Now, religion and I go way back. Way, way back. My mother hauled me in to have individual sessions with a morbidly obese lay minister at St Anthony's when, just before my first communion, I told her (in a bit of a heated argument) that I wasn't even sure I believed in the concept of God, let alone the tenants of an organised religion. It was the subject of much questionable poetry during my (only slightly) more self-absorbed undergraduate years while I was warring with the conflicting stances of philosophy and organised religion. There was lots of whinging about the comforts of tradition and the possible betrayal of my own intellect by adhering to the line and letter of a specific dogma. It's not that I've laid this to rest entirely, but it's more a question of keeping my realms suspended, frankly.
Religion, specifically Roman Catholicism, is something in which I take tremendous comfort. This is the church of my youth, not the organisation of child-sex scandals and subsequent cover-ups, not prohibitions against condoms in Africa, none of that. We didn't talk about that. What we did talk about was the catechism, the clause in which stating that all are saved who are seekers of truth being the touchstone to which I perennially return. Like a club-footed pigeon, I limp in when it gets too cold. It's the smell of the incense, the warmth of flickering candles in tiers before the icons, familiar strains warbled by ancient women in their best scarves and brooches, babies babbling in arms, and community in a vibrant, living sense. The church was always about hope, trust, quiet contemplation of one's own soul and no one else's-- the rest of it, it seemed, belonged to someone else.
Since moving to Aberdeen, I've really struggled with a number of things, religion not really one of them. I just didn't go to church that often. And by 'often', you might as well read 'ever'. I almost fell into a pattern of attendance at the University Chapel (which is beautiful and has a last-chance mass on Sunday evenings) but it didn't feel like a coherent community. For those involved in the Catholic Society or in the choir, those dedicating much of their time to the Chaplaincy, sure, but for me? No, though the singing of Salve Regina at the close of mass does always tears to my eyes-- something about 600 years of history within those walls does that to me.
I went to the Cathedral for a decent chunk of time, especially while residing in the Nest, but it's a massive and not altogether aesthetically pleasing place and no one ever spoke to me. Not once. So much for community.
But the story today is of today, and so to the point: St. Peter's here in Castlegate. It's not really much to look at, and finding it means stepping through a little alley and into a courtyard currently under construction. The altar is pretty, the stained glass is nice, the pews are wooden, the kneelers unpadded and the floors beneath them seemingly unfinished. There's not much money, not much fuss-- but when I burst into tears while praying after mass a few weeks ago, crippled under the weight of unbudgable homesickness, a woman named Angela came, sat down next to me and hugged me. She hugged me, a perfect stranger, and I wept on her shoulder. She then went into the vestibule and made me a cup of tea (I'm not joking, not one word of a lie). Deacon Tony prayed with a gentle hand on the crown of my head for enough comfort and clarity of mind to complete the work for which I'd returned, and then, after mopping my face, Angela introduced me to a half dozen little old folks and insisted I have a sausage roll and tell her what I was doing in Aberdeen. Her keen, wrinkled eyes and quirked mouth, bobbing brown and grey hair, powder soft hands and wool coat all turned to me and asked if I'd be back next week, she'd be looking for the poor wee lass who'd been weepin'. Yep, that's me.
And a few weeks on, she does still look for me. This is an actual community. While scurrying out the door and back into the light of the rest of my life, Fr. Keith stopped a conversation he was having with several other people, hailed me, and said he hadn't seen me before, what was my name? I've never experienced this kind of welcome anywhere. He'd announced after communion the birth of a new baby and the entire congregation sang happy birthday to the bundle of blankets one could only assume contained a tiny human. Isn't this what church is supposed to be?
Well, this morning saw me darkening their doorway yet again. I can see this becoming a regular thing. Thing is, I've already got a regular Sunday gig in the Ikebana at the Coffee House, and I didn't much fancy the trek back up the stairs to the Eyrie to fetch my flowers before hoofing down Union Street, so I packed them up and took them with me. I walked into mass with my reusable shopping bag slung over my shoulder and the tips of several pussy willow branches peeking out like a quiver of arrows. I opted to leave the bag tucked, I thought, discreetly beside the door to the church proper. Upon collecting it, I was instantly beset by no fewer than three women, all wanting to know what I called the branches, where I'd gotten them and what the devil I was going to do with them! (Wanting to know what I called them isn't such a ridiculous thing-- only a few weeks ago did I learn what I knew from the 80s as a "fanny pack" is no such thing in Britain but rather a "bum bag"... whatever.) I told them and the riddle was solved, but apparently it had been the single prevailing topic of conversation throughout mass. Who knew. One of them also gave me the name of a flower wholesaler I have every intention of investigating this week.
Once again, while making my bid for freedom (and a fine misting of rain, as chance would have it) Fr. Keith stopped me and asked about the flowers. "Well, if you're into flower arranging, the ones we've had near the altar have been there since the woman who used to do that for us passed away..." REALLY?! I mean, the silk flower arrangements are lovely, but clearly silk. With Lent coming up, flowers should probably be pretty minimal, but I just might, maybe, possibly be putting together flowers for Easter. BAM, community. I'd be lying if I didn't say I loved it.
Ikebana was charming, as always. Here, a small teaser:
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| Pussy willow, poppy, hyacinth, tulips |
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| Detail |
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| Daffodils and a dried bit of something else, I forget what, but I really liked this one. |
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| What a cheery colour for a hull and how kind of them to have the anchor perfectly posed. |
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