All the Many Colored Saints

The baristas speak Arabic behind bottles of colored Italian syrup with French labels: rhum, gingembre, pamplemousse. I often come to this cafe for a quiet half hour before the rehearsal for Evensong; they recognize me now and are very kind, and I like listening to their voices. The coffee is always good, the chairs are comfortable, and I find can write or read calmly in the company of these sympathetic semi-strangers. I’ve begun to wonder, too, if this place represents a sort of way-station between my identities: the Anglican and very English choir-singer, and the girl who’s always been drawn to cultures other than her own.

This weekend has been more steeped in Middle Eastern culture than usual, because my brother-in-law and sister-in-law are visiting. On Friday we went to Akhavan, the Iranian market in Notre-Dame-de-Grace and then to Adonis, the Arab supermarket I’ve written about before, but not before having lunch at Achtarout – fresh-baked flatbread with zaatar, garnished with tomatoes, pickled beets, mint, onions, and hot green peppers, then heated and rolled in paper, all for 3 or 4 dollars and utterly delicious. We came home from these shopping trips laden with food that we began preparing that evening and haven’t finished yet. The next night we saw a new movie, Amereeka, about a Palestinian woman and her son who leave their home in Bethlehem and settle with her sister in a Midwestern city. The movie was in Arabic (and some English) with French subtitles, and conveyed very well the claustrophobia of the occupied territories, the desire for opportunity represented by America, and the profound disorientation of coming here. Set at the time of the Iraq invasion, it also depicted the prejudice faced by Arab Americans in school and at work, but was strongest, I think, as a love song to Middle Eastern culture and family life. The whole audience laughed knowingly, for instance, at the bag of cucumbers the grandmother gives her departing daughter and grandson, and how, when the family gets depressed, they go shopping for ethnic groceries in a nearby town or go out for Middle Eastern meals – food, always food for comfort and connection!

And it’s also been the Feast of All Saints. In a podcast over at qarrtsiluni, Dave and I reflected on the origins of All Hallow’s Eve and All Saints, and other cultures’ attempts to keep the spirits of the dead contentedly at rest, not wandering around in our world creating mischief. As I read up on All Saints’ Day and the Roman’s pagan festival of Lemuria that it replaced, I realized had forgotten that in the Catholic tradition, today, November 2nd is observed as All Souls’ Day, specifically for prayers for those who are dead but haven’t yet made it to heaven – not wanting to leave anyone out, among the living and the dead.

I sit in the cafe slowly drinking my latte, with “O Quam Gloriosam” running through my head – the text that is the antiphon for All Saints’ Day:

O quam gloriosum est regnum, in quo cum Christo gaudent omnes sancti,
amicti stolis albis, et sequuntur Agnum, quocumque ierit. Alleluia.

O how glorious is the kingdom in which all the saints rejoice with Christ,
clad in robes of white they follow the Lamb wherever he goes. Alleluia.

It’s so much not my image of the afterlife – being part of a countless throng in white robes, following Christ the Lamb “whither he goeth,” but I admit to the beauty of the mystical vision: a heaven where there is no time, no sorrow, no tears, just an unearthly, never-ending music, as William Harris so wondrously depicted in his motet for double choir in eight parts, to a text by John Donne, that we’ll also be performing at Evensong - take a moment and LISTEN.

Bring us, O Lord God, at our last awakening
into the house and gate of heaven,
to enter into that gate and dwell in that house,
where there shall be no darkness nor dazzling, but one equal light;
no noise nor silence, but one equal music;
no fears nor hopes, but one equal possession;
no ends nor beginnings, but one equal eternity,
in the habitation of thy glory and dominion,
world without end. Amen.

(Here is another version, a motet by Healey Willan, which was our introit for the morning service today.)

The music part would be OK, but I’d prefer, I must say, a heaven filled with small cucumbers and baklava – the afterlife my father-in-law wistfully and unbelievingly talked about sometimes – served by soulful, dark-eyed, bearded waiters who’d sometimes have time to sit down and keep me company on my couch. I’m clearly culturally confused!

And then again, maybe not. What I really like so much about this feast day is its insistence on the saintliness of all of us, especially the anonymous ones. Today, before going off to sing, I find myself reflecting on the fact that the original texts (which formed the basis for much of this English lyricism on which my own poetic ear was probably formed) were written by Jews, Palestinian Christians, and Greeks who looked very much like my husband, or the man who just made my coffee. Yet in the secular world of 2009, we seem so divided, so ignorant and fearful about one another, in contrast to the symbolism I feel is at the heart of this vision: the possibility of an undivided throng of humanity, united in love, free of suffering, equal in the eyes of one another, and before whatever we see as the Divine. It’s as impossible for me to believe in a heaven for some and not all, for the “elect” of one religion or another, as it is to live that way on earth – which, it seems to me, may be the point of all these stories after all.

Comments

[Teresa]

What a wide-ranging and very interesting post, Beth. It brought a few things to mine, aside from my own experience of these days of remembrance of the past. The idea of a way station between your identities place intrigued me. A yoga teacher friend who lives and teaches in Halifax offers a discussion of "third place" on his blog, and incorporates this into discussions in various of his classes. The third place, which is not home, and not work. And is public.

Anyway, the post made my thoughts wander from place to place, past and present, and even future. Thanks.

Teresa

p.s. Have you read Diana Abu-Jabar's novels (and memoir)? If not, you are in for a treat.

T.

[Beth]

Thanks, Teresa - that's so interesting about this yoga teacher's concept of "third place" - could you send me the link? And yes, I've read "Crescent" (and liked it) but none of her other books yet. Do you have favorites?

[Beth]

If anyone would like to read the discussion about "Third Space", Teresa did send the link and it's here, well worth thinking about: http://theyogaloft.ca, under the tab labeled "Community."

[Kristin Berkey-Abbott]

I love the idea of a Heaven of cucumbers and baklava!

[Jean]

I love the way this ponders and passes from one thought and idea to the next, conveying the image of you sitting there in the cafe contemplating and thinking.

The 'Third Space' is, I think, very much what is in the mind of my university colleagues - the ones who are more pro globalization than anti, although they are certainly not in favour of its devastating economic and political effects on the most vulnerable. I share their feelings about the essential, unbreakable creativity and self-renewing capacity of this space, and the way that increasingly travel, migration and exchange ensure that it keeps growing and reproducing itself. But I find it harder to equate this with a basic support for globalization and belief that we just need to reform its priorities - I'm not that optimistic. But the kind of thing evoked here stops be from being entirely pessimistic either.

Wow, what a rich and thought-provoking small reading experience and discussion - thank you.

[Spongebelly]

Small cucumbers. Finally, a vision of heaven I could die for.

[Beth]

Kristen: Yes, and it would have the relief of COLOR, not just the boringness of "glittering" gold and "dazzing" white - epithets repeated so frequently in Christian literature that they seem Homeric!

Hi Jean, thanks for the comment, and your expansion of the idea of Third Space to include a reflection on globalization.

Spongebelly, welcome! I wonder if the small cucumbers I'm thinking about - the 4-6 inch Lebanese or "baladi" kind that never have tough skins or big seeds - are widely available now?

[Spongebelly]

A local farm stand in Eastern Long Island, not my organic CSA, but the proprietors of my sincere pumpkin patch, grow and sell small cucumbers they call Kirby. Especially when harvested small, they are thin-skinned and small-seeded. Not what is illustrated here as Mediterranean cucumber, which I haven't seen locally.

[Beth]

Aha, a whole page of cucumber varieties! Yep, it's the Mediterranean one I'm talking about, and the relative size shown here is correct. They're dense and extremely flavorful, and not watery or seedy so they're excellent for grating or slicing and combining with yogurt (though I still squeeze and strain the pulp first) as well as eating fresh, like a fruit. The Kirbys are what I used to grow and use for pickling, and they're delicious too but quite different.

[Dick]

'World Music', we are given to understand, is a musical confluence, a synthesis, that is an inevitable product of late 20th century post-culturalism. Your final meditation on 'one equal music', Beth, informs us that it's always been in place - we just choose not to acknowledge its glories and its significance. A great post.