Showing posts with label Church Suffering. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Church Suffering. Show all posts
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
1:35 PM
There is a certain condition in human nature that is familiar to every experienced human being across the boundaries of nations or time. It is that of a relationship grown cold due to a rift--an argument or an act that causes two people once deeply engaged in one another to grow apart. This is never so evident as when it occurs in marriage, where the two are still obliged to remain together. One has no difficulty in conjuring the image of a man and woman moving laconically past one another, each in his and her own shadowy world. They do not speak; the situation has grown comfortable. Maybe they have some notion of doing something in the future to rekindle the joy they felt as they began their lives together, but that must wait for the appropriate time. They have their personal plans, and day in, day out, they move steadily and solitarily towards different goals, though to all appearances, they stay together.
In the Renaissance, thinkers posited the idea that motion itself may be dubbed 'inert' as aptly as stillness is. It logically followed that sluggishness is found in actuality as well as in potency. Not yet abandoning the link between pure reason and reality, these philosopher scientists realized that such an idea would nullify any difference between rest and motion, and so to uphold the truth that our sensory experience indeed reflects reality, many nodded as Newton posited the notions of 'absolute motion' and 'absolute place.' Those scientists, so wanting man to be the measure of all things, likely mopped their brows with relief at such a solution. Somewhere there was an eternal standard to measure individual phenomena against, thus vouchsafing˜ the credibility of man's reason.
However, the realm of human relations differs entirely. As each man is an individual endowed with sentient thought of the highest order, his personal course of action need not arise from a relation with any eternal measure. Determinists may say otherwise, but personal experience tells us that man does what he does out of free choice, and that this freedom is only lessened by the sleepy influence of inertia (for even acting on the compulsion of another implies that we choose compliance over the alternative of not complying). Whether it is true for physical objects or not, man is indeed capable of resting even as he acts, mindlessly following the course of habit.
'Heaven gives us habit instead of happiness' is the proverb stoically intoned at the beginning of Tchaikovsky's luscious opera, Onegin. As it is shown that story's prelude, the strength of habit is enough to conquer individual impulses, and in this story's case, it is for the better. The security of a repeating cycle helps one to heal after the bruises of disappointed romance.
One may say the same to be the case with the Church and the Society of Saint Pius X. The initial sunderance with Rome must have shook the earth under the bishops' feet, even as they were convinced that Canon Law ultimately justified them, even as it appeared to condemn them. The stigma branded upon them by the mainstream currents in the Church may have at first spurred them on, but after all this time, this condition has very likely become mundane.
Just as with the married couple mentioned before, there was an argument. It was an ugly argument--the sort that shatters lives and even worlds. Yet, the presence of mind in both parties allows the marriage to remain in existence, and the two decide to go seperate ways under the same roof, trusting in some misty future date for a true reconciliation. Habit reigns in place of happiness, and husband and wife are content with their domestic routines, superficial conversation, and nights of regular sleep. This life does not feed their desires. It is not a fulfillment of their vocation. It is an insult against the potential grandeur of their souls. Yet, it is also the easier thing to do. Habit is easier than happiness; routine is easier than romance. Inertia always has that upperhand over the practice of virtue.
That is why it would come as a shock to the wife, if as she prepares supper in the kitchen, or as she returns home from work herself, to suddenly come face to face with her husband and see that he is looking at her. He does not give way for her to continue what she was doing. He does not even follow his own routine. He says decisively: 'Things cannot go on as they have.' She finds now she will have to make a choice. To live with him as his wife, or not to live with him at all, because he will no longer stand for only receiving a part of her or for merely giving a part of himself.
The SSPX expected the barque of St. Peter to take a century or so to right its course, at the which time, they would seek a more visible reunion. Much like a practical wife, the Fraternity was ready to bide its time and wait for the situation to evolve. Romance however kindles revolution; it does not wait for evolution.
Yet, this sort of passion and deliberate way of thinking may end in either triumph or tragedy. The husband's confrontation with his wife could bring about a wider rift rather than a reconciliation. As Archbishop Fellay himself has said:
One must not think that things will be easy afterwards. To use the words of the Pope that describe the situation quite well: 'I know,' he said, 'that it would be easier both for the Society and for myself to leave the situation as it currently is.' This describes very well the situation, and also that the Pope himself knows that he, when he does it, will be attacked. And also that the situation will not be easy for us. That which will arise out of this situation will be with Rome or against it. Both of which will be difficult.
'Difficult'? A very diplomatic term. The enemies of this reunion want to wreck it completely. They are ready to split the Church over it. The heretics that once accused the SSPX of schism, are now entering into formal schism (to add to their heresy):
A schismatic pope loses his position according to that same teaching of the constitution of the Church. At least, he cannot expect obedience...Instead of reconciling with the ultra-conservative, anti-democratic, and anti-Semitic SSPX, the Pope should rather care about the majority of reform-minded Catholics and reconcile with the churches of the Reformation and the entire ecumenical movement. Thus he would unite, and not divide. _Hans Küng (http://rorate-caeli.blogspot.com/2012/05/freak-extremes-meet-hans-kung-becomes.html)
Ultimately, those engaged in a romance must be willing to ask themselves if the other is enough. If their relationship is a great enough good to place above all other goods and all other relations. The Pope has decided that justice to the Fraternity is above the politics of diplomacy and that open arms to those outside the Church is a lie if those already within Her are not also embraced in love. His Holiness has decided to put his own house in order first, whatever the cost.
And how shall it end? That depends on whether one's trust in the good God is well-founded. Those with faith already have their answer.
However, the realm of human relations differs entirely. As each man is an individual endowed with sentient thought of the highest order, his personal course of action need not arise from a relation with any eternal measure. Determinists may say otherwise, but personal experience tells us that man does what he does out of free choice, and that this freedom is only lessened by the sleepy influence of inertia (for even acting on the compulsion of another implies that we choose compliance over the alternative of not complying). Whether it is true for physical objects or not, man is indeed capable of resting even as he acts, mindlessly following the course of habit.
'Heaven gives us habit instead of happiness' is the proverb stoically intoned at the beginning of Tchaikovsky's luscious opera, Onegin. As it is shown that story's prelude, the strength of habit is enough to conquer individual impulses, and in this story's case, it is for the better. The security of a repeating cycle helps one to heal after the bruises of disappointed romance.
One may say the same to be the case with the Church and the Society of Saint Pius X. The initial sunderance with Rome must have shook the earth under the bishops' feet, even as they were convinced that Canon Law ultimately justified them, even as it appeared to condemn them. The stigma branded upon them by the mainstream currents in the Church may have at first spurred them on, but after all this time, this condition has very likely become mundane.
Just as with the married couple mentioned before, there was an argument. It was an ugly argument--the sort that shatters lives and even worlds. Yet, the presence of mind in both parties allows the marriage to remain in existence, and the two decide to go seperate ways under the same roof, trusting in some misty future date for a true reconciliation. Habit reigns in place of happiness, and husband and wife are content with their domestic routines, superficial conversation, and nights of regular sleep. This life does not feed their desires. It is not a fulfillment of their vocation. It is an insult against the potential grandeur of their souls. Yet, it is also the easier thing to do. Habit is easier than happiness; routine is easier than romance. Inertia always has that upperhand over the practice of virtue.
That is why it would come as a shock to the wife, if as she prepares supper in the kitchen, or as she returns home from work herself, to suddenly come face to face with her husband and see that he is looking at her. He does not give way for her to continue what she was doing. He does not even follow his own routine. He says decisively: 'Things cannot go on as they have.' She finds now she will have to make a choice. To live with him as his wife, or not to live with him at all, because he will no longer stand for only receiving a part of her or for merely giving a part of himself.
The SSPX expected the barque of St. Peter to take a century or so to right its course, at the which time, they would seek a more visible reunion. Much like a practical wife, the Fraternity was ready to bide its time and wait for the situation to evolve. Romance however kindles revolution; it does not wait for evolution.
Yet, this sort of passion and deliberate way of thinking may end in either triumph or tragedy. The husband's confrontation with his wife could bring about a wider rift rather than a reconciliation. As Archbishop Fellay himself has said:
One must not think that things will be easy afterwards. To use the words of the Pope that describe the situation quite well: 'I know,' he said, 'that it would be easier both for the Society and for myself to leave the situation as it currently is.' This describes very well the situation, and also that the Pope himself knows that he, when he does it, will be attacked. And also that the situation will not be easy for us. That which will arise out of this situation will be with Rome or against it. Both of which will be difficult.
(http://rorate-caeli.blogspot.com/2012/05/rome-sspx-fellay-speaks-in-vienna-words.html)
'Difficult'? A very diplomatic term. The enemies of this reunion want to wreck it completely. They are ready to split the Church over it. The heretics that once accused the SSPX of schism, are now entering into formal schism (to add to their heresy):
A schismatic pope loses his position according to that same teaching of the constitution of the Church. At least, he cannot expect obedience...Instead of reconciling with the ultra-conservative, anti-democratic, and anti-Semitic SSPX, the Pope should rather care about the majority of reform-minded Catholics and reconcile with the churches of the Reformation and the entire ecumenical movement. Thus he would unite, and not divide. _Hans Küng (http://rorate-caeli.blogspot.com/2012/05/freak-extremes-meet-hans-kung-becomes.html)
Ultimately, those engaged in a romance must be willing to ask themselves if the other is enough. If their relationship is a great enough good to place above all other goods and all other relations. The Pope has decided that justice to the Fraternity is above the politics of diplomacy and that open arms to those outside the Church is a lie if those already within Her are not also embraced in love. His Holiness has decided to put his own house in order first, whatever the cost.
And how shall it end? That depends on whether one's trust in the good God is well-founded. Those with faith already have their answer.
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Wednesday, September 14, 2011
“Our Blessed Mother is drawing near. Like corpses those evil men fall down to the floor. Our Lady helps the Pope to his feet and, taking him by the arm, she covers him with her mantle saying: ‘Fear not!’(http://www.mysticsofthechurch.com/2011/09/blessed-elena-aiello-mystic-stigmatic.html)
Today, as we celebrate the Exaltation of the Holy Cross, the Pope shall also beatify a nun that stood faithfully in the shadow of that monolith. Sweating blood, enduring dire pain, and beholding the most horrific visions, Blessed Elena Aiello lived the Passion all the days of her life. Many of her prophecies have already come to pass, but the worst has yet to come. It seems that our present Vicar of Christ is expecting their fulfillment; may he fear not.
Today he also meets with the Archbishop Fellay, and I doubt that it would be adherents to the Society of St. Pius X that would be so brutalizing the Pope in such a vision. May His Holiness's defenders increase this day! May their dialogue bear fruit!
May also, the nun's grievous suffering on this world bear fruit; may she take the great work of this day under the patronage of her mantle. She endured enough to ask this. Just before the outbreak of WWII, Christ appeared to Blessed Elena and said:
Do you wish to come with Me to Gethsemane? You shall have to suffer for sinners.
So she did. Now we must follow suit.
Do we feast today? Let us fast more earnestly then on Friday. After having kissed the rod, let us not afterward defend ourselves from its blows. Pain dispels the cloud of cynicism most readily, and we may find ourselves ready to take up our banners again, when we see the world is not grey with stodgy incompetence and failed plans for good. It is blood red with active crimes and deliberate selfishness.
‘Behold my child, see to what ends the sins of man have reduced me. The world has lowered itself in overflowing corruption. The governments of the peop1e have risen like demons incarnated, and, while they speak of peace they prepare for war with the most devastating implements to destroy peoples and nations. Men have become ungrateful to My Sacred Heart, and abusing My Mercy, have transformed the earth into a scene of crime’
As anyone who was spanked as a child knows, it is better to bend over and have it done with. It is certainly best not to put one's hands in the way of the paddle at the last moment. So it must be the most beneficial for us, if we willingly mortify ourselves now, than have it inflicted upon us later. Not today (for today is a feast of God) but at the proper times appointed by Him, let us live closer to the foot of the cross.
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Wednesday, September 7, 2011
I was staying the night in Częstochowa for the Mass of the Assumption this time. There was perfect freedom this year in how I reckoned my time, and how blessed a gift that was! As today was Sunday, the Mass said at Jasna Góra would not be the vigil of Our Lady's feast, so on one of the rest stops, I paused to read the vigil Mass by myself. The Lesson of the fourteenth of August is one of my favourite passages in Holy Scripture, as well as from one of my favourite books. Truly, if our separated brethren had not rejected Ecclesiasticus, they would not stiffen at the embrace of the Blessed Virgin Mary:
As the vine I have brought forth a pleasant odour: and my flowers are the fruit of honour and riches. I am the mother of fair love, and of fear, and of knowledge, and of holy hope. In me is all grace of the way and of the truth, in me is all hope of life and of virtue.
Come over to me, all ye that desire me, and be filled with my fruits. For my spirit is sweet above honey, and my inheritance above honey and the honeycomb. My memory is unto everlasting generations. They that eat me, shall yet hunger: and they that drink me, shall yet thirst. He that hearkeneth to me, shall not be confounded: and they that work by me, shall not sin.
They that explain me shall have life everlasting. (Ecclesiasticus XXIV:23-31)
As I leaned my brow upon my missal, I thought that perhaps I had not forfeited so much in being unable to petition anymore. Though not always possessing a happy or willing spirit on the matter, it was good for me that all I could hope for were these consolations spoken of here. Strangely, Father Grzegorz spoke to us, before we plodded on the next six miles, (with dear Ola translating again) that we should not be discouraged if our lives did not change after this pilgrimage. Rather, we should think of all our spiritual efforts being gathered like dew into a great bowl, from which God would portion out mercy according to His wisdom. There is no better way of perceiving the matter.
The wait to enter Jasna Góra did not seem so long this year, and the weather, so much more clement! The crowds gathered about as as congenially as all the souls we met, though naturally a few quirky incidents had to take place. One sweet, old lady came up to me, embraced me, and then asked if I were a Muslim, much to the amusement of my companions standing about. 
'Nie,' I responded hastily, though I hope graciously, and arranged my shawl in another manner. Yet, it had not been too different from the ladies in their kerchiefs and chapel veils about me. One day though, people of the Church will remember that “In doubt, the revocation of a previous law is not presumed,” (Canon 21), and women would again exploit their opportunity to catechize the world and reap the fruits of observing what was not abrogated in the Code of 1917. And on that day, it will not matter how a lady chooses to veil herself. Until then, she best make sure her wrists are showing to avoid confusion over her affiliation.
Singing and praying all continued as we stood. Other pilgrim divisions, which had arrived that morning, came to smile and chat. People moved and up and down the lines to greet those whom they knew, though swiftly returning to their place in the formation. The children were wonderfully patient, and we were often exchanging gleeful expressions with one another. We were so near.
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| Thanks to Marzena and Basia! |
It produced such a thrill, again like a culmination. Now it resembled that moment towards the end of G. K. Chesterton's novel The Ball and the Cross, when the hero has an epiphany:
It's hard to explain, anyhow. An apocalypse is the opposite of a dream. A dream is falser than the outer life. But the end of the world is more actual than the world it ends. I don't say this is really the end of the world, but it's something like that--it's the end of something. All the people are crowding into one corner. Everything is coming to a point. (Chapter XIX: The Last Parley)
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| Thank you Marzena and Basia! |
My eyes being like Evan MacIan's, I did not quite see the 'point' too 'large and plain' to be visible to puny human eyes, yet I did see something after we had passed through the gates, courtyard, and threshold of the Chapel of the Mother of God. We all gazed with love on the resplendent end of our journey. She is always the same, yet it is amazing how we change around her. We went to our knees, many I'm sure with tears in our eyes. As the year before, I wept and bowed my head, but this time I felt I heard her speak within me. This was the tone of Judith, Our Lady as the Hetmana, regal and strong as well as maternal and gentle:
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| http://fakty.interia.pl/galerie/religia/nowe-korony-i-sukienka-na-obraz-matki-bozej/zdjecie/duze,1327293,1,780 |
Will you be my subject?
I nodded, answering with nothing else for the moment. The next day, as the bus wound its way through narrow roads still under construction, back the 165 miles to Warszawa, I did finally ask. What does it mean for me to be your subject? I ask it still every night, but there is the grace to wait. The precious fruit of this pilgrimage (for me) may be summed up thusly: a soul in the Lord's service should not be discouraged by the words:
'Arise, and go into the city, and there it shall be told thee what thou must do.'
Friday, August 27, 2010
I looked up with a start from my packing when I suddenly realized that no one else was in the barn, nor were there any sounds of collapsing e tents, or washing dishes. Looking out into the sterling mist shrouding the morning, I saw a few pilgrims, still stiff with sleep and sore with walking, limping towards the church for Mass. 'Condemnation!' I hissed and then chided myself, 'You know the word for "Mass" in Polish, so why are you always taken off guard?' Grabbing my missal and knotting my kerchief on my head, I ran out to join the other lategoers.It was a pleasure to kneel before the Lord, free of dirt and perspiration, in the beautiful, half-renovated chapel. The priest rose from his genuflection before the altar in purple vestments. I hastily flipped from the Communion devotions to page 1142: the vigil of St. Lawrence.
Dispersit, dedit pauperibus: justitia eius manet in saeculum saeculi.
He hath distributed, he hath given to the poor: his justice remaineth forever and ever.
I felt myself squirm. How gratified the wants of my peculiar flesh had been on awakening to the chill damp of the morning! Heat, sun, dry air, and the mental and physical inertia that followed were all things I abominated, and here was the Mass anticipating the death of a man who died on the gridiron. The very same who had magnificently said: 'Turn me over, for this side is done.' My mind returned to that terrible day in my youth when I realized I had stopped dreaming of glorious matryrdom and turned my wishes towards a happy, earthly life.
Mass ended, and all hurried back to their makeshift beds to prepare for departure while others went about preparing breakfast. I packed my satisfyingly dry clothes into my damp knapsack with gusto before loading it onto the truck.
One of the young men walking with us, a twenty year old with a smile free of modern youth's typical morbidity loaded his pack after me. With his bright open grin, he held up his prayerbook, which he had accidentally packed with his larger bag the day before. We had made our acquaintance then when he had asked to share my modlitewnik, which in turn had enlivened me enough to carry on singing as well.
* * *
The precious, soft morning had burnt away by the time we reached Nowe Miasto nad Pilicą (the New City on the Pilicą River); the sky was merely a dome with the colour and fragility of a robin's egg, cracked by the sun's merciless heat.Consequently, all the shade to be found in the town square was occupied. In the centre of this park, the altar was set up for the group's general Mass. Beside it was a massive, metal crucifix with a Franciscan situated at its base, his hand raised in benediction. Our group deferentially made its obeisance to the altar and laid down the standard before it.
We forthwith sallied across the street to the Capuchin Cloister where we
availed ourselves of the friars' hospitable offer of Eastern compote, tea, and water. As the spirited Novus Ordo Mass progressed, we made a prayerful resting place of the Franciscan church.The majestic beauty of Holy Mother Church's sanctuaries and the startling wisdom of her theologians are enough to convert many with an appetite for beauty and an intellect keen for knowing. Yet, amigst the iridescent myriad of her charisms, she also possesses monuments of simply, selfless charity, drawing in the good and pure of heart. If the mighty splendour of the basilicas or the adamantine reasoning of Scholastics have won souls, so have the wooden altars and simple homilies of the Franciscans.
I noticed from my pew a silvery casket on a smaller altar to the left of the sanctuary. It contained relics of the Blessed Honorat Kozminski, as I learned from the holy cards left in front of it. I frowned, being none the wiser for this information.
Leaving the pew to look about the church, giving wide berth to the active confessionals, I saw the magnificent crucifix in the side chapel to the left of the entrance. It was one of the special sort that always draws me, those with the wounded knees. In my rather heterodox devotion, I often pay more attention to the knees of Christ than I do to the five wounds. Perhaps it is because one must kneel in prayer or it may be because I remember the knees of the gods being clasped by supplicants in mythology. For whatever reason, the sight of those fragile, sorely tried joints peering through his pitilessly tortured Flesh speak to me in tomes.
To the right was a painting of Saint Pio of Pietrelcina and to the left, five of his brother Franciscans who had met their end in Hitler's camps. They would have been his contemporaries, and via the charism of St. Francis, they would have been united in a special way. Did the Italian Capuchin's phenomenal sanctity owe a debt of gratitude to such martyrs as these?
As I knelt there praying, one of the my pilgrim sisters came and tapped me on the shoulder, telling me I must see the confessional. Though certain I had understood her correctly, the order didn't make much sense. She was not telling me to go to Confession (a Sacrament I had partaken of before embarking on the journey, knowing I could not expect a priest able to give me Confession) but merely to look. She being older than me, I naturally obeyed and proceeded down the eastern row of chapels.
At the end was a handsomely carved, wooden confessional. It was roped off by a thick cord of red velvet, but there was nothing else to explain it that I could understand. I assumed that Blessed Honorat must have been a Confessor akin to St. John Vianney, and the confidence of sinners had made this holy booth his virtual home on Earth. Disappointed with myself for not being able to inquire further, I went back to my personal devotions.
* * *
Yet, my thirst to know would not be in vain. After bread and soup at the town's bus station, someone came up asking if I knew Blessed Honorat's story. Within a few moments, my hungry curiosity was satisfied.
After the Poles had failed to throw off the Russian yoke in 1863, the Czar, 'Liberator' Alexander II, suppressed religious orders altogether, rightly thinking that the extinction of the Church's charisms and devotions would weaken Catholicity itself, and in turn, demoralize the Polish people. Where he opined wrongly of course was in thinking that suppression could snuff out the orders.
Blessed Honorat encouraged those with a Franciscan vocation to live out the Order's charisms in spirit, rather than leave Poland to follow them to the letter. Disguising the Order thus, he founded seventeen congregations that would be approved later by the Holy See through the screen of his confessional--the very one I had had the privilege of seeing that day.
After the Poles had failed to throw off the Russian yoke in 1863, the Czar, 'Liberator' Alexander II, suppressed religious orders altogether, rightly thinking that the extinction of the Church's charisms and devotions would weaken Catholicity itself, and in turn, demoralize the Polish people. Where he opined wrongly of course was in thinking that suppression could snuff out the orders.
Blessed Honorat encouraged those with a Franciscan vocation to live out the Order's charisms in spirit, rather than leave Poland to follow them to the letter. Disguising the Order thus, he founded seventeen congregations that would be approved later by the Holy See through the screen of his confessional--the very one I had had the privilege of seeing that day.
* * *
Foolish is the man who builds his house on sand, but sometimes walking on the grainy substance is necessary. It did make the journey remarkably onerous, but I quickly found that to be more than appropriate when someone whispered to me that we would be walking the Way of the Cross. Our band was leading the way again, bearing the crucifix at the head of the procession. Invited by Włodzimierz, one of our tireless traffic directors, I fell in line to wait my turn to bear the deceptively slender cross, and I would soon discover how heavy it was.
We stopped at the first station: Jesus is condemned to death. There was a large wooden plaque hanging to commemorate it from a tree. All I could make out in the abstract design was a hand reaching into a bowl of water. We began singing:
Stabat Mater dolorosa, At the cross her station keeping,
Iuxta crucem lacrymosa, Stood the mournful Mother weeping,
Dum pendebat Filius. Where her Son, extended hung.
Then we plodded on, our ankles turning in the loose, fine dirt that rose in clouds around us, passing through the forest growth not quite tall enough to shield us from the sun, and it became easier to visualize a hot, dusty, journey towards a gruesome, horrific death.
In between the stations, where no longer the Stabat Mater but Polish hymns were sung, my mind would turn to the Act of Resignation:
O Lord my God, I now at this moment readily and willingly accept at Thy hand whatever kind of death it may please Thee to send me, with all its pains, penalities, and sorrows.
I bit my lip and wondered just how much I meant that beautiful prayer.
We stopped at the first station: Jesus is condemned to death. There was a large wooden plaque hanging to commemorate it from a tree. All I could make out in the abstract design was a hand reaching into a bowl of water. We began singing:
Stabat Mater dolorosa, At the cross her station keeping,
Iuxta crucem lacrymosa, Stood the mournful Mother weeping,
Dum pendebat Filius. Where her Son, extended hung.
Then we plodded on, our ankles turning in the loose, fine dirt that rose in clouds around us, passing through the forest growth not quite tall enough to shield us from the sun, and it became easier to visualize a hot, dusty, journey towards a gruesome, horrific death.
In between the stations, where no longer the Stabat Mater but Polish hymns were sung, my mind would turn to the Act of Resignation:
O Lord my God, I now at this moment readily and willingly accept at Thy hand whatever kind of death it may please Thee to send me, with all its pains, penalities, and sorrows.
I bit my lip and wondered just how much I meant that beautiful prayer.
* * *
Again, the end of the journey came as it always did--a complete surprise. One is growing hotter, wearier, and while one's water bottle is no longer a weight in the bag, it also no longer holds a promise of succour. Then one glances ahead, and the procession suddenly veers into a farmyard where our tricolour hangs on the picket fence.
I discovered to my delight that a great part of the floor in the barn was layered with old rugs and coats, and hence I looked forward to sleeping upon such cushioning. It was even softer than my mattress in Warsaw. While washing the stubborn grime off my feet, I came to know more of my fellow travellers, one of the ladies being a Polish philologist who offered to exchange Polish lessons for English ones: an offer I would have to avail myself of once the holidays were over.
I spoke with Ola, a lovely, compassionate woman who had just started her own practice in neurology, specifically geared towards the rehabilitation, such as that of stroke victims. She was on the pilgrimage to dedicate this work, and I cannot doubt her practice will receive manifold blessings for it. Later I got to know Marzena better, a lady who has the features and hair of a wood sprite, and was always attired in the autumnal, sylvan colours befitting her warm personality.
In my search for still water (alas I shall never sympathize with the European taste for that horrible, sparkling liquid) I got to chat with more of the pilgrim brothers. One held up a bottle, 'Ah, this is niegazowana.'
'Are you sure?' I asked, noticing the label had been torn away.
'Yes!' he said emphatically, twisting off the cap and taking a generous swig, then proffering the bottle. For a moment I wondered if I had to take it, when I saw the look of realization on his face, and was free to burst into laughter along with his comrades. One gestured for my dictionary, which I had been carrying about, and after a moment's search said, 'He drank it unwittingly.' Along with 'multitudinous,' that has to be one of my favourite words.
When encampment had concluded, supper had been consumed, and we had all washed either in the creek or in the shed, the time had come again to sing the hours. Strolling from the barn to the well where we assembled, the sky at last caught my eye.
A massive cloud, perhaps one foreboding of ill weather, was beautifully illuminated in the split colours of the declining sun, while its brow was fringing with blinding silver. The dome of heaven was imbued with hues of violate, mauve, and pale rose, when we began singing praises to its Lord.
I discovered to my delight that a great part of the floor in the barn was layered with old rugs and coats, and hence I looked forward to sleeping upon such cushioning. It was even softer than my mattress in Warsaw. While washing the stubborn grime off my feet, I came to know more of my fellow travellers, one of the ladies being a Polish philologist who offered to exchange Polish lessons for English ones: an offer I would have to avail myself of once the holidays were over.
I spoke with Ola, a lovely, compassionate woman who had just started her own practice in neurology, specifically geared towards the rehabilitation, such as that of stroke victims. She was on the pilgrimage to dedicate this work, and I cannot doubt her practice will receive manifold blessings for it. Later I got to know Marzena better, a lady who has the features and hair of a wood sprite, and was always attired in the autumnal, sylvan colours befitting her warm personality.
In my search for still water (alas I shall never sympathize with the European taste for that horrible, sparkling liquid) I got to chat with more of the pilgrim brothers. One held up a bottle, 'Ah, this is niegazowana.'
'Are you sure?' I asked, noticing the label had been torn away.
'Yes!' he said emphatically, twisting off the cap and taking a generous swig, then proffering the bottle. For a moment I wondered if I had to take it, when I saw the look of realization on his face, and was free to burst into laughter along with his comrades. One gestured for my dictionary, which I had been carrying about, and after a moment's search said, 'He drank it unwittingly.' Along with 'multitudinous,' that has to be one of my favourite words.
When encampment had concluded, supper had been consumed, and we had all washed either in the creek or in the shed, the time had come again to sing the hours. Strolling from the barn to the well where we assembled, the sky at last caught my eye.
A massive cloud, perhaps one foreboding of ill weather, was beautifully illuminated in the split colours of the declining sun, while its brow was fringing with blinding silver. The dome of heaven was imbued with hues of violate, mauve, and pale rose, when we began singing praises to its Lord.
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About Me
- Jacobitess
- Warsaw, Poland
- Domine, spero quia mundum vicisti. Lord, I trust that Thou hast overcome the world. Panie, ufam, żeś pokonał świat.