All Saints

 

The day always feels like vacation. A chance to catch up with old friends. A time to apologize for missing feast-days and thank under-appreciated ones for secret support. And it is a day of preparation. A day to look forward at the new-born month with eagerness. There is so much potential here! I may have spent my October in a many colored haze of leaves and earth and dark skies, but November is here, and it demands a different rhythm - a bundled, reflective, and slow-moving rhythm. I’m drinking less coffee these days and remembering to feed the stove, even during the day. I’m wearing bright colors outside and lighting the lamps in early evening. The days are shorter and darker.

I’m planning sewing projects for the month: a wool skirt for me, a cushion cover for the rocking chair, pillow-cases, and curtains. Easy projects with straight lines while I learn to love working on my beautiful machine. I’ve similar plans for my kick-wheel: easy projects: sake cups and soup bowls, while I fall into the rhythm of kicking and working, working and kicking again. Hard work, but worth the effort - like everything in life.

 

 

Tattoos, Headscaves, and Long Halls

We attend mass at the Basilica in town. It’s a big, beautiful old gray-stone church. Light, open, and Eastery. The early morning mass is the Extraordinary form. I prefer our liturgy to the novus ordo, primarily because I can’t resist the over-abundant ritual, but also becuase, like Flannery O Connor,"I do not like the raw sound of the human voice in unison unless it is under the discipline of music." . Our priest is a dual-rite Byzantine , and that is another benefit to me, as I miss the Liturgy of John Chrysostom.

       One thing I love about old churches are the long aisles lined in stained glass. I like the sound of my shoes on the tile as I walk. I like the saints with their votives watching from the walls. Visually, the church raises me up, even when Yarrow is being decidedly unpious, or when I’m too tired or preoccupied to hear the words from the altar. Our mass community attracts me visually as well. I love watching them trickle in. The Large and Confusing Family in twos and threes, the Somber Family already at prayer, the exuberant family, the fashionable couple, the mournful couple, the man with the lawnmower tattoo just above his receding hairline. The variety is thrilling, and so is the common enthusiasm.

Most of the women wear headscarves, at least part of the time, and it delights me to not be an oddity, to seethe diversity of scarves come in. I covet some of them, and simply admire others. I like the mystery the scarf gives to the wearer. I love the whole drama of the liturgy, and my own part in it as well

Bits of Days

I think my daughter is in love with the Infant of Prague. She whispers his name as we pass by, giggles and waves and looks shy when we meet him in the outhouse, and laughs with him on his holy days. Today she looks like every bit the baby bohemian - barefoot and layered in skirts, her hair tucked up and her eyes full of delight. A sweaty bohemian, it's hot again today.

I'm waiting for my books to come in the mail. I've been ordering books more often and love the whole "getting packages" experience. I'd been walking to the mailbox with Petka, but deer-fly season is in full swing, and the walk is dangerous now. So we wait for Seth to bring the mail in the evening, hoping every time for something new and interesting.

Luba and I are united against the chickens, who are determined to eat all the green tomatoes before they ripen. We chase them, yell, and harass them, and I hope it will be enough to save the tomatoes.

Fantasy & Folklore: the importance of belief

Last week, Jenna gave an excellent response to my post on the effect of time and culture on the writer and her audience. This week, I'm hoping to continue to look into culture, but with a focus on belief in mysteries and in magic.

“..the darkness holds it all in:

figures and flames, beasts and me,

        whatever it may catch..

It is possible there might

     be moving a power right next to me

I believe in nights.”

~Rilke

There is some element of the fantastic in the writing we do: Jenna, Mr. Pond, and I.  Each of us deals in myth to some extent.  For me, it is the little myths - folklore and superstitions that weave their way into my writing because they are woven through my life. “I believe in nights” and in those flourishing there; which is why I love to walk under the stars, and why I’m frightened out alone after midnight.

The writer should believe in possibilities, and the writer whose creative world is alive with the fantastic must not, in her daily life, be able to close the door leading to fairy. How she props it open depends on many things, on faith and on dreams, on the past and on the future; but the doorway must stay open. I don’t insist that we believe in everything we create, in the literal sense - or I would never write, too afraid I'd call up some malevolent being - but we should still believe in mysteries. Tales of the miraculous by jaded writers ring false, like listening to an old cynic describe his youthful ideals. It is part of my trouble with many of the writers I see, they often seem to build up worlds as a defense against a life too mundane to love; and because they don't believe, these writers don't see the value and the limits of the symbols they employ.

When the writer who believes makes a world of magic, she builds it in fear and trembling, unwilling to play fast and loose with her myths because she understands them at their core, loves them and refuses to do them harm. I’m disturbed when I see writers who scoop their myths directly from Bulfinch's; who seem to cut and paste carelessly without giving the myth a home and living with it a while in love or fear. They haven’t taken the time to let the myth become real to them before trying to make it real for their readers.

          “You see I want much.
           perhaps I want it all:
          the dark that goes with any bottomless fall
         and the sun-speckled climbing up..”

         ~Rilke

What do I ask of real writers, living and creating outside the bounds of my imagination? Simply that we who deal in fairy tales ought to believe in them. Read Bulfinch's by all means but don’t start there, or end there. Listen to old tales, live the myths. Go out hunting the fern flower on St. John’s eve, bury statues in the yard, count crows, light candles, and feel the eyes of the unseen watching as you build them up with words. Don’t sacrifice dreams for responsibility and don’t attempt to confine your miracles to the written word. And don't write to escape the mundane, write to color it with the magic you see.  Sleep on a bay leaf and write your dreams.

Peacocks for eternity

       The world once knew once that peacock flesh would not decay. Death could hardly touch something so beautiful. Because of this, the peacock is a symbol of the resurrection, of eternal life. A thousand eyes watching God forever. Peacocks are good luck. I once saw one standing beside the on-ramp of I-84, watching the road I followed. His tail barely seemed cumbersome, despite it’s size, he carried it well, and I could almost feel the bad luck running south away from those eyes.

At Easter, I made the drive down to the Polish parish, to have my food blessed. My basket full of food, vodka and feathers. A woman asked it I came from Krakow. “They like peacock feathers in Krakow.” She said. We talked about reclaiming our traditions, what everyone talks about these days. We are looking for traditions to embrace. She married into her Polish culture, but her accent was beautiful, and her basket was full of good things. I think my husband has done the same. He’s taken root in a house with vodkas on the shelf and pierogi on the table. Now he knows where to tuck the straw at Vilia, and he knows when I should begin to steep the krupnik. With amber and saints all around us, we don’t need peacocks for direction, just for luck, and to remind us again that beauty is eternal.

Good Friday

In my hometown, on Good Friday, churches are open noon to three, and people go to pass the hours when nothing can be done but to pray and mourn. I remember going one year, when the rest of the family was in Ireland, with a couple a barely knew, to St. Stanislaw, to the Polish hours. I wore black, with dark eyes and new black boots and spent more time reflecting on my mournful style than the sacrifice of Christ, but I meant well. I was eighteen. I am only a little better today.

Here, the three hours are spent at home, and on bright days it’s hard to remember that today is a sorrowful day, a day to keep watch beneath the cross.

I am drinking coffee this morning and eating my oatmeal without honey, the sky is beautiful. The Icon Christ looks down on me with sad eyes and out in the woods, a bird cries.

Money Jesus

I have a statue of the Infant of Prague watching over our finances. He belonged to my mother when she was small, and at some point in his history a quater was taped to his back, under the robes - to attract wealth, or at least stability.

We've kept the quarter where it is, and beside his little candle I give baby Jesus my coins to look over, in the hope one of his multiplication miracles will be repeated over them.

Vilija is what we call our dinner Christmas Eve. This year it’s a small affair, just the three of us, Luba, and Christ. I will have fought the good fight to keep the house clean, boiled and fried the pierogies, made kutia and fish on the stove. We will watch for the first star to rise, a second or two later than the night before. Vilija can be opulent or simple, this year we revel in the simplicity, the smallness, turning our eyes inward, toward the silence that welcomes the tiny Christ to nestle his head.

Blessed Nativity to all!

Christmas Magic III

Christmas Eve is the night to remember dreams. Rosemary under your head and you will certainly dream of coming love, basil and you will see the path to take in the new year. But even herbless, the dreams of Christmas Eve foretell the year’s blessings and sorrows.

We live too far to walk to mass, but if you can walk any bit of the way to midnight mass, and are still waiting for love, listen for bells. Wherever they sound, bells foretell love to come, the closer they are the sooner your love will arrive. Faraway ringing could have you waiting another year or more. New clothes to Christmas Liturgy encourages prosperity, but take care your clothes aren't too nicely made, too perfect and well arranged, least you tempt death to take you before the new year starts.
 
Of all the days in the year, Christmas Eve tells the most of the year to come. Most of the signs are for unmarried girls, who can cut apples in half to count the seeds - five mean you will wait a bit longer, four and the wedding will come soon, but we all walk softly this day, to guiding the year as we would have it go and hoping God goes with us.

Christmas Magic II

At midnight on Christmas Eve, while many are at Mass, greeting the first hours of Christ's new birth, the animals open their mouths to praise the Lord. I have a hard time picturing Luba speaking any words that aren't sarcastic and condesending, she spends most of her days acting like a spoiled teenager, but on Christmas Eve, when she is given the gift of speech, if we are far away, I know she will spend the time speaking blessings.

It's easier to imagine dogs and horses singing the praises of Christ than it is to picture chickens raising their little thoughts from food and petty fights to the nativity. But legend says the animals speak on Christmas Eve at midnight - that for a few moments, the whole earth blesses the new Child.

Christmas Magic

Everything depends on Christmas Eve. I like to wake early that morning especially to make sure my house is clean. If the yurt is clean on Christmas Eve, cleaning will be easier all year long, dirt won't stick and dust won't take over in the hidden places. Last year, my house was only superficially clean, and it has remained so all year, despite my efforts. This year will be different - I say it every year, and mean it every year, but living it is difficult.

I clean deeply the days leading up to the Eve, and work hard all day to make sure that the cleanliness stays. I think dirt works harder to creep in on Christmas Eve, so to have a home all year. Discord is the same. I work to avoid even minor unpleasantness, to keep it from our lives in the months to come. Christmas Eve is a day to live as we would like the year to go, full of love and freshness.

I have all of Advent now to prepare for the magic of Christmas Eve,  make it a day of goodness, to banish laziness and delay. I've begun with the Altar, where all the Saints give encouragement, and with luck will move along the walls, making my home ready for Christmas to work it's magic.

Rain God

It's raining again tonight. The pattering against the roof has become too familiar - still soothing, but not pleasantly, more like a drug, making my mind dull and unresponsive. I would love for the next week to be bright and clear, and I'm tempted to fight for it.  Our house is full of blessed palms from the Triumphal Entry, collecting dust behind the icons, or woven into the lattice walls. I just need a few for the fire to drive away the storms; light a palm let it burn like incense up to heaven, to St. Elijah, whose firey chariot rides across the the sky, driving in the weather, and chasing it away.

When I light one, I will smell the dust burning, worn out prayers from the years gone by; the smoke curls, filling the with hope, while I listen to the falling rain. Tomorrow, I know, will be a bright new day.

Tea Cakes and Russian Reflections

Autumn is quickly fading into winter and my thoughts are primarily wrapped up in making the homestead a cozy, warm little retreat amid the snow, though the trials of the Karamazov clan can drive out all practical thoughts for hours on end, even now that my rereading of the book is over. The cold nights, little mounds of snow against the yurt, and the scent of burning logs all encourage my distraction. I want to sit bundled in my rocking chair with hot Russian tea, Dostoevsky, and a little blue and white plate of three tea-cakes set in a triangle, while Yarrow sleeps in her cradle and the night breathes all around.

I learned to make tea-cakes from my mother, and her recipe book, which was not at all Russian, but the cakes truly are: tiny, crumbly, rounded, and so easy to display - they go so well with the strong "Peter the Great" tea I found at Bagusha's - half it's lettering in Cyrillic, with my pretty dishes, and with the immoderate heroes who run wild in all of Dostoevsky's writing. He makes me think about the cult of moderation, which cuts both ways, stealing away the passion that makes great saints as well as great sinners. We don't like to think of moderation as a stumbling block to sanctity, but it very often is. What would Magdalene be with out her immoderate love, or Mary of Egypt, or Paul with only moderate zeal, or Francis who was unable to avoid extremes in any case. Dostoevsky's Russians are forever reminding me that God longs to be taken to the extreme, and that moderation is at best a lukewarm virtue, based more on fear than love.

Grounded

 In Icons of the Christ-child, his little feet are shown to remind us of his humanity - that he walked on the earth, with dirt between his toes and perhaps blisters where the sandal-strap rubbed. The feet in Icons are a constant reminder of God-made-man, his physicality and his life in the world.

It's amazing to see the newness of baby feet, with none of the signs of use they'll pick up soon enough. They remind us of Christ, who makes all things new - baby feet and spring blossoms - all in the proper time and place, all with the joy of freshness and love - just to watch them grow old and rich and full of stories.