i reached morning prayer a bit flustered, and the sister gave me the wrong prayer sheet so i was utterly lost and could not participate in the readings. i don't know liturgy that well, i've only been praying the daily office for about three weeks. but some of it was familiar, and i was, eventually able to find some places they were, but i missed so much of the service looking for where i was (there again, me lost, this time, in church) supposed to be, i could not attend to the words. so i stopped trying to be unlost, and just went with it. blind. silent. a looker on.
the sister was so short who held the chalice that when she lifted it to my lips (i a towering 5'1"), i had to bend my knees a bit to get the blood of Christ (we were standing around the altar), but she tipped the chalice back when i bent my knees and it didn't come close to my hungry lips. so i said,
i didn't get any.
oh,she whispered, and we tried again.
this time, i was sucking for all i was worth, and slurped the blood of Christ. such a glorious dignified eucharist, but what do you expect? i got over it, and figured people probably thought i was trying to kick back half the glass, but i wasn't, i just wanted to actually get the wine.
all this took place on the beautiful grounds of a convent and i learned a great many things there. the writerly bits, i'll speak of wednesday on MA.
watching the nuns, the first thing i thought was, could i wear the same thing every day? comfortable as it looked, sensible slimming black with a stiff white collar (going backwards, so the angles met at the nape, and a straight white frontspiece fell across the neck), a red cord dangling a large silver cross. a black drape (don't know the proper names for this stuff), black dress with black cord belt. most were in black hose and had sensible black shoes or black sandals on.
the dear pledge (i forget the proper name for her), sister mary (or mary, since she wasn't technically a sister yet), wore a simple black linen skirt (described as "fine" by the other ladies who joined me), and a white cotton button front shirt with tasteful lace collar. she too wore sensible black shoes and hose.
i've never been a big kneeler. i'm fond of the asian traditions, where they bow to one another. i've long wanted to do this. yes, i'm weird, what can i say. well, the delightful thing was, the sisters bowed to the crucifix instead of all that kneeling and crossing themselves. they did cross themselves, but they bowed, like an asian, to the crucifix. a practice i will now not feel weird about embracing.
there was a moment in the liturgy when the nuns would all bow their heads and sing. i liked this very much as it reminds me of a moment in gourd dance where all the dancers bow their heads in unison. it repeats throughout the song, as did the sisters' bowing. at a particular junction in the prayer. i'm pleased to know this and will incorporate this as well.
there is so much to say, i've the seeds of many poems in me, like a pomegranate, just full of life, unless of course you're persephone (whom i've been thinking much about and then the pomegranate isn't as full of life as you'd like it to be. i consider her story a parallel of mine in some ways, with all the underworld stuff i do. but that is another story for another time).
summation: whitsunday was a blessing. i'm glad i was there, even though i was lost. very indicative of the way much of my life and relations with the church have been to this point. but the Lord gave me a great many gifts which will come to fruition with time. i ended up doing my whitsunday prayers at two pm, after all the poets had pulled off the grounds, because they give me direction. tether me to the King. and i must needs remain securely fastened.
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