Elizabeth Adams's Blog, page 119

Good Friday

GOOD-FRIDAY, 1613, RIDING WESTWARD.

by John Donne

Let man's soul be a sphere, and then, in this,
Th' intelligence that moves, devotion is ;
And as the other spheres, by being grown
Subject to foreign motion, lose their own,
And being by others hurried every day,
Scarce in a year their natural form obey ;
Pleasure or business, so, our souls admit
For their first mover, and are whirl'd by it.
Hence is't, that I am carried towards the west,
This day, when my soul's form bends to the East.
There I should see a Sun by rising set,
And by that setting endless day beget.
But that Christ on His cross did rise and fall,
Sin had eternally benighted all.
Yet dare I almost be glad, I do not see
That spectacle of too much weight for me.
Who sees Gods face, that is self-life, must die ;
What a death were it then to see God die ?
It made His own lieutenant, Nature, shrink,
It made His footstool crack, and the sun wink.
Could I behold those hands, which span the poles
And tune all spheres at once, pierced with those holes ?
Could I behold that endless height, which is
Zenith to us and our antipodes,
Humbled below us ? or that blood, which is
The seat of all our soul's, if not of His,
Made dirt of dust, or that flesh which was worn
By God for His apparel, ragg'd and torn ?
If on these things I durst not look, durst I
On His distressed Mother cast mine eye,
Who was God's partner here, and furnish'd thus
Half of that sacrifice which ransom'd us ?
Though these things as I ride be from mine eye,
They're present yet unto my memory,
For that looks towards them ; and Thou look'st towards me,
O Saviour, as Thou hang'st upon the tree.
I turn my back to thee but to receive
Corrections till Thy mercies bid Thee leave.
O think me worth Thine anger, punish me,
Burn off my rust, and my deformity ;
Restore Thine image, so much, by Thy grace,
That Thou mayst know me, and I'll turn my face.

 

Thank you to Paul, Dean of Christ Church Cathedral, Montreal, for including so many of John Donne's deeply moving sonnets in this week's services, and giving me the incentive to go back and read others.

Curiosities

Romanian icon of the Trinity

At no other time than Holy Week is the divide between the secular and sacred worlds quite so apparent. Outside, Easter is egged, pastel, chocolate-coated, and hopping, but unlike Christmas, it's not a general holiday with ritualized religious overtones: gift-giving, gathering of far-flung families, remembering those closest to us.

Although I guess the world thinks otherwise (the world makes many assumptions), for me the focus of Holy Week is not on blind belief in every detail of a repeated biblical story. It's not, for me, about eternal life and a savior dying for my sins: I've never believed in or accepted the doctrine of atonement, and while I think consciousness may continue, reward and punishment in the afterlife don't motivate me nearly as much as what I see in the here-and-now.

However, the content and intensity of the human story, the political story, and the spiritual questions they ask, heighten an internal struggle: a deliberate engagement with my own mortality and that of those closest to me, as well as the culmination of weeks of trying to shine a light into the hidden corners of my life: my shortcomings and blind spots, ingrained patterns of behavior, my hopes and plans for change, a desire to be a better and more giving and loving person in a world filled with suffering and injustice. Tonight, Maundy Thursday, we'll hear "the new commandment" Jesus gave his disciples, who, on the eve of his death, he called "my friends:" "Love one another as I have loved you." Such simplicity. There's not much harder to do than that.

I like Lent, and I like Holy Week, because the light that comes through is always stronger than the darkness - and I think that's the point of actually observing a so-called penitential season. Muslims say the same thing about Ramadan. I'm grateful for this time set aside specifically for the purpose of reflection, change, and renewal: grateful because it actually works for me, and because even though I know I will fall back into old habits - who doesn't? - it feels like each year a little progress is made. A few more of the lessons and insight actually stick, and a little bit more of the intentional practice of self-observation -- and, paradoxically, forgetting myself and simply being -- becomes ingrained into everyday life.

For the past few years I haven't given up anything material, like chocolate or meat or the internet. I've avoided buying new clothes, and tried to remember to ask myself each time I reach for my wallet, "Is this really necessary?" but haven't been all that strict. This year I've focussed on a couple of particular questions about vocation, and tried to keep up an intentional daily practice of contemplation, accompanied with journaling, and to work on two specific behaviors: not complaining, and being cheerful even when I feel out-of-sorts, which has certainly been a challenge with the weather we've been having. I did the exact same thing last year and the year before that, so there's your proof of how slowly real change occurs! Over a very long time -- decades now -- I know I've become lighter, happier, clearer, and better able to cope with myself, with my relationships, and with the ups and downs of life. Many people have helped me, both directly and indirectly. But I attribute the greatest changes to the fact of having a spiritual life and practice.

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Another gift is being in a community of others who are trying to do the same thing, whether they talk about it very much or not (and few find that particularly easy, except writers and clergy). We may know what we're about and why we keep at it in this particular way, but the world, increasingly, does not. That doesn't bother me except when I notice that we're being viewed as a curiosity, which happens often in a downtown cathedral. We are deliberately porous to the world; doors are open onto St. Catherine Street, the busiest concentration of shops and restaurants of both licit and illicit reputation in Montreal. tour buses discharge their passengers on our corner; we are right above an entrance to the metro and underground city, and on our steps there are always transients and beggars looking out and tourists looking in. People wander inside all the time. Some sit in a pew and listen or reflect, some light a candle. Most are respectful and quiet. A few walk through carrying their own attitudes along with their cameras and loud voices, no matter what's going on, and I watch them watching us - the choir - as if we were some sort of curiosity, an exhibit in a human zoo, which I suppose we are.

The other night at the conclusion of Compline, as we started down the chancel steps in semi-darkness for the silent recessional, a woman stepped out of her pew into the aisle and took a flash picture from only a few feet away from the first two choir members. We're photographed often, but usually not quite so brazenly. She turned out, later, to be part of a tour group from Spain. All right, I wondered, settling down: how many Africans and South American natives have danced in their feathers and jewelry for white travellers, or had their marriage ceremonies and funeral rites photographed and filmed as prizes to be taken home and exhibited to friends? Why should it be any different when we are now the ones participating in strange rituals that, a century from now, may no longer exist? (I hope this is not a complaint.)

Romanian orthodox icon of St. Peter, who will deny his friend Jesus three times tonight.

This morning I passed by a Romanian Orthodox church in our neighborhood and noticed that the front door, usually closed, was open. So I went in. Stairs led down -- to a community gathering area, I suspected -- and up to the church, where I heard hushed voices. I went up, through another door, and into a warm sanctuary, wider than it was long, and sat down in a back pew. The walls were of wood. Painted Orthodox icons hung or stood everywhere: on the altar, on the walls, on the ceiling. There was one very precious icon of hammered gold and silver -- a Madonna and Child - with a painted or enameled face and hands but most looked relatively new. Several people holding small prayer books knelt in the pews and prayed, and over on the western side of the sanctuary, a priest in a brocade robe prayed with a woman who was, perhaps, giving a confession. His arm was around her and a purple stole lay over his shoulders and her head; as he prayed or spoke to her I could see her head nodding under the stole. In the front, bustling about the altar, three elderly women, dressed in full skirts and wearing kerchiefs, prepared the sanctuary for Easter. Huge pots of blue and pink hydrangeas had already been placed in tiers around the main altar, and the women raised and rearranged several large rugs piled atop a floral carpet with a large rose pattern. A stand of votive candles flickered red, gold, and green, and behind me in niches in the wall were trays of sand and thin tapers lit by worshipers. Although windows were open to the cool morning, lingering incense still perfumed the air.

The Byzantine and eastern European convergence was beautiful, almost intoxicating, in spite of the newness of the sanctuary - this was Canada, after all, and clearly the church of an immigrant community. The scene would have made an extraordinary black-and-white photograph. I wanted to take it -- for you -- but I did not.

 

 

 

 

Packages

Starved for color after a stretch of cold, grey rain, I found myself wandering through the Asian market yesterday, camera in hand. Don't you love the "sandwiches" that are actually cake?

Our Palm Sunday Evensong Broadcast

At 4:00 pm, we'll be performing the following works, streamed live on Radio Ville-Marie. Hope some of you can listen! (click blue bar at middle right of screen, where it says "Nous écouter en direct."

The Cathedral Singers at Christ Church Cathedral, Montreal, organist and music director, Patrick Wedd:

Prelude: Vexilla regis, Flor Peeters (1903-1986)

Introit: Improperium [text/listen], Orlande de Lassus (1530/32-94)

Preces and Responses: Plainsong

Magnificat: Tone 8.1 Fauxbourdons, Thomas Morley (1557/8-1602)

Nunc dimittis: Tone 5.1 Fauxbourdons, Thomas Morley

Anthem: Solus ad victimam [text/listen], Kenneth Leighton (1929-1988) 

Postlude: Vexilla regis, Healey Willan (1880-1968)

A Way.

by Paula.

Here.

Dying for Spring

It's Saturday, and I just couldn't face another day at the computer, so I decided to make a few Easter eggs. Usually I use the Ukranian method but I don't have any of the concentrated dyes right now; when we moved I rinsed out all my bottles of dye and need to order more, but...I forgot! No white eggs either - just brown ones. I've got my wax and kiskas (a metal stylus that gets heated and filled with wax, and then you can draw with it) so I thought I'd try drawing on the brown egg with the wax and painting over it with dilute black acrylic, since the wax would act as a resist with the water-based paint. What I didn't realize was that the acrylic, when dry, would peel when I heated it to remove the wax. Oh well...this first floral egg is still rather pretty and unusual, and the bad parts on the other one can be hidden in some raffia-grass.

We're having a string of very cold, rainy days and everyone is fed up. There were even some snowflakes outside a few minutes ago. I tried to do some work on my plants anyway: I repotted my clivia and two houseplant shoots, and got the dahlia and canna tubers out of winter storage; the dahlias will soak overnight to plump up and this week I'll get all of those into pots. A few months ago I cut back the lantana very severely and now -- it's blooming! The strong light at the studio is wonderful for plants, and because of it they've spent a much happier winter this year.

Tomorrow is Palm Sunday, and our singing-marathon begins: first a descent into darkness, followed by light, flowers, and blooming branches. I hope, after this week, spring will get the message!

 

Je m'appelle...

So many choices!

We especially loved Mado, Chloe, Sophie, Capucine, Amelie, Colette, Delphine and Kali, but "Manon" is the one J. and I agreed upon the most. Thanks to everyone who sent suggestions! Manon was Jean Morris' idea, so she will be receiving a book - and it's also the name of a friend here who we like a lot. As well as the tragi-comic heroine of Massenet's opera Manon, of course. I read the storyline (never having done so), and especially liked this bit, which somehow seems appropriately Quebeçois:

Des Grieux's father, the comte, greets de Brétigny and Manon overhears that her former lover is Chevalier no longer, but Abbé, having entered the seminary of Saint-Sulpice. Approaching the comte, Manon tries to discover whether his son still loves her. Guillot then attempts to win Manon over by bringing the ballet dancers of the Académie Royale de Musique, which she had expressed a desire to see. However Manon is seized by the desire to see des Grieux once more, and admits, when asked, that she paid no attention to the dancers, to Guillot's annoyance. She hurries off to Saint-Sulpice.

Scene 2: Saint-Sulpice:

From the chapel, the congregation is leaving, enthusiastic over the sermon of the new abbé (Quelle éloquence!). Des Grieux enters, in clerical garb, and his father adds his voice to the chorus of praise, but tries to dissuade his son from this new life, so that he can perpetuate the family name (Epouse quelque brave fille).

He leaves, having failed to shake his son's resolve and des Grieux, alone, relives memories of Manon (Ah! Fuyez, douce image). As he prays, Manon herself appears, to implore his forgiveness for her faithlessness. Furiously, he attempts to reject her, but when (in N'est-ce plus ma main?) she recalls their past intimacies, his resistance is overcome, and their voices join in an impassioned avowal of love.

And Manon the cat got her own reward: spring decorations and signage on the house she picked out herself (a cardboard box, of course, that she's been playing "hide" in for weeks.) As soon as I put it back down on the floor, she sniffed it, went inside, and approved.

Beginnings

Between 1999 and 2001, I wrote a monthly spiritual essay for the newsletter of my former New Hampshire parish. The essays were always a single page, 750-1000 words in length: a perfect precursor to blogging, though I had no clue about that at the time!

In looking for subject matter, I tended to key off the seasons and the liturgical year. Today I pulled them all out of my files, printed the ones for which I lacked copies, organized them according to the major feasts, fasts, and seasons of the western liturgical calendar, and then went searching for blog posts that might augment the gaps that appeared. (Good grief, Cassandra has written a lot of words!)  I'm not sure how much editing would be needed to make me happy with the older pieces and bring a consistent voice to all of them, as well as mixing up the lengths by cutting or enlarging the existing pieces to give some greater variety. Something is emerging, though. A reflective book of days, a book of seasons; a quiet book with space for the words to breathe, illustrated with drawings or linocuts, maybe.

What do you think?

Interview, Part II

Marly Youmans has posted part 2 of her 3-part interview with me, at her blog, The Palace at 2:00 am.

(I was amused to see that her post from yesterday, about an artshow by one her friend Ashley Cooper, took place only a mile from where my dad lives and the lake where I grew up. It's always weird and wonderful to see friends writing about places you know intimately.)

Sunday Housecleaning

On Friday afteroon we shopped at Les Halles D'Anjou. At Odessa poissonerie I bought cleaned squid and four large Portuguese sardines, and fried them in batter for a Saturday lunch treat. We also bought two brioches de Carême: Lenten brioches, also known as hot cross buns, made here with some whole-wheat flour as well as white, and studded with soft raisins. Better than delicious. There were two butchers, both with excellent-looking meat. We bought some ground beef, maigre (lean), and some chicken breasts marinated with a mustard sauce, and then went on to the vegetable and fruit market, where we filled our cart with Moroccan clementines, fat white endives (I read a recipe for braised carmelized endive that I'm dying to try - maybe with that chicken), avocados, limes, baby spinach, Bartlett pears, green beans, mushrooms, fresh carrots, a bag of Cortlands that went into a pie the next day. And then had an early dinner at a Chinese restaurant that ended like this:

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The pie, made by J., is a gift for friends -- fellow gardeners from the community garden who, like me, are itching to get our hands into the soil. I've seen three of these friends this weekend, and it was fun; we've all missed our gardens and each other. It's so nice to realize I've been missed too!

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On Saturday evening we went to a birthday party for a friend who has just returned from two months in Nicaragua and El Salvador. Around the pièce de résistance, a platter bearing an entire poached artic char, conversation somersaults between French and English. It's exhausting to try to follow the passages of rapid French for five hours, and exhilarating to I realize how much better we're both doing with it. We finish with a flourless chocolate cake topped with raspberries and a pot of rooibos tea.

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And on Sunday, downtown, we overhear an elderly couple speak a language I cannot decipher. I expect Italian, but it's not that. (Perhaps Romanian - I've been fooled once before.) She is in a wheelchair, with a calm but strong face, a decisive nose. He is thin, with glasses that seem too large for his him, and reads a newspaper, from which he offers her verbal tidbts every now and then. The back page, facing me, shows pictures of attractive young couples in luxurious apartments in a large advertisement titled:

"Live Life to the Fullest!"

followed by a subtitle:

"Rebates up to 50%."

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More on the cat later...we are pondering this long list with too many great choices. Thank you!