the comfort of ritual

I've had occasion recently to use a beautiful hospital chapel as a place of repose and meditation. This particular chapel is full of light and modern wood and air with gorgeous renderings of Madonna and Child in different media. Tall pedestals hold glorious flowers--a bouquet of long stem roses were so lusciously red that I thought they were fake--and vases of wildflowers and branches that reach up to the sky lights.

The first time I walked in, Mass was just ending. Hospital employees were scattered throughout the chairs and the man behind me, 60ish, tall and with a sonorous voice, held a worn ivory rosary that he pressed into my hand as we shook wishing each other peace. The African minister spoke the familiar words in a lovely, musical cadence. And I was surprised at how comforting I found it, having been in rebellion against organized religion and it's restricting and outdated mores for as long as I've been conscious.

I began to sit in the chapel for the 15 minutes after mass, using it to sharpen my meditation against the people who would come in and make noise, the nasally chaplain squawking into his phone, the man with the bicycle and rustling papers, the nuns grouped in whispered conversation at the back. The intent of quiet, the hush of the large space, began to prevail upon me and I felt calmer, breathed a little more deeply, digested my hospital salmon a little better. I found the time I spent sitting alone and the time I spent sitting with the Mass goers peaceful, a natural way to lessen my anxiety.

What I've been focusing on, lately, in my recovery from depression and dysfunction, is modifying black and white thinking to take in and accept the gray areas, to use what's available instead of being in constant rebellion and judgment, to explore the giant well of compassion that one needs to navigate relationships, spirituality, life and this world in the way that I want to. Taking what works from rituals, taking comfort and strength from oft-told stories and liturgies, exploring the depth of quiet, of silence, of whispering nuns I think, will lead to a better understanding and compassion for myself and for others. This doesn't make me a true believer, but it makes for a much better practice toward becoming healthy. I like to think that that's what those who understand essential spirituality developed these rituals for.

When I was a teenager, my BFF, Edie, invited me to First Seder, the meal that begins Passover. We all read from the book, speaking the ancient words, eating the prescribed foods, grinning at each other through the candlelight. Her parents and her sister would pause and explain parts of the ritual that I didn't understand and I realized that sharing this practice was essential to their tradition. I've never forgotten the magic of it, how captivated I was by this living story.

I watched Ted Kennedy's memorial service yesterday in the Mission Church which sits so poignantly in the middle of a ghetto. The high and the low were on hand. Two Black women from Dorchester stood out in the rain for hours to pay their respects. Jesse Jackson let his hair get wet waiting for the hearse. Michelle O seemed to doze, momentarily, in the closeness of the non air conditioned church. And all those Kennedy children. I think all of us probably have some issues with the modern Catholic church, but you couldn't beat the spirituality and comfort of the Catholic liturgy to the family and friends gathered there--the inspired words of our Obama, Teddy's children and grandchildren, his priest, and the words of the Gospel intoned, speaking of what life exists after our time here on earth. It's really interesting to me that Ted was a devout Catholic but still espoused many positions that they opposed. Even one of his grandchildren lead a prayer for people, gay or straight.


So, maybe I'll go sit in a pew or two, breathe in the wood polish and whisper of incense, or turn my face to the multi-colored light refracted through the stained glass or listen to a cantor, or chant and meditate with Buddhists. Maybe I'll take that feeling with me when I contemplate sea and sky. Maybe quiet contemplation, through practice, will become something I can do in the midst of chaos. I'm hopeful things will change, and that I will grow into a more expansive spirit.