ritual

My Jewish History, Part 3

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I’ve been thinking a lot about my observances and views especially since coming across the thoughts of Robin Wall Kimmerer in reconciling her own feelings on her family’s rituals, but also since the terror attacks in Israel on October 7th and the rampant antisemitism since then. I wonder if I should be doing more as a Jewish person. I wonder (for the first time) if I should have converted – it’s not that I don’t believe; I do believe wholeheartedly, but am I betraying the Jewish people? Am I still Jewish to others? *I* know I am still Jewish. I just feel on the outside. I have always felt somewhat on the outside. I’m more religious than some; I’m less than most. Does what I do count? Who decides that?

I have many thoughts, but they are not forming cohesively and rationally. They come in screams and anger and heartbreak. And reflection.

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Terry and Darlene Wildman and Rain Song

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From their website.
(c)2023

I’ve mentioned earlier in the year about a retreat I went on in June, which had stayed with me for weeks, and now, for many months. It still reverberates in me. I was privileged to be in attendance as it was guided by Terry and Darlene Wildman. Terry and Darlene are known for their music, which ironically, I did not know until they arrived and began playing and singing.

The retreat was primarily centered around the First Nations Version of the New Testament, and the weekend was filled with music, Scripture, prayer, Native American spirituality and ceremony, and really good, deep conversation.

When I awoke on the first morning, I knew that there was something special about this weekend retreat. I was awake early; not drowsy, and ready to start my day. I was reinvigorated. This is very unusual for me. While I’m very comfortable at this retreat house, I can never quiet my mind down enough to sleep at a reasonable time. On this weekend, this retreat gave me the exact opposite experience. I went to sleep every night before midnight (sometimes long before) and woke up refreshed at around seven in the morning, without an alarm, and with the sunrise shining out of my window.

The evening before and again on that first morning, we went into the warm courtyard where a sacred fire was burning. Darlene held an abalone shell with burning sage, smoke rising, guided by a large feather. We prayed in the seven directions, and then each of us had the opportunity to purify ourselves with the smoke, using our hands to bring it in, while the feather helped the smoke. I think we also had the opportunity to add a pinch of tobacco to the fire.

This table held the sacred plants for smudging and purifying: braided sweetgrass, sage, cedar, and tobacco as well as a large feather, traditionally an eagle feather along with an abalone shell to hold the smoking sage.
(c)2023

It was a very profound experience, and it enhanced the rest of the prayers that we each would do that day. I found it very natural and complementary to my own rituals. It was a wonderful experience.

In the months since, I’ve immersed myself in local Native American history. I haven’t changed my religion or coopted anyone else’s, but I have found a place in my daily readings for the First Nations version. I read from this Bible every day in June and continue to do so during my weekly prayer time. While I was on vacation, I recorded the daily readings in my notebook, and took photos of those pages to bring with me for my daily prayers.

I spent time with other experiences of Native American spirituality and storytelling, reading a book by Mohawk Elder Tom Porter, and completing a historical account of Wounded Knee. I’ve also spent time in the museum at the St. Kateri Shrine in Fonda, examining the Caughnawaga archaeological site, and touring the Mohawk village of Kahnawake in Quebec. Next year, I plan on attending the Strawberry Festival in Kanatsiohareke, just west of Fonda, New York.

All of this was a direct result of that holy weekend.

I’ve spent weeks listening to the music of RainSong, the music of Terry and Darlene whenever I get into the car. I sing along and it brings me back to that weekend and the feelings of being closer to G-d, and of being uplifted spiritually. My favorite CD so far is Hoop of Life, which has many of the songs that Terry and Darlene shared with us on our weekend.

Use the links throughout this post to meet Terry and Darlene and find your own way to their wonderful sounds.

Book Rec (And a Bit More): Project 562: Changing the Way We See Native America by Matika Wilbur

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I’ve been really immersed in Native American spirituality and history. I have always been intrigued and felt kinship with Native American/First Nation people, being drawn to their stories, their history, and their lives since I was a child. It’s been something that has ebbed and flowed throughout my life, even with the insensitive and appropriated costumes of my childhood. I know better now, and I hope that in my past teaching in early childhood, I’ve lessened some of those stereotypical ideas as those children grow up and remember their experiences of the culture as best offered by an outsider and non-Native person.

I’ve recently mentioned attending a weekend retreat with Terry and Darlene Wildman and learning about the First Nations Version of the New Testament. It was enlightening and eye-opening, and I enjoyed the ceremonies we were invited to participate in. I’ve been a visitor and participant at the nearby St. Kateri Shrine when they’ve had those ceremonies open to the public.

I spent all of June reading the Daily Readings from the FNV New Testament; it really highlighted the beauty of Native American storytelling, and I felt that I was hearing some of these Scriptures for the first time and in a completely new way.

Which brings me to the most recent book that I’ve been reading: Project 562: Changing the Way We See Native America by Matika Wilbur. I must say that I started the book in a naive headspace. I was looking forward to her interviews with modern Native people across Turtle Island (North America), hearing about how they keep their culture and religious rituals alive, and while I’m aware (more than the average person) of the history of the US’s forced removal, forced assimilation, and truly what can only be called genocide of the Native Americans, I was still surprised by so many things in this book that took  me by surprise.

Author/Photographer, Matika Wilbur.
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Tea for Tuesday – National Tea Month

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There is never a wrong day to drink tea. I had two cups of hot tea myself on Sunday and one hot vanilla chai latte yesterday. January is National Tea Month, although I’ve seen several references to hot tea month. I’m not sure which is accurate, so pick your favorites and have a cuppa.

This coming Thursday is National Hot Tea Day, and that is when I will share my favorite missive on the proper brewing of hot tea from Douglas Adams, author of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.

In the meantime, to whet your appetite for the nectar of the gods, enjoy some of my favorite tea-related photos below:

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Incense

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This was in response to a free write for the prompt scent in the theme of comfort. In other words, write about a scent that gives you comfort.

​I would not have expected to be writing about incense being a comforting scent. I was never a fan of incense. Perhaps, it was the specific scents that I was exposed to. Perhaps, it was Allan, who lived across the hall from me in my first year in college who used it to mask his pot smoking. At the time, I was so naive that I didn’t realize that’s what it was for. I thought he was just kind of dopey and laid back, and the incense was just him being a late blooming hippie.

Either way, the smell of it was enough to put me off both pot and incense.

When I visited church for the first time that they used incense was probably around Advent, maybe Christmas Eve. I remember the sounds of that day more than I remember the smells. Our music director is an amazing musician, and it is a joy to listen to his carols before the Christmas Eve Mass. I don’t know if there was incense that night, but I know that it’s been there as the liturgical season warranted.

Every Tuesday, the Host is incensed and a hymn is sung before adoration. I try to watch the smoke rise until it dissipates on its way to the skylight. I try ot make sense of the shapes it makes and the directions it flows in, but usually it just goes, and I continue to meditate on it.

After the Mass of Christian burial, the casket is incensed on its way out of the church to the burial or interment. 

The incense is carried in a bowl through the church during the Sunday procession during Lent. I know it is offered up with a solemn hymn that just touches me deeply. The whole process of the incense rising, the low singing of the prayer, the hush that falls over everything. It is very similar at Advent.

During one of the RCIA rites, I was standing in the back with the other catechumens while we waited together for our time to bring our oils to the altar. It may have been the rite of welcome, or perhaps, during the Holy Thursday Mass. I can’t remember at the moment, but I do remember looking to the front of the church where the incense was being carried, and i distinctly saw the smoke rise and form the shape of a Jewish Star of David. It was one of many signs that I received that I was making the right decision to go down the path of conversion.

While at first, the smell bothered me, the more I became engrossed in the Catholic liturgy and ritual, the more comfortable I became with the scents and the smells of the church and the incense.

I would not expect it during a service, and then I would smell it, and a warmth would come over me, a comfort, and it reminded me of what I found in the church, but not so much in the building but in the pews.

As we are often told, we are the church, and I find a small part of myself floating through the air along with the incense.

Massaversary

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Tuesday was my Massaversary. By the calendar, it was really about a month ago, in March, but the first Mass I ever attended was on Holy Tuesday, which was two days ago.

I remember it clearly because of the recommendation of my friend, Tim. He said I should try to attend the masses during Easter’s Holy Week, that they were really lovely. I went to that first one on Tuesday. Then on Wednesday, I went to the second one.

And then I discovered that that’s it for the daily  masses in Holy Week. Thursday and Friday and Saturday were all simple prayer services; the big services or masses were held in the evening.

I went to the following prayer services, and was shocked on Saturday to have been caught up so emotionally at the lighting of the Easter fire. It was overwhelming, and almost too much, but it was.

Going back to my first Mass on that Holy Tuesday, it ran just like a regular mass. The fabrics were still purple, the flowers were a mix of greenery and red, leftover from Palm Sunday, although at the time I did not know that.

I sat alone behind an older woman with a colorful embroidered jacket. She was also wearing a hat. I would find out later in the season that her name was Shirley.

I was struck by the synchronicity of it all. Everyone doing the same thing, at the same time, sometimes before the priest gave the signal to move. There was a call and response, and everyone knew all the words. Everyone except me.

I was also struck  by the exercise program of it all.

Sit, stand, cross yourself. Bend your head, sit, stand, cross yourself. Kneel, stand, raise your hands, drop your hands, kneel, stand, raise your hands, drop your hands, shake hands with your neighbor, walk to the front, eat, drink, and walk back. Bow and sit. Then stand, bow, and genuflect.

Add a little bit of music and you’ve got a Richard Simmons video.

It was foreign, and I spent most of my time watching the others, trying to emulate what they did, just slightly slower than they.

That was the beginning.

I still go to the daily mass; at least I try to. I have returned for Lent, and I have indeed missed it. I think I’d gotten lazy, but I’m hoping to make it part of my daily prayer time again.

This year, since last week, excepting today, I’ve stayed after the daily mass for the recitation of the rosary. I have some issues with the after rosary prayer, but that is a subject for another day. All in all, I get good feelings from praying to the Holy Mother; something I couldn’t have imagined five years ago.

So, happy massiversary to me!

And Happy Easter to all of you.