Sept. 12th- Rituals

Well, I missed class on Friday, so I don't have class notes. So instead, I want to get my thoughts out about some reoccurring themes that have been coming up for me.

On Friday I went to a Catholic funeral. On the way to the funeral, I made a comment about the Catholic rituals of sitting and standing, and repeating chants over and over again. * Neither my boyfriend or I have a strong understanding of the Catholic religion, and I hope that I don't offend anyone who does.

Anyways, my boyfriend gave a dismissive reply that seemed almost aggressive. He felt that rituals (such as repetitive praying) were just a pompous waste of time. I sat there, surprised at his statement, and I thought about the subject of rituals itself, including my boyfriend's intense reaction to it. Then, I delicately suggested that the rituals must mean something for the people who believe in them. We continued our drive in silence as I pondered the idea of meditation, prayer, chanting, and rituals.

When we got to the church, I was immediately struck by the stained glass and the choir directly behind me. Having been raised in a non-denominational christian church, I get a nostalgic feeling every time I walk into a church. Immediately I felt both comfortable, and uncomfortable.

Awkward, but familiar hymns were played (quite without any sense of order), as people were seated in the pews. I distracted myself by asphyxiating on the little old woman sitting in front of me. She was maybe four feet tall, and she wore all black, with an antique Italian head covering. It was beautiful. The scarf was black with little glimpses of silver sparkling brilliantly, as if they were competing with the stained glass window. I wished I knew her story. I wanted to reach out and touch her, to see if she was real.

Finally, the service began with a beautiful song. Everyone else heard a sorrowful but powerful female voice singing a familiar, wordless tune, but I heard, "She sang beyond the genius of the sea," and I smiled over my literary epiphany. The end of a life was what we were celebrating, not the beginning.

Yet right there, in that song, was a well established pattern. Aside from the obvious rhythmic structure of music, I was aware of a different pattern. How many people had mourned to that song, I wondered. How many people have searched for meaning in times like this? How many years have people found comfort in these ritualistic songs that celebrate life and sorrow?

Then the priest (?) gave a familiar passage, "The lord is my shepard, I shall not want." He lifted an arm, and the congregation quickly replied, "The lord is my shepard, I shall not want." Hmmm. I took a minute to think about that promise. And I also noted the repetition of the prayer. I imagined wanting to be in a flock of sheep, looking toward my shepard to care for me. And, I thought about what it would be like to have no desires, or wants. But of course, to the church members, being a fellow sheep had layers of meaning that each individual had learned separately and together. I wondered what that one passage that was continually repeated throughout the funeral meant to each person in that church. And I began to understand Frye's perspective- that there are patters of imagery and meaning, circulating in story and language. How could we, as a human population, exist without adhering to sets of rules that operate in mythical realities? And how can we not be influenced by them?

I sat and listened to the repetition of the prayer. It had the same appeal as the telling of folk-lore, the passing down of stories from cherished ancestors, and the memorizing of chants used to gain entrance into a private, selective clubs. The prayer had the power to seduce its audience, yet with every repetition, it grew under the influence of the congregation. This power of words, I thought to myself, is an ever-evasive virus that changes and mutates. It stays true to its own form, yet always contains possibilities of complete transformation; beginning with a quest (Frye), and building. One story after another, myth on top of myth.

I watched and listened, as the young man who was standing in front of me preached to the mass of people in the church. In the same way that the woman sang her song in the Idea of Order at Key West, the priest sang his song. We had no words written down for us. We only had the words that he gave. Those words were molded, and sculpted in his mind, with a goal (quest) at hand. He had a particular view that he wanted to develop.

And I sat there, taking in that ritualistic moment that I was caught in. I felt like a child, wanting to know this woman in front of me, wanting to understand this world that I don't belong to, and wanting to chant with the rest of the congregation, in time, with words that I did not know. And then I thought about my literary criticism class. Because, more often than not, this is how I feel about literature.