An Unorthadox, Orthodox, Sunday - Part 1

Alright, my only excuse for having not blogged in a month is that we've moved. Again. I know. That, and I've been working on a new blog that better houses all my random thoughts, so stay tuned for that!

Anyway, today Aaron, Gwen and I visited Saint Andrew, an Orthodox church in Riverside. We had been talking about visiting a local church since our move, and yesterday Aaron suggested that we visit an Orthodox one. At first I didn't want to. It had been a long week for me and I wanted to take communion which has been a major source of sustainment and refreshment for me since attending Christ Church, and not being a member of an Orthodox church would exclude me from that. I also miss my friends easily, so that was two strikes against the idea of going anywhere else. To top it off, while I consider Orthodox Christians my brothers and sisters in Christ, I'm not comfortable with some of their practices, like praying to the saints who have passed on.

And while that would be three strikes out, it was because of the last reason that I decided to go. After all, I reasoned, it really wouldn't be fair for me to form a critical opinion about a branch of Christianity whom I still regard as, well, a branch of Christianity, without seeing who they are and what they do. To experience first-hand and not word-of-mouth. And I was curious about their service, having heard so many wonderful things about it.

I admit that I had a few preconceived notions about the service. Namely, that it would be dark, as in very dimly lit, and that I wouldn't be able to understand a lot of the liturgy. I almost felt like we were going on a field trip rather than to a worship service, except without the camera and fanny pack.

Upon arrival, I felt a little out of place in my jeans, despite the apparent cuteness of my blouse and shoes. That, and I didn't have a head covering like many of the women. Aaron's friend who will soon be chrismated into Orthodoxy told us that it was a convert church and that converts tend to be more gung-ho about legalism; head coverings being one of the manifestations of that. I figured I had a nice conservative hair-do (because you know how wild my hair usually looks) so I supposed that would have to suffice.

As we made our way to the entrance of the church, we met Father Josiah's mother, Lee I think her name was. What a sweet lady! She was very glad to welcome us, though we probably had the word "gringo" or whatever the Orthodox equivalent would be, written across our foreheads. Well, mostly just me, since Aaron's been to Orthodox services before. We entered into probably what could be best described as a house for the senses. I earnestly wanted to be open-minded and acknowledge and understand, if not appreciate, every aspect of the service, but my senses were like a deer caught in the headlights, mainly I think because it was an environment that I had never experienced before, and the introvert in me--we'll call her Mrs. Wimble--takes charge, allowing me to process only one sense at a time. So here is the approximate order of which they filed neatly into my brain:

Smell. The clean, earthy smell of incense. Which reminded me of home, because it's the same kind that Aaron burns in our house.

Sight. Sight was a big sense and had to eek into my brain sideways, but at first I think I noticed the family atmosphere. Which reminded me of my church. Lots of babies and children, along with all generations of family. That, and most people stood, for a great portion of the liturgy, other than when the preaching took place. I assumed they stood out of reverence, and also because there probably wouldn't be enough room if everyone sat. Or maybe there weren't enough chairs. Who knows? Well, they probably know, just not me--the Gringo.

Then I saw the tall, very thin creamy lit candles clustered around the icons at the entrance of the church with people kissing the icons and bowing to them. I kinda felt weird seeing them do that. I felt less weird when I toured cathedrals in France and saw Catholics pray to icons, probably because I wore a camera and a fanny pack. Here it was different, I think because I was trying to be a participant in the worship service, and I felt kind of like I did when ladies at the church I attended growing up would do an interpretive dance as a part of the service-- I just couldn't quite look at them, out of feeling a mixture of distraction and embarrassment. What can I say? People just don't kiss icons, or do interpretive dance, at my church.

There were great golden chandeliers hanging overhead. Lots of gold and warm hues in large paintings and icons on every wall. And dimly lit, though not as dim as I imagined it would be, thanks to two circular windows on either side of a large icon of Mother Mary (Theotokos, Mother of God, as the Orthodox refer to her as) up on the front wall of the church.

Sound. We entered to the sound of what's called "Divine Liturgy", that is, the reading of Scripture, saints' writings, and other elements that I'm probably not aware of, via chanting and a cappella choral singing, which was actually quite beautiful in its pentatonic tones. There were the Troparions (hymns) to Christ, to saints, and to the Theotokos. I couldn't make out some of what was being sung, probably because I was on sensory overload, though I could understand when they praised the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, upon which many of the worshipers would cross themselves and sweep their hand low to the ground at some points. I don't have anything against crossing oneself, and I probably would have joined in if I knew when to do it. That, and if I knew if their hands were going from left to right or right to left, because the Roman Catholics and Lutherans care about those details, I assume the Orthodox church does, too.

Touch. Upon the beginning of the sermon, everyone sat down, like on the floor. The cold, hard granite floor. Now I'm sure Orthodox members have a way more interesting experience of this sense what with being able to take communion, touch icons, and whatnot, but I did touch the floor, so that's something. Anyway, A short sermon was preached about living a life of spiritual health, and to look to the icons and what they represent, that is, a window to heaven, where light emanates from the faces of the saints (which is why shadows are never depicted on icons, interestingly).

At that point my Orthodox worship service experience rather abruptly ended when one of the gals standing next to us (coincidentally, one of Aaron's old friends from Master's College) informed us there was an Orthodox class for Catechumens, and we were free to go to that.

And here I think I'll end my entry for the night. Part two will no doubt bring out the reformed in me--we'll call her Mrs. Guffaruff. Though we had to leave early for the sake of Gwen, our little trooper who could troop no more, I did noticed one of the ladies in the class had a plate full of cookies for refreshments after the service. Those I could almost taste. Almost.

20/20

At first I thought I had gotten something on my glasses that made my vision blurry. But no, it's just my monitor doing it's I'm-blurry-getting-more-blurry-oh-wait-I'm-good-now-nope-blurry-again thing.

I was going to post some gratuitous pics of Gwen being mesmerized by her daddy playing the mandolin, but who wants to deal with Photoshop when one has monitor drama? Sure, I can do the color correcting tolerably, but will it really be post-worthy?

Even as I type it's going a little haywire, which made me think (and you know bad stuff happens when I do that): isn't that just like life?

I've had 1 Corinthians 13:12 on my mind a lot lately. It goes: ^"For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face; now I know in part, but then I will know fully just as I also have been fully known." The short of it is, when we go to heaven, we will see and understand and know perfectly; but for now, our understanding is finite. We make mistakes. And though it could be said that hindsight is 20/20, even that isn't completely trustworthy, because we look back in this life through the scope of our own viewpoint and understanding.

So where am I going with this? I guess the blurry monitor brought to mind our struggle here on earth. We can't see perfectly, and at times it gets so bad we can't make heads from tails, but we're still called to press forward, to do what we ought to do, to work with Photoshop, so to speak, even when it's a blurry mess, because even so, I can see just enough to do my color-correcting, sizing and cropping. The focus, I have to trust, is sharp, and even if it isn't, I did my part to the best of my knowledge, and how it's received by the viewing public (i.e. 6 of you) is out of my control.

Ok, so it's a scenic tour analogy, but whatever, it's my blog. If you're still tracking, maybe there's something wrong with your monitor, too. Oh well, here's some super cute images of my super cute baby!

 

For the Beauty of the...Mountains

 I grew up in the San Gabriel Valley, one of the many fine valleys southern California has to offer. But there's always been parts about it that I've felt to be lacking, for better or for worse, but lacking nonetheless. Then I moved here--the mountains--still in southern California, strangely enough, and am finding those lacking parts, those missing pieces, which have been making our sojourn here increasingly more fulfilling.

What follows is a growing list of reasons I love living here up on a mountain-top, in the sticks (literally and literary-ly). Sure, there's downsides, but there's downsides to living anywhere, so may as well dwell on the good stuff and chalk the rest up to whatever-doesn't-kill-you-only-makes-you-stronger. I'll be adding to this list from time to time as I realize new little jewels, but for now it's...

...The view.
I love how I can turn my head 90 degrees from my computer and behold a world of mountains. Mountains covered in snow in the morning and mountains that looked as if it had never snowed by mid-afternoon, as if they kept the whole affair a secret. I love how I can look out of the nursery window as I'm feeding Gwen and watch what could be deleted scenes from Bambi or Snow White, complete with foraging rabbits, squirrels, crested blue jays and quail, all frolicking together. It's just not normal, but in a good way.

...Finding that I'm becoming re-sensitized to nature.
As a kid, our family would go on walks several times a week. Walks around the neighborhood, to the local park, trails within Eaton Canyon. And a couple times a year we'd go camping at the beach or the mountains. It was where we went to get away from the hustle of life, and those became the places that restored peace to my increasingly more involved, busy and complex life. As school became all-consuming, it was all I could do from letting the cracks in the ground swallow me up, and I think it was at that point a part of my soul aways kept its nose to the grindstone, not looking up for anything. A part, I say--I didn't totally lose it--but I suspicion that part got a burnt fuse or something equivalent, and it's been long overdue for repair. As I took Pippin out for a walk last week, I finally felt as though the good doctor, Nature, finally started tinkering around in there.


...That I'm getting stronger.
Sure, having a 95th percentile, all-American 6-month-old is like having your own portable gym, but we hadn't lived here more than a week before I incinerated the remainder of my baby weight and could fit into my normal jeans. I credit hauling firewood up the stairs and--no, that's it. Just hauling firewood up the stairs. I can also tell by the fact that I wake up sore, and go to bed sore, so I gotta be shredding muscle somewhere...

...That we have a real, wood-burning fireplace.
Well, lots of non-mountain homes have those, but it's more than just a fireplace, it's a hearth; the heart of the house. Since our propane gas is so expensive to use, we decided to let our fireplace do the work of heating our home. Yes, it's a chore, scooping out the ashes every morning, gathering kindling, hauling calorie-burning logs, actually getting the fire started (and blowing blowing blowing on those fledgling flames for a fighting chance in this thin air), tending to the fire from morning to evening and sweeping up the bits of twig and dirt that inevitably congregate on the floor. But all that somehow adds to its presence and importance; as if those merry flames, pops, sparks, warmth and aroma make it a part of the family. And it's perfect for having an excuse to make s'mores.

...The sound.
And the lack of noise. There's nothing like the sound of wind combing through the needles of far-off pine trees.

...The untamed, unpredictable weather.
You can put money on the type of weather you'll get 99% of the time in 95% of southern California, but up here, all you can put money on is that it'll surprise you. It's kind of refreshing as it's one less thing I think I have certain knowledge about. And with winter weather upon us, no snow tires, and chains that may or may not fit, we're basically at the mercy of its whims, instead of at the mercy of our schedules. I know, you think schedules are a good thing, but they're overrated.

...The stars.
And the milky Way. Both to behold in abundance.

...The cold.
There's something nice about experiencing distinct seasons, even the cold ones, if only because they're different, a change of pace. Winter reminds forces me to slow down (especially when walking downhill),  and to appreciate my warm house.  Though it can be a drag in some ways, it's nice to take part in the world's yearly tradition of closing up shop, so to speak.

...Making us better stewards of our time and resources.
So, you'd think it would be really expensive to rent a beautiful chalet in the mountains, but just the opposite is true! We shell out nearly half of what we were paying about an hour down the road, we've found firewood (heating) at virtually no cost aside from a chainsaw, and electricity is a pittance compared to the insanity that were our central-air summer bills. Since the grocery store we shop at is 50 miles away, we've become better meal planners and list writers, which have saved us tons.

...A neighborly atmosphere.
I find that smaller communities, especially smaller communities in the snow, are much friendlier, which probably hearkens back to olden times when people in close quarters would die if they didn't get along or lend a hand. Everyone we've met has been super nice-- "Oh, come have lunch with us girls and share in some gossip!", and "Come hang out in the yarn shop if you just need to get out of the house", and "Do you need help shoveling your driveway?" and "Would you like my liquor collection?" (my favorite).

Anyway, the list will surely go on, and so will the drinks, for quite a while.

A Different Christmas Eve

Tonight Aaron and I spent the evening doing what many people do on a Christmas Eve evening: feasting on good food, wine, and conversation, but it was also a little different--just a little--but special in its just-a-little way.

We had Stan and Lynn over for dinner tonight. I had never met them before this evening, but Aaron met them at the community club house during its Tuesday night Celtic music jam session a few weeks ago. Aaron's been keen to play his mandolin with other musicians, so this was the perfect opportunity. Lynn and Stan head up the group of players and have been doing it for the past decade here in Pine Mountain Club. Anyway, Aaron invited them over for dinner and a mini recording session so he could learn the pieces and play with them on Tuesdays. I took a couple pictures of the session, because when are you ever gonna get a hammer-dulcimer/mandolin Irish concert in your own home on a Christmas Eve (much less any other day of the year)? And, yes, she did let me play the dulcimer; and, yes, I did play Frère Jacques. Badly.

No, I'm not done blogging yet. After all, what would a Christmas Eve post be without a heart-strung anecdote?

Lynn, I'm discovering, is probably an amazing woman. We were on the subject of family, and we got to talking about kids (she raised 6) and her mother, whom she took care of in her home for the last five years of her life. She had no medical knowledge, she said, just common sense. But she told me that she got more out of that experience than she put into it, let alone all other life experiences. She learned how to age gracefully like her mother did, and to cherish each moment, because it goes so fast. I think she gets it more than a lot of people, having looked into the eyes of her mother every day, and seeing herself reflected in those dying, knowing, graceful eyes. May we all have the opportunity to be served by our servanthood.

"...whoever wants to become great among you must be your servant, and whoever wants to be first must be your slave— just as the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many."

Matthew 20:26-28

Merry Christmas

SNOW!

Let me repeat the title: SNOW!

Okay, so five inches is not a lot by national averages, but for two people who've lived in desert regions of southern California all their lives, who consider a whole minute of hail to be severe weather; they can safely consider the amount to be quite a lot. Especially when they have to shovel the driveway. But not after letting it melt and refreeze into icy blastedness. Silly southern Californians.

All shoveling woes aside, I managed to go on a little photo spree around the neighborhood. I was like a kid in a candy store soaking up the winter wonderland. And it's been about 15 years since I've seen it actually snowing, so it was really very magical :)

Gwen really did enjoy the snow, she was probably just afraid her jacket was going to swallow her alive.

My favorite trees around these parts: Aspens.

This brick wall reminded me of Christmas :)

Fashionable hot-cocoa-in-the-snow shot.

 

Not even the deer were quick enough to escape the blizzard.

 

 

Our beautiful home (for now).

 

Bunny tracks in the snow. How novel can you get?

 

 

 

Pippin discovered he could eat snow.

Living in the snow is pretty different than visiting the snow--even visiting for a whole week in Illinois-- because you know it will always come back (at least for the duration of winter), and there's no plane ticket out of it, because that's where home is. And as they say, "Home is where the diaper pail is." Or something like it.

The magic of that frozen precipitation may have tarnished a little, but it will always hold a special place in my heart. Until it melts.

A New(er) Start

So we're moved. FINALLY! And only shin-deep in boxes, as opposed to the waist-deep we were in last week. And thank God for our masochistic church family members who volunteered to help us move; because, really, you know you're asking for pain when you move, so I'm all the more grateful. And I gotta give hearty thanks to our neighborhood Mormon do-gooders. Their theology may be wacky, but you can always count on them to lend a hand. While wearing a sharp tie.

Life in the mountains has been good so far, despite a car that won't start, a computer that won't turn on (I'm on my hubby's computer), and half of my clothes somewhere in boxes in the garage. I have yet to venture into "town", aka a conglomeration of po-dunk shops and real estate businesses clustered into half a square block. But I must let the nesting run its course, much like the flu, complete with delusional light-headedness (which is probably in part due to the high altitude--at least that's what I'll blame it on). Maybe it's because I'm a mom, but it's probably just because I'm a me, that I can't contemplate doing anything other than getting my house to have "home" status, asap.

Gwen has been a little trooper, putting up with 250 miles of moving business, an all-day cleaning rampage at our old house before I gave up the key, and now the unpacking of the things that make life a little easier. Although this morning as I was staring at all the boxes yet to be unloaded (more like they were staring at me), I wondered just how much of this stuff I needed, and what I could get by without. I mean, what combination of three people (one of which is noticeably small) accumulate so much STUFF? And how much of it do we really use? Do I really need that Tria Pantone marker set? I mean, who knows when I'd have to render a shiny car out of the blue... right? Do I really need that funny whisk-looking thing that's supposed to aerate mixed drinks-- that I've never drunk before? And what about all those keepsakes-- if keepsakes they could be called? I don't exactly have the fondest memories of my ghetto high school, and yet there sits my graduation coffee mug, somewhere in the garage, totally not having coffee in it.

I think back every now and then to Susie Veon, the then-camp director at Campus by the Sea on Catalina Island, which I used to volunteer my serious dish washing skills at, the first weekend of the past several Octobers. She lived in what was probably a 150 square-foot house perched up on a hill on the campground. Sure, she probably didn't have her own kitchen and just used the industrial camp kitchen, but the fact that all of her earthly possessions fit in that small of a space-- including a bed-- is pretty amazing, especially in what's technically our very materialistic southern California. She would actually give seminars around the country in the off-season about "living simply", whatever that means. I'm sure it's inspiring, though, and I would be half-tempted to torch 75% of all that I own, just to see if I could survive. I bet it would be a lot like camping, which is probably why I like camping so much-- all you got is all you need, including the stars over your head. And there's stars here at PMC, to be sure. It's probably why this place reminds me of camping. Maybe the stars will inspire me to live simply. Or maybe those unopened boxes will inspire me not to open them. Either way...

3 Sentences

Jump. N'. Go.