Sunday, not a day of rest

 

I was supposed to go to a different Saturday morning prayer group yesterday—it starts half an hour later than Aloysius’, I might make it to this one.   I was awake and caffeined and dressed and everything . . . and it started to snow.  And sleet.  And rain.  And sleet.  And hail.  And sleet.  And snow.

I didn’t go, because I just don’t push anything about driving.  When it started its variable precipitation performance it did look like it was lying, as in nasty slippery stuff on the roads, but it didn’t after all—but I would have spent the entire meeting not thinking about God, but staring out the window and worrying, so I was still better off staying at home.*

Sigh.  I don’t seem to have been made for Saturday morning prayer groups.**

This morning I got up early again*** and went through the awake-caffeine-dress thing again† and sprinted for the New Arcadia bell tower.  I’d kind of forgotten that the sprinting is not merely a time thing but a good way to reinforce the effect the caffeine is having on your unwilling body, which is trying to be floppy and hopeless and moaning, Normal people have a lie in on Sundays.  Niall called for Grandsire doubles, which is fine, a nice little touch of Grandsire and we can all sit down again.  But Roger, who was calling it, was having a brain spasm or something and the touch went on and on and on and on and ON and ON and ON and there was a frelling call nearly every lead and I swear I did about three-quarters of the frelling long thirds†† and my hands are bleeding.  Finally we came out into rounds and he let us stop and I hung up my rope thinking, I didn’t go wrong!  I didn’t go wrong!  First crack out of the box on Sunday argleblargle morning, an endless touch of Grandsire with me ringing inside and catching most of the ratblasted long thirds AND I DIDN’T GO WRONG.  YAAAAAAAAAY.†††

I dunno, this getting up in the morning thing might catch on.

* * *

* Since the weather changed its mind and went away quietly^ I did go back to the monks last night.  Saturday evening prayer is my favourite monkish service because there’s half an hour of silent contemplation before they start singing, and sitting in company is good.

I think I’ve told you that one of the peripheral things I like about the monks is how ordinary and matter of fact they are, barring the distracting business of the long black frocks.  They are less homogenous-looking a group than a church choir, say, which seems to put on a desire to blend with their choir robes—which of course the choir will take back off again in an hour.  The nearly identically black-robed monks however are unmistakably each who he is.  I’m beginning to be able to guess who is walking past me^^ as they file in (I prefer to get there early) or out by the sound and what I suppose I might call the displacement of air—none of them are all that large, but they carry themselves differently, aside from height, breadth and choice of footgear.^^^

This includes matter-of-factness about certain aspects of the ritual.  At the end of evening prayer, the abbot sprinkles the monks and the congregation with holy water.  That’s what the little what’s-going-on book that you pick up on your way in says.#  It says sprinkles.  Well, he sprinkles the monks.  Then he comes down to the edge of the dais and hurls it at the rest of us.  He’s got a censer-y looking thing, it’s just got water in it instead of smoke.  The wind-up is more Sandy Koufax than St Paul.  There are never very many of us, and he is very punctilious about including us all in, even if we’re spaced out over the entire area, which we probably are.  You can hear the water splatter, and if it hits bare skin it may sting faintly.##  I’m always wearing my heavy leather jacket for warmth but it will do as protection as well.

I love this.  I love it that holy isn’t necessarily prim.

^ It didn’t go away nicely—sunlight would be nice—but it went away.

^^ I don’t know if you’re supposed to keep your eyes down, but I do.

^^^ Several of them wear sandals.+  In that freezing icy brumal algid SIBERIAN chapel?!?  Now let’s discuss how many monks have coughs and colds.

+ Birkenstocks.  Of course.

# Mind you, it still leaves an awful lot out.  I should badger Aloysius with more questions.  Christians remind me a lot of bell ringers.  The old hands have forgotten what it’s like to be a beginner.

## Possibly the stinging only happens to hellgoddesses.  Standard mortals merely get slightly damp.

** Maybe I was expressing solidarity with my origins.  I don’t guess anyone got to their Saturday morning prayer, yoga, mud wrestling or knitting groups in the northeast USA yesterday.

*** Eeep.  Uggh.

† Hellhounds opening one eye (each) and shutting it again, hellterror going YEAH YEAH YEAH YEAH SOMETHING’S HAPPENING WHATEVER IT IS ME TOO.  OH, AND ABOUT BREAKFAST—?

†† Long thirds are probably the worst of the ‘work’ in Grandsire, and you only have to ring them if you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time when the conductor calls a single.  I don’t myself think they’re nearly as grisly as the Dreaded Three-Four-Down Single in plain bob, but they do need paying attention to, especially on Sunday mornings.

††† No, it wasn’t all downhill from there.  I rang Grandsire triples—not dazzlingly well, but I rang it and I didn’t go wrong—at the abbey this afternoon, and while we went off the rails ringing Cambridge major with me on the treble it wasn’t me.

And I went to St Margaret of Scotland tonight for what I was expecting to be an ordinary mild-mannered Sunday evening service and discovered the place packed out and a large plastic swimming pool installed beside the altar.  They go for immersion baptisms.  Golly.

But I have to go back to work.  My copyeditor hates hyphens.  What did a hyphen ever do to her?  Poor little hyphens.