Day 3-You Want me to Wash What?

 Don't worry--it's not what it sounds like. Dig this:

On Holy Thursday, my thoughts turn to some very specific things: the smell of burnt beeswax from making pysanky, the anticipation of Easter Candy (even then, as today :), and foot washing. Yes, foot washing.

Why foot washing? Did Jesus have a foot fetish perhaps? Who knew?!

Well, not exaaactly--the account goes something like this:

If I channel my Chatechismal indoctrination, and my later intellectual religious study, I interpret a passage that describes the essence of the New Kingdom, humility. It relies on inversion, echoing the Sermon on the Mount: The weak become strong, the poor wealthy, and the King humbles himself before his Servants.

The account appears only in the Gospel of John--which makes sense because his audience of persecuted, insecure early Christians would have responded well to a touching underdog-turnaround story. Like The Mighty Ducks for the Messianic faithful.

How does my experi-lent relate to this passage, you ask? Well, you see, back in the day a very special event in the Ukrainian Catholic Community in Philadelphia occurred every Holy Thursday.

Listen to this: All of the Ukrainian Catholic parish priests would get together at the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception on Franklin Street. They would conduct a three or four hour mass--no idea how they could stretch it out so long, but these guys somehow found a way. Then, at the end, they would re-enact the story of Jesus washing everyone's feet. As a student of Ukrainian descent attending St. Josaphat's Ukrainian Catholic School, I had the distinct pleasure of attending this bit of liturgical theater. Oh yes, I was there.

But I never endured it alone. My brothers, cousins, and classmates who happened to be born into a family with a -sky, -ski, or a silent j at the end of their last names shared that distinct pleasure along with me. Hell, I think they even lumped the Polish kids in with us. "Close enough," they probably thought to themselves.

And yes, this event was as weird as it seems. The entire Church was empty save for us Ukrainian-American kids who would rather be playing Nintendo, some priests, and a bunch of nuns who did not hesitate to put the fear of God into you for even the most minor infraction.

So we would mostly-stand for the duration of this mega mass, feeling nauseous and lightheaded from all the God-scented incense floating around, elbowing each other to keep from dosing in view of the watchful eyes of the "penguins" as we used to call them. All of the priests took turns saying different parts of the mass. Like a divinely-ordained rap battle. Finally, we all sensed the end was near when the Fathers took their places in the luxe upholstered chairs lined up in front of the iconostasis.

As I watched them unlace their black, priest-issue Aerosole shoes, I imagined how sweaty their feet must have been from standing for so long and and walking all around waving crosses and censers and gilded holybooks. My speculation was confirmed when they peeled clingy socks away from toes, wriggling their feet to loosen the fabric. Why am I watching this?

At long last, the Bishop shows up. He has removed his cape and under-cape, and wears only the white under-robe. Guess it's a priestly type of slip. (I probably did not use the correct terminology for the vestments.) He's got his towel tied around his waste, his bowl of holy water, and without another word he gets down to it.

 As much talking as these guys did all morning, suddenly an awkward silence hushes the entire space. Nary a crinkling cough drop wrapper, nor a cough. Each foot gets a nice shellacking, a little mini-pedi-baptism, and that was it. We got up, boarded the cheese bus and went home. I suppose the priests all put their shoes back on, and then they did the same. After all, they had a lot of work to do in the next couple of days, what with the defining Holy Day of the religion just 72 hours away...

Day 8- Turn, Turn, Turn

It's hard to believe that nearly 6 weeks have come and gone. The relentless passage of time. But I have had the soft pleasure of watching my tomato seedlings cautiously peek through the soil surface in the starter sets standing atop the radiator in Hannah's bedroom. Now, they upright themselves more bravely, growing bigger with each passing day.

Just two weeks ago, I walked over to the Ace Hardware on Fairmount Avenue and selected a variety of tomato seeds; my purchase was dictated by interesting-sounding names, however, as I know very little about different breeds of tomato. There were Rainbow Heirloom Tomatoes, Marsglobe tommys and something called "Mortgage Lifters," which I take to mean that they grow so big that you can feed an entire family with just one tomato, and you will save so much money on groceries that you can effectively reduce the cost of your mortgage. I'll let you know how they turn out :)

And next came the planting. I love this process--so elemental, so human. A visceral link to the past, and to family members passed. It's important to plant with intention, and awareness.

The spreading of the soil: a soft, earthen bed. The poking of holes for each seed: the fertile penetration ritual mirrored in the reproductive act. Implanting the delicate, dormant, defenseless seed is a rite of protection--or in my morbid mind a reflection of the burial of the dead, resulting in life anew.

At this point in the contemplation my thoughts turned once again to our rituals regarding death. When we bury, the body decomposes to its elemental essence, returning each individual to the cycle of life that sometimes feels so far removed from our technologized existence.

I struggle daily to accept that death is a part of nature; we distance ourselves from the rhythms of life, but the universal ebb and flow reclaims us in the end. The planting process demonstrates a microcosm of these forces, right in my two bedroom apartment!

We are "planted" into the earth when we die, but do we ever experience the "rebirth" promised to us by countless religions, suggested to us by the habits of the natural world? We cannot remember what we did before these lifetimes, and we certainly will not remember comes after. I suppose these ideas consume my thoughts each night, as I cautiously creep along the edge of the Bardo.

How do other religious worldviews address this all-too-human concern? Have we truly lived, and continue living infinite lifetimes as the Buddhists and the Hindus suggest? The natural rhythm of life invoked in agrarian articulation--is this the cycle of Samsara that the Eastern Philosophies purport to help us overcome? At this powerful springtime moment, I feel captivated by this cycle, comforted by its predictability. So does this signify my attachment to earthly things, and thus my eternal bondage?

If I had to name anything as a bonding force for me, it is love--needing it and needing to give it. Companionship. I am, as I have noted, acutely aware of the isolation and loneliness that accompanies the process of death; I watched Бабця endure it during her final year with us.

Honestly, I just want to feel a loving presence in my life for as long as I can, before I experience that inevitable detachment. That is my crutch, my hurdle. Is it so wrong? That dark, tingling emptiness that pinches the crown of my head as I lay awake at night just breeds such anxiety...

Ha! Let me flee to the simple comfort of soil, seeds and sun! Gently cover the fragments of life with soil. Warm them, water them and wait. We will face the beyond soon enough, but for right now I'd rather think about tomatoes... You know, I heard someone say once that there's two things money can't buy: love and homegrown tomatoes.

Day 13: Seven Months Until 11/11/11!

I have a confession to make: J and I broke the fast. We fell off the wagon. Seemed kinda inevitable in a way. In our defense, we did it with intention. No? Not buying it?

We developed a pretty good excuse I think: Baseball Season.

That's how it happened--falling off I mean. It was game two of the 2011 season, the Phillies versus the Astros on a Saturday night. Nothing crazy. Just some bbq, some beers, and some baseball. Is that so wrong? I mean, would you try to tell me if the big JC were around today that he would not be a baseball fan? Please!

Other than that, we have resumed Quizzo attendance (a great way to flex brain cells by simultaneously depleting them. If you do it right, the activities cancel each other out!). And we have had the occasional beers here and there on the weekend. So this begs the question, "Have I failed at what I set out to do?"

I like to think of it along the lines of acknowledging my limitations. I understand the whole bit about depriving oneself of something that brings pleasure in order to gain perspective. However, I would argue that sometimes the benefit lies in not achieving.

Especially for someone like me, who feels compelled to perform tasks at an inhuman level at times, not perfectionistically but intensely. Does this derive from unwavering expectations set forth in my developmental years? The only girl out of my two sibings, and thus the "show-piece" of the family? Most likely.

Another perspectival vantage I can attest to from the fasting process pertains to the disagreements between J and I. Not to say that we have not argued at all since the fast began. Of course we argue about the mundane, daily things just like any other red-blooded American couple just trying to make it work. Fire and Ice we sometimes call ourselves.

It is to say, however, that our tiffs do not adopt an alcohol-fueled life of their own, which spares us the extraneous "drunk guilt." What I am getting at is, while our current disagreements touch on division of household responsibilities, or, say, emotional misunderstandings, the drunken equivalents reside in absolute ridiculousness!

Looking back, I would say that our biggest, blow out fight evolved out of a disagreement over pop musicians' influences and the state of the music industry today. Neither of us have a truly vivid recollection of this argument. The best reconstruction we've arrived at is, while throwing a few back at Fox and Hound in center city on a Saturday night, we saw a Lady Gaga video on the giant screen TV. Disco Stick I think it was. Might have been Bad Romance...I don't know.



It's all your fault, bitch!

  In any event, J commented that everyone lauds the Lady for her originality, but she is really just repeating what Madonna did twenty some-odd years ago. Now, I am not a rabid Lady Gaga fan, nor did I seek to defend her, but I had to point out that artists "ripping off" fellow artists has been happening long before the 21st century.

"Christ, if it weren't for Bo Diddley, the Rolling Stones would have never had a career!"

We don't remember why it escalated, but I do remember thinking at the time "Why is he talking to me this way?"--it wasn't the content, but the tone. That line of thinking, I might add, is first-cousins with "I LOVE you, maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan!" not to mention a step-sibling of "What? You think you're BETTER than ME?"

Somehow, words became shots, and beers became tears (both in the bathroom, and at the bar), which turned to storming in and out of the place, an inebriated migration across the street to McGlinchey's for last call, all leading up to the climax, and drunken-denoument:


Ah, McGlinchey's: dark, smoky, and you can buy a boiled hot dog for only 75 cents!

  J dramatically rising to his feet from across the booth at McGlinchey's, flinging his cigarette lighter onto the floor (which several vulturous drunks scrambled to claim as their own), shouting, "I'M LEAVING YOU!" and proceeding to drive home without me.

Which, in turn, inspired me to take a cab to Kelliann's, stay there until about 3am, stumble into the apartment, and awaken the sleeping J by sitting on him repeatedly, proceeding to curse him in Ukrainian at the top of my voice and, finally, spittting in his face. Needless to say, our neighbors aren't quite fond of our drunken arguments either.

Of course, the following morning was all achey-hazey-vaguely-painful. We were still angry at each other, but not quite sure why. We still can't agree on the cause of the dispute. We just treated each other like assholes. Alcohol at times contorts confrontations into cantakerous creatures, and sullies the senses of otherwise sensible people. Stepping back this Lent has allowed me to embrace that perspective.

So, at the end of it all I don't feel bad about J and I having some beers and watching some baseball. As long as he doesn't start talking trash about Wilson Valdez. So what he can't play the game like Chase Utley--no one can play the game like Chase Utley! I mean, give the guy a chance, he's new to the majors, let him find his feet! You know he was player of the game on Friday? Yeah just wait till he gets comfortable... I bet by the end of the season J will be rockin' a Valdez jersey, like, "Utley WHO?".... 



It's only a matter of time...


Heh heh... Why don't I just quit while I'm ahead?