Always a great reminder, rituals. So many things wrapped up within them. The first and most primitive of institutions. The power of belief. Intersubjective dynamics. The regulation of spheres. The intersection of rationality with-- I do not think 'irrationality,' not because it is unkind, but because it is inaccurate.
I have seen hundreds of these rituals. A thousand. Everywhere different, and everywhere the same. Attempting to bring the infinitely complex and recursive chains of interaction of the cosmos within the breadth of human hands and hearts. Offering. Sacrifice. Divination.
What I do not expect, as I stand against the back wall writing snatches of the hymns and ceremonies within my book, is to feel warmed by something other than the simple press of bodies. It is... discomfiting. I opted not to wear my habit to the service, feeling that it might be somehow disrespectful, and not entirely certain why I cared. But here I stand, in my traveling clothes, the smell of sweat and breath and freshly cut hay heavy in my nose-- and it is not entirely unpleasant.
When the service ends, I take a seat on the back pew and close my eyes for a long moment, enjoying both the stillness inside, and the stir of voices humming just at the edge of my hearing. In a minute I will make my way outside. For now, for a moment, this place that smells of home makes me remember for the first time in a long time being a child, and hearing voices raised in song.
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2012-03-19 11:21 pm (UTC)I have seen hundreds of these rituals. A thousand. Everywhere different, and everywhere the same. Attempting to bring the infinitely complex and recursive chains of interaction of the cosmos within the breadth of human hands and hearts. Offering. Sacrifice. Divination.
What I do not expect, as I stand against the back wall writing snatches of the hymns and ceremonies within my book, is to feel warmed by something other than the simple press of bodies. It is... discomfiting. I opted not to wear my habit to the service, feeling that it might be somehow disrespectful, and not entirely certain why I cared. But here I stand, in my traveling clothes, the smell of sweat and breath and freshly cut hay heavy in my nose-- and it is not entirely unpleasant.
When the service ends, I take a seat on the back pew and close my eyes for a long moment, enjoying both the stillness inside, and the stir of voices humming just at the edge of my hearing. In a minute I will make my way outside. For now, for a moment, this place that smells of home makes me remember for the first time in a long time being a child, and hearing voices raised in song.
I-- cannot.