Holy Smoke!

DW (dear wife) was diagnosed couple years ago with dissociative identity disorder (DID) and there's never a dull moment around here what with more and more alters showing up. And the more that show up the more gets remembered. Its pretty scary. Latest episode had dead cats tied up in red string (Kabala?). Tortured to death at the hand of half a dozen children forced to do so by a circle of bad people in hooded robes.  Chanting! Smacks of ritual stuff!!

So foreign.

And then I remembered. It hit me looking at the calendar about to turn to March. I grew up under the influence of rituals. Except I didn't know it. Then, it was normal. We'd no sooner get done with one when it was time to do another. If we weren't burnin palms to bless new fire and plant ash crosses on pious foreheads we were consecrating new water into holy to sprinkle on 'em. And then there were the seasons with their rituals.

All with Holy Smoke. Incense that is. In a brass thingie hanging from chains. Technically the whole mess is called a thurible. A metal censer or vessel usually divided in two to make a top and bottom. The bottom half is stationary and holds the incense. The top half fits over the bottom and has holes punched in to let oxygen in and the holy smoke out. The chains are attached to the bottom and the top half slides up the chains. Fire up the incense, drop the top, hold the chain in one hand about a foot above the vessel and at it's far end with the other hand. Then hold the damn thing up in front of you and swing it forward in homage and let it fall back toward your face. If you didn't smack yourself in the mouth or burn yourself you knew you're doing it right if the loose chain dangling between hands makes a clinking sound against the swinging vessel. That and you can't breath for the super sweet smoke.

And ritual. Always a ritual involved.

And reverence. Always with reverence.

And in costume. The priest in his vestments all of which had symbology and changed according to what the liturgy dogmented. Robes in other words. Me? I was an alter boy along with every other boy in school. We wore a white surplice down to just below the ass over a black, floor length cassock. Robes in other words.

Growin up I couldn't tell where home left off and church began and then where school left off and church began. They were all the same. Enmeshed together but with church the priority. Everything revolved around church. And church revolved around rituals and seasons. All dogmented by papal liturgy.

For the fire and water rituals we'd march. All around the church we'd go. All us grunts carrying candles. The mucky mucks flanking the priest in pairs forward and aft, swung incense. The forward guys marching backwards so's they could face the priest. The smoke and the water and the fire would be used all year long in accordance with the liturgical calendar. All done up in a strange tongue.

Latin. The priest would mumble stuff and suddenly turn around, face the congregation, raise his eyes to the skies, spread his arms wide, raise his voice to the heavens and sing out something in Latin that sounded like... iiiiiiiii can beat you at domi-noooooes!

Then the choir, upstairs in the back, where all the girls from school were, would all sing out a return, equally in Latin that would sound somethin like... Ohhhh no you caaa-n't!

Then 4 guys with baskets on long stick would go around and collect the bets from the congregation. I don't think anybody every won 'cept the house.

The liturgical calendar identified the seasons. Not like spring, summer, fall, winter. Instead it was Advent, Christmas, Lent, Paschal Triduum (AKA passion week), Easter and so on. Each one had an accompanying mood. Christmas was happy time and you were sposed to be happy. Whether you were or not you pretended you were. Passion week was a time to mourn and grieve. Easter, a time to rejoice. In between Christmas and lent and between Easter and Advent was Ordinary Time. So even when it was ordinary it still got celebrated with rituals that went along with it. But compared to the others it was... well, ordinary. And so, you felt ordinary. Iow, nothing special. Or, maybe better put, you felt nothing. I had no problem with that one.

Lent was a time of sacrifice. It always starts 40 days before the 1st Sunday after the first full moon after the 21st of March. Which I find out many years later is called the Spring Equinox. Equinox and Solstice were 2 words I never heard where I grew up. As it turns out, such was regarded as of Pagan origin where I came from where long noses looked down upon it as ignorant, albeit blasphemous, savagery.

40 days that is if you don't count the Sundays. God said to take Sunday off remember. They call the start of lent Ash Wednesday. You're sposed to go to church that day and you get a cross of ashes plunked on your forehead by the priest. The ashes are from... guess what? Palms left over from last years Palm Sunday that have been... Burned!

The mood was... well, you were sposed to feel guilty. No prob. Lotsa training in that one. Even on Sundays. No rest for the guilty. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Wiki describes lent as a "penitential" season. Yup, it felt like that too. Like you were guilty and now in the penitentiary.

You gave up shit. Seeking forgiveness and absolution. Like your favorite food and TV show. Or later, jerkin off. I remember one year I gave up I Love Lucy. Made the mistake of announcing it to the whole damn family. So get this... mom sez, okay, since you gave up I Love Lucy you can do the dishes every Monday night while the rest of us watch the show.

What? More penance for penance? WTF kinda betrayal is THAT?

Anyway, looking up at the calendar right after DW was rememberin', at the age of around 5, torturin' a drug subdued black cat tied up in red string to a gruesome death upon a stone alter in a cemetery in the name of some henious ritual conducted by a robed and hooded chanting circle of adults that sounds all the hell like a scene straight out of Eyes Wide Shut somehow triggered me into remembering that lent starts in March every March. And that started the cascade of memories thusly described.

Damn, where's that so-called False Memory Syndrome when I need it?