and continue to try to stem the liturgical abuses that have eviscerated Catholicism? I don't know, and I almost don't care, except that whichever direction he takes will affect everyone in the world -- that's the nature of being the leader of a large body of human beings. Whichever direction he chooses, he's bound to annoy somebody; somebody, somewhere, will declare that "this is the final nail in the coffin of the Catholic Church." What a very great shame, how sad, that people who are depending on this man to be their shepherd will continue to be buffeted about spiritually, just when and where they are at their most vulnerable. For their sakes, I do care.
Meanwhile, on a much more personal level, I'm dealing with the dichotomy between life and death: The 90th birthday party of one old Polak, and the death of another Polak five years his junior (John Paul II would have turned 85 this year). The old Polish song, "Sto lat," "May you live to be 100 years," keeps drifting through my head. It was sung so often for the Pope. It's sung at every Polish celebration, and I heard it many times, growing up. Sto lat, Francziszek Swienty (not my maiden name, but close); may your memory be eternal, Karol Wojtyla -- our Polish Pope.
Thursday, March 31, 2005
Back on Track
Yesterday I had my first "real" confession in two years.
I love confession. For those of us brought up Catholic, the word conveys a sense of either beating up oneself, or getting beaten up by the priest; for those of us who were raised Protestant, the word smacks of "papism," something Those Catholics do, and therefore to be shunned. But Orthodox confession is a true gift, a time of taking inventory and assessing where one is or is not on track, and if off-track, how to get back on.
To the despair of certain members of my family (you know who you are), my earthly life is governed by a set of 5 x 8 pages, also known as a Franklin Planner. I don't use this tool as well as I could or should, mostly because I spend so much time on other pursuits, such as my current and concurrent projects of learning Russian and entering the Triodion into my computer in a format that will allow me to take it with me wherever I go, like on early-morning walks around the Common in the middle of our town. Why just say prayers when you can pray with the birds?
Anyway, one of the components of the Franklin Planner is the development of a "personal mission statement," something that allows you to define your purpose on earth. Mine has been clear for some time: "Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works and glorify your Father Who is in heaven" (Matthew 5:16). Recent events in my life have shown, and confession has confirmed, that not only have I gone off track on this mission statement, I have been altogether derailed. (A little RR terminology for my railroader son...) But hey -- derailments happen all the time, right? So you roll up your sleeves, get out whatever equipment they use on the railroad to set trains aright, and get that puppy back on track and under steam.
Under steam I am not, yet. But definitely back on track, with a clearer vision of how to implement this mission statement, now that the "grime" around my particular light has been cleansed in confession. "This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine..." And keep after it, so that when, not if, it starts to dim, I'll catch it before it gets too grimy to be seen. "Let your light so shine before men...."
I love confession.
I love confession. For those of us brought up Catholic, the word conveys a sense of either beating up oneself, or getting beaten up by the priest; for those of us who were raised Protestant, the word smacks of "papism," something Those Catholics do, and therefore to be shunned. But Orthodox confession is a true gift, a time of taking inventory and assessing where one is or is not on track, and if off-track, how to get back on.
To the despair of certain members of my family (you know who you are), my earthly life is governed by a set of 5 x 8 pages, also known as a Franklin Planner. I don't use this tool as well as I could or should, mostly because I spend so much time on other pursuits, such as my current and concurrent projects of learning Russian and entering the Triodion into my computer in a format that will allow me to take it with me wherever I go, like on early-morning walks around the Common in the middle of our town. Why just say prayers when you can pray with the birds?
Anyway, one of the components of the Franklin Planner is the development of a "personal mission statement," something that allows you to define your purpose on earth. Mine has been clear for some time: "Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works and glorify your Father Who is in heaven" (Matthew 5:16). Recent events in my life have shown, and confession has confirmed, that not only have I gone off track on this mission statement, I have been altogether derailed. (A little RR terminology for my railroader son...) But hey -- derailments happen all the time, right? So you roll up your sleeves, get out whatever equipment they use on the railroad to set trains aright, and get that puppy back on track and under steam.
Under steam I am not, yet. But definitely back on track, with a clearer vision of how to implement this mission statement, now that the "grime" around my particular light has been cleansed in confession. "This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine..." And keep after it, so that when, not if, it starts to dim, I'll catch it before it gets too grimy to be seen. "Let your light so shine before men...."
I love confession.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
