A tinny voice and unmenacing drums squeaks from a small box hidden in
the rafters.
The open space is cold, it always is this early in the morning.
Old delicate women shrouded in swathes of brightly colored lace step
lightly on the thick carpet.
They carry little brass cups, filled with burning camphor.
It makes the air smell ancient.
Everyone is quiet and reserved.
Some sit hunched, peering into well creased prayer books.
Others stare intently, mouth silently agape and moving,
hands alternating between folded and clenched, to open and pleading.
Some sing with the gospel hymns. Most quietly, others loud and joyful and off=key, clapping all alone and offbeat.
Suddenly bells start to ring. Dozens of small ones.
Like a herd of sleigh bell adorned reindeer, all galloping together.
It instantly humbles everyone in the room.
Everyone looks up, hands held intently.
They all know the rituals and rites by heart, equally meaningful and meaningless all at once.
Walk this way, bow here, gesture that way.
All done with the deliberance of a wisened ox,
yoked and carrying the same vat of milk on the same path it has done it's whole life.
It is liberating, leaving the mind free to pursue grander luxuries.
To dream of what could be.
To regret what has been.
To convince what needs to be done.
The bells chime again, and everyone is snapped from their trance.
Voices, once forgotten, seem to return.
Soft conversation wafts in the air, muscles tensed begin to move and work around.
People begin to stream out, introduced back into the sun and noises of the world.
But it all seems just a little more subdued than it had before, more serene.
The presence of a higher power, once invisible, appears to struggle to strain loose of it's physical shackles all around.
The first blooming flower of spring.
The first patch of grass.
The life teeming from blue sky to black asphalt.
Questions of 'how' and 'why' disappear, and I forget why I had ever questioned this at all.
Why I didn't see all this for as it truly is.
No comments:
Post a Comment