Χριστός Ανέστη: on grounding, balance, and metaphor
Χριστός Ανέστη!
The procession from darkness to balance to light moved slowly this year--too slowly for my taste. The irony of replacing my winter decorations with spring decorations in the midst of a snowstorm was not lost on me. Both American Easter (as my family used to call Catholic/Protestant Easter) and Greek Easter (which is shared by Orthodox Christians everywhere, not just Greeks) were white Easters in our part of the country this year.
Still, I managed to honor the season by taking on two important Lenten projects this year. Today, the day after Greek Easter, I feel the urge to reflect on these practices.
First, I created (or, rather, re-created) a sacred space for myself. When we moved into our beautiful, giant, old home right after getting married, I claimed a room on our second floor down the hall from our bedroom--a small space I loved deeply.
But then we opened our home to people in need. Each time someone moved in or out or switched bedrooms, every belonging we couldn't deal with immediately ended up in that room, from worn furniture to old clothes to knick knacks and photo albums that hadn't found a permanent space. Soon, my icons, poetry books and desk were overtaken with boxes we needed to sort through...someday.
In January, we began the long project of cleaning out that room. In the process, we realized it made more sense to move some of my most treasured belongings to another space altogether. Slowly, spending 15 minutes here, an hour there, I began to do so.
I didn't realize right away that the process of moving and organizing was my Lenten project. I simply knew I needed to make time to reclaim space for myself, which felt like the opposite of what one should do during Lent. But for me, carefully alphabetizing my large collection of poetry books meant reconnecting with different parts of my story. As I slid each spine into its place, I remembered the story behind the book--where it had been purchased, how delighted I'd been upon finding it, or who had introduced me to the author's work. Sometimes I paused to find a favorite poem I hadn't read in years.
Next, I found a spot for my grandfather's desk against a bright blue wall. My grandfather had been one of the only literate members of Akron's Greek American community. On this desk, he wrote poems documenting the lives and challenges of the new immigrant community he was helping to create. He died two years before I was born, but I am connected to him by my love of language and storytelling.
I carefully nailed my icon shelf above the desk. It holds the icons of my childhood, saints to whom I've prayed all of my life, along with stones from various places I have lived and visited, statues of Buddha, and Pegasus figurines that keep me grounded to the spring of inspiration that famous winged horse offered the muses, gifting them back their voices. I surrounded my work space with artwork I made and collected during my two years studying spiritual direction, my singing bowl, and my Easter candle, and placed my journal in their center. I finished just in time for Catholic/Protestant holy week.
Easter is always a conflicted time for me. I've married a woman whose family is Catholic and have, for the last few years, celebrated "American" Easter with them. I now belong to a United Church of Christ church, which reflects a doctrine I can swallow and a social justice tradition that feeds my soul. But, I miss my Greek Orthodox roots most of all during Holy Week.
On Lazurus Saturday, I want to taste the communion, then sit among the women who fold the palms for Palm Sunday. I want celebrate that triumphant return to Jerusalem on Sunday. I long to sing the only hymn written by a woman on Monday and Tuesday--to remember the woman who annointed Jesus' feet and wiped them with her hair. I want to stretch out my hands toward the priest, to feel his fingers pressing against my forehead, cheeks, and chin, at the anointing service on Wednesday. I long to kiss Jesus' feet on the cross on Holy Thursday, to crawl beneath the Epitaphion on Friday. I want to be there when the priest emerges from behind the doors with that light at midnight, to sing loudly, over and over, the Paschal hymn, to hear the sermon welcoming everyone to the feast.
Usually I fast from animal products, wine, and oil during holy week, but this year, maybe for the first time ever, I didn't. It simply wasn't practical; we have enough issues with getting everybody seated and eating together in our home as it is. I'd made food for our Easter celebration with my spouse's family, and it didn't seem right to discard those leftovers. I don't eat meat anyway, so I comforted myself by believing I was at least not doing that. I made the traditional lentil soup (with vinegar to remember the bitter taste in Jesus' mouth) on Good Friday, but that's about all I managed to do this year.
Some years I've made the trek to the closest Greek Orthodox Church three hours away, but for the last three years, this has not been possible. Last year I watched the services via live feed from my home church in Akron. It was such a blessing to be there, albeit remotely; I burned incense each night and sat in front of my little laptop screen, as present as I could be under the circumstances (and sometimes, in my pajamas).
But this year, I had the urge to stay in my new spiritual space and simply read through the services. In 1985 (according to a carefully written inscription) I received the Holy Week service book--all 501 pages of it--for Scholastic Achievement in Greek school or Sunday school (I have no memory of this). I started reading at the start of Catholic/Protestant holy week and ended at 1 a.m. on Greek Easter morning. When I got to a hymn I knew, I sang it, but most of the time, I simply read slowly, silently, in one or both languages, depending on my mood.
At midnight on Easter I lit the Easter candle I had saved from the last time I went to church in person, about four years ago. I had a little wine, a little tsoureki, and a hard boiled egg--and I sang Χριστός Ανέστη a million times, each time it came up in the service. Otherwise, I just sat in silence reading. I even read through the Vesper service, the one I used to attend when I was too young to be in church from 11 p.m.-3 a.m.
Something happened over the last two weeks that I can't exactly describe. The church services during Holy Week (and really all Orthodox services) are about connecting to the mystical through all five senses. That is part of what draws us all, again and again, back to church, regardless of any problems we may have with the doctrine.
But reading in silence gave me a whole new experience.I started to pay attention to language again in a way I hadn't for a long time--since I stopped writing poetry every day, actually. I could hardly believe the beauty and power of the metaphors. Several times, I wept at a new recognition of the tradition I was so lucky to have been gifted as a child. When I couldn't handle the doctrine, my heart was able to stay open anyway to the language itself, those tiny letters squeezed onto each page, the way they went on, unsurprisingly repeating words I'd known since childhood, then shocking me with language that sounded both familiar and new.
Language always sounds new when it is laden with imagery and metaphor. Stories are always startlingly new if we open our hearts to their themes, their language, their deep wisdom (and look beyond whatever makes us want to turn away).
I found a sense of balance that was internal and external. I literally had less pain when walking (I have minor chronic back issues). I felt my lungs filling up as I breathed, my mind slowing down. I found myself less irritated, gentler as I moved through two brutal weeks at work and the continual onslaught of snow, snow, snow. I was able to stay above it all, just being present in my body, even feeling gratitude for the earth as it was, as well as a new desire to care for it.
On Greek Easter morning I was alone with our foster son; everyone else was either working or asleep. He opened a second Easter basket and found all the Easter eggs the Easter bunny, who was visiting for the second time, had hidden.
But then he wanted to light candles and hear me sing Χριστός Ανέστη, and he kept going, lighting every candle in the house, until everything was bright and beautiful and the sun started to peak out through the thick clouds and he said, oddly, "Isn't this good, Mom? It's good to be in the house of God, isn't it?"
Later we planted some seeds indoors in anticipation of the garden that I hope we will have this spring. I made vegetarian magarista (yes, really, and it was delicious!) and spanakopita and a big Greek salad and had our best friend over for supper, because my spouse was working. We talked to my nephews and sister and aunt who raised me after my mother died and I missed them, but I didn't feel the deep grief I sometimes feel this time of year--instead, I felt grateful for what was.
The metaphors from the 501 pages of Holy Week services kept playing in my mind, over and over, and now, I am eager to start writing poetry again, as soon as the 40 days of Easter settle back into our normal daily rhythm, which I am hoping will include some signs of spring.
The procession from darkness to balance to light moved slowly this year--too slowly for my taste. The irony of replacing my winter decorations with spring decorations in the midst of a snowstorm was not lost on me. Both American Easter (as my family used to call Catholic/Protestant Easter) and Greek Easter (which is shared by Orthodox Christians everywhere, not just Greeks) were white Easters in our part of the country this year.
Still, I managed to honor the season by taking on two important Lenten projects this year. Today, the day after Greek Easter, I feel the urge to reflect on these practices.
First, I created (or, rather, re-created) a sacred space for myself. When we moved into our beautiful, giant, old home right after getting married, I claimed a room on our second floor down the hall from our bedroom--a small space I loved deeply.
But then we opened our home to people in need. Each time someone moved in or out or switched bedrooms, every belonging we couldn't deal with immediately ended up in that room, from worn furniture to old clothes to knick knacks and photo albums that hadn't found a permanent space. Soon, my icons, poetry books and desk were overtaken with boxes we needed to sort through...someday.
In January, we began the long project of cleaning out that room. In the process, we realized it made more sense to move some of my most treasured belongings to another space altogether. Slowly, spending 15 minutes here, an hour there, I began to do so.
I didn't realize right away that the process of moving and organizing was my Lenten project. I simply knew I needed to make time to reclaim space for myself, which felt like the opposite of what one should do during Lent. But for me, carefully alphabetizing my large collection of poetry books meant reconnecting with different parts of my story. As I slid each spine into its place, I remembered the story behind the book--where it had been purchased, how delighted I'd been upon finding it, or who had introduced me to the author's work. Sometimes I paused to find a favorite poem I hadn't read in years.
Next, I found a spot for my grandfather's desk against a bright blue wall. My grandfather had been one of the only literate members of Akron's Greek American community. On this desk, he wrote poems documenting the lives and challenges of the new immigrant community he was helping to create. He died two years before I was born, but I am connected to him by my love of language and storytelling.
I carefully nailed my icon shelf above the desk. It holds the icons of my childhood, saints to whom I've prayed all of my life, along with stones from various places I have lived and visited, statues of Buddha, and Pegasus figurines that keep me grounded to the spring of inspiration that famous winged horse offered the muses, gifting them back their voices. I surrounded my work space with artwork I made and collected during my two years studying spiritual direction, my singing bowl, and my Easter candle, and placed my journal in their center. I finished just in time for Catholic/Protestant holy week.
Easter is always a conflicted time for me. I've married a woman whose family is Catholic and have, for the last few years, celebrated "American" Easter with them. I now belong to a United Church of Christ church, which reflects a doctrine I can swallow and a social justice tradition that feeds my soul. But, I miss my Greek Orthodox roots most of all during Holy Week.
On Lazurus Saturday, I want to taste the communion, then sit among the women who fold the palms for Palm Sunday. I want celebrate that triumphant return to Jerusalem on Sunday. I long to sing the only hymn written by a woman on Monday and Tuesday--to remember the woman who annointed Jesus' feet and wiped them with her hair. I want to stretch out my hands toward the priest, to feel his fingers pressing against my forehead, cheeks, and chin, at the anointing service on Wednesday. I long to kiss Jesus' feet on the cross on Holy Thursday, to crawl beneath the Epitaphion on Friday. I want to be there when the priest emerges from behind the doors with that light at midnight, to sing loudly, over and over, the Paschal hymn, to hear the sermon welcoming everyone to the feast.
Usually I fast from animal products, wine, and oil during holy week, but this year, maybe for the first time ever, I didn't. It simply wasn't practical; we have enough issues with getting everybody seated and eating together in our home as it is. I'd made food for our Easter celebration with my spouse's family, and it didn't seem right to discard those leftovers. I don't eat meat anyway, so I comforted myself by believing I was at least not doing that. I made the traditional lentil soup (with vinegar to remember the bitter taste in Jesus' mouth) on Good Friday, but that's about all I managed to do this year.
But this year, I had the urge to stay in my new spiritual space and simply read through the services. In 1985 (according to a carefully written inscription) I received the Holy Week service book--all 501 pages of it--for Scholastic Achievement in Greek school or Sunday school (I have no memory of this). I started reading at the start of Catholic/Protestant holy week and ended at 1 a.m. on Greek Easter morning. When I got to a hymn I knew, I sang it, but most of the time, I simply read slowly, silently, in one or both languages, depending on my mood.
At midnight on Easter I lit the Easter candle I had saved from the last time I went to church in person, about four years ago. I had a little wine, a little tsoureki, and a hard boiled egg--and I sang Χριστός Ανέστη a million times, each time it came up in the service. Otherwise, I just sat in silence reading. I even read through the Vesper service, the one I used to attend when I was too young to be in church from 11 p.m.-3 a.m.
Something happened over the last two weeks that I can't exactly describe. The church services during Holy Week (and really all Orthodox services) are about connecting to the mystical through all five senses. That is part of what draws us all, again and again, back to church, regardless of any problems we may have with the doctrine.
But reading in silence gave me a whole new experience.I started to pay attention to language again in a way I hadn't for a long time--since I stopped writing poetry every day, actually. I could hardly believe the beauty and power of the metaphors. Several times, I wept at a new recognition of the tradition I was so lucky to have been gifted as a child. When I couldn't handle the doctrine, my heart was able to stay open anyway to the language itself, those tiny letters squeezed onto each page, the way they went on, unsurprisingly repeating words I'd known since childhood, then shocking me with language that sounded both familiar and new.
Language always sounds new when it is laden with imagery and metaphor. Stories are always startlingly new if we open our hearts to their themes, their language, their deep wisdom (and look beyond whatever makes us want to turn away).
I found a sense of balance that was internal and external. I literally had less pain when walking (I have minor chronic back issues). I felt my lungs filling up as I breathed, my mind slowing down. I found myself less irritated, gentler as I moved through two brutal weeks at work and the continual onslaught of snow, snow, snow. I was able to stay above it all, just being present in my body, even feeling gratitude for the earth as it was, as well as a new desire to care for it.
On Greek Easter morning I was alone with our foster son; everyone else was either working or asleep. He opened a second Easter basket and found all the Easter eggs the Easter bunny, who was visiting for the second time, had hidden.
But then he wanted to light candles and hear me sing Χριστός Ανέστη, and he kept going, lighting every candle in the house, until everything was bright and beautiful and the sun started to peak out through the thick clouds and he said, oddly, "Isn't this good, Mom? It's good to be in the house of God, isn't it?"
Later we planted some seeds indoors in anticipation of the garden that I hope we will have this spring. I made vegetarian magarista (yes, really, and it was delicious!) and spanakopita and a big Greek salad and had our best friend over for supper, because my spouse was working. We talked to my nephews and sister and aunt who raised me after my mother died and I missed them, but I didn't feel the deep grief I sometimes feel this time of year--instead, I felt grateful for what was.
The metaphors from the 501 pages of Holy Week services kept playing in my mind, over and over, and now, I am eager to start writing poetry again, as soon as the 40 days of Easter settle back into our normal daily rhythm, which I am hoping will include some signs of spring.
Comments