An Embodied Orthodox Worship

Went for my first regular Orthodox service today. I usually visit only once - at Easter.

As I walk in from the sun-lit courtyard of the church the inside feels warm and inviting, like a home I have not visited for a long time. Orthodox believers walk in with me drawing the cross with their right hand over their body three times.

The church is filled with the quiet presence of many people. Most are old women listening to the sermon. It has been going for an hour.

The priest is at the front, but not alone. He stands under an ornate crucifix surrounded by saints in gold halos and people come for worship. A man's choir weaves in and out of a divine dialogue between the ancient texts and chants. The priest is dressed in gold and white robes with the big crown of his authority and stuardship. He reads in old Slavic the text for today where Jesus asks: "What do you think is easier to say get up and walk or your sins are forgiven?"

The smell of wax permeates the space. People come forward with the candles they just bought and light them on others already placed there. Each candle is a prayer - for loved ones living or dead. Unfocused gaze that stares upwards to lift a name. Another draw of a cross and a bow. A mother and a child come from the capital, an old woman who prays for children long gone, a highschool teacher, a neighbor, a relative. So many people I see now in different light. They know the script, they understand the words, the chant narrates the Christian creed and asks the congregation to bow and the priest blesses them.

As change rages outside here things have hardly moved. The books used are falling appart and yellowing. The church was restored last year, but what it bears witness is to is an old way of seeing and being.

I am a Protestant - by heritage and decision. But also Orthodox - by heritage. Today I understand. As my senses are all engaged - I see faith acted out and drawn on the walls, I get internally attuned to the melodies and words, I bow, I watch the priest come near and bless me and all the rest. I feel present, part of a congregation that is participating in an ancient ritual. The mystery of God and the movement of a spirit that logic does not describe well. I can see people centuries ago who could not read or write, who came to such churches to take in the pictures and songs of the divine and fill their hearts with knowledge and peace. An embodied experience of worship.

picture: http://orthodox.net/redeemingthetime/2009/10/26/twelve-meanings-of-candles-based-on-their-properties/

an iron candlstick

In the 1950s a great Bulgarian writer Dimitur Talev wrote a trilogy - the first book was named: "The Iron Candlestick" - it describes a family from the period of the Bulgarian Awakening. Today I visited the Velianov house in town with my friend Becca and her husband Luke. The lady who showed us around the house happened to bring out an odd object and call it - "an iron candlestick". It sat in front of an old oil lamp in a little opening for a chimney. She explained that before the discovery of the oil lamps men went up to the mountain and got wood from the roots of the pine trees. They cut the big pieces half through and stood them on top of the candlestick to use them for light.

The owner of the house was Velian Ognev - an artist, may be trained in Italy, who came, married and stayed in town. He painted blue birds right next to the doors to remind himself that trouble stayed outside and happiness was home.

He gave his wife a special guest room called the blue room, where visitors could marvel at the ports of Istanbul and the boats in Venice sailing on the wall behind the typical low turkish style benches covered with rugs. On the other wall there was a horse with the man, himself, painted in European clothes. The old Bansko house was hiding a bit of European glamor.

Velianov house

bgglobe.net

There were other artists born and raised in town who painted icons - Toma Vishanin and the brothers Molerovi. I looked long at Mary - with her warm eyes, red lips and rosy cheeks - fresh and approachable, so unlike the Byzantine saints. Icons shone in their gold halos, deep reds and blues - great achievement for a small renaissance town.

Later when we got home we talked of the grandeur of Vienna, the opera House in Budapest and the beauty of Prague - where Becca and Luke had just been. Here shines a different light - humbler, lesser, unsteady. The light of home.

At Grandma's house

When I was a child I was raised by one grandmother and went to visit the other, who lived conveniently next to my school. I am used to piles of crepes with strawberry jam, milk and sugar, and huge slices of crusty bread with liutenitsa (Bulgarian tomato and pepper spread). My grandmothers made sure to feed me properly. A well fed and round child was a true success.

Last two weeks I have visited six women here in town, most of them somehow turn out to be distant relatives navigating my poor memory through family trees removed five generations. Off course how could I not remember the uncle of my grandfather who lived two streets up and had three sons one who is now in America. They talk of my parents as children and teenagers, giving me a fresh perspective of my own family and the extended big family I didn't know anything about.

Their little rooms are spotlessly clean, even if they don't expect anyone. The small beds are moved next to the walls covered with old thick clothes they recived in young age and still keep. Black and white pictures of loved ones long dead have a prominent place and are mentioned often. They love their flowers, vegetable gardens, cats, and little decorations bought ages ago.

Both of my grandmothers died. Now I can bask in the love of greandmothers who take the task of grand-mothering eagerly. Box of chocolates put aside in a cupboard or in the refrigerator is brought out. Little trays with small cups for water or juice are served with buiscits or homemade deserts. There is no way to cheat your way out. If you don't eat it, you get it packed for later.

Today I stayed for three hours in the home of the 90 year old grandma Manda. I recorded the interview and drank Turkish coffee her youngest son brought in. Then went out in her garden to see the growing beens, tomatoes and lettuce, and the new roses planted today. We visited the only chick in the coop of hens and one scared rooster. She finally wrapped in newspaper fresh brown eggs and honey made of evegreens to send home with me.

Read the Silence - meeting grandma Fatima

"Save me from bloodguilt, o, God!" Psalm 51

Revelation visits us in the ordinary moments when someone or something leads us in the path of new way of seeing. To explain it is to grapple with language that has served different purposes before and now is trying to describe a new reality that is more intuitively than logically understood.

The topic of revelation today is the long history of hurt and pain exchanged between Muslims and Christians in Bulgaria. I read about it in the history books. Now I hear distant echoes of something that is more felt in the silences, than in the words of stories told by women over 90. I felt completely at home in my town where I learned more and deeply about my people, my family roots and the values we hold so dear.

Philipovo

Today I went to Philipovo - the only Muslim village in the municipality of Bansko. It is a beautiful place in the heart of the mountain, surrounded by lush green and rocks, a home of 700 people. A newcomer is easily noticed and welcomed. Met the mayor Kazim Hodja and was graciously introduced to the secretary Erfe Totalu. She took me around town to visit the oldest women and start the interviewing process.

It was a strange new feeling of being close to home, but not quite home. A different culture with clues I could not respond well to. The first two women we met started slowly, but then progressed into telling stories soaked in losses. The third woman Fatima was born in 1915. She sat outside her little house on the steps and looked at me with eyes holding almost a century of history...

and no trust. She told disconnected stories, stopped herself to look into the world only she knew and at times stared at me - the stranger, the "other-faith" one. The interview said so little, yet what it said hit hard.

"We hid when we were children up in the woods close to the vines, they told us to hide."

"Who did you hide from?"

Long silence.

"They renamed us when Mustafa was born, gave me a name I liked, then change it. I was angry. They called him Rumen."

Long silence.

"Grandma, tell her a holy prayer."

"No, not to her, she is from another faith."

Silence.

I read about the renaming of Bulgarian Muslims last year - wrote a long paper with analysis. The stories were striking. The renaming, as the mayor called it "the baptisms" were a total of six - Bulgarians trying to wipe clean the years of Muslim rule in Bulgaria (Bulgarian pain and loss).

The last and worst one that is still remembered in Muslim villages started in 1986 when all Muslims were renamed, the Party gave them Bulgarian names - renamed their children, fathers, grandfathers and whole families. Hundreds of people sold all they had and crossed the border with Turkey to seek safety. Soon Communism collapsed and democracy brought them freedom and the right to have their names back. Many returned home.

I know little of them. These are Bulgarian Muslims, not Turks, there are different stories about how they became Muslims and when. I will not go into this now, as history and myth battle for the right of a group to have identity.

Today the young people and those of later years took me in with amazing hospitality - a humbling experience. But there was a divide between this old woman and myself. She and I, we were not the same, we were not of the same people. The same story I was being told she knew differently - from life experience.

Learning to allow silence in is a lesson. Sitting in her silence on the porch was an opportunity to see the old stories with new eyes.

surrounded by mountains

Since I was little I was awed by the view of the mountains. My town is situated in the Razlojka valley which lays in the embrace of Pirin, Rila and the Rodopi mountains. Posting some pictures from recent travels in the region.

Entering Bansko - my hometown, I will be adding pictures of the town later

In the little village of Banya, which is known for its warm mineral water

summer!

"I had almost given up"

Saw an old man playing a flute today near the National palace of Culture (NDK) in Sofia. I was hurrying by, but there was something so desperate about the music that I retreated my steps and gave him 5 leva, not much... He looked up at me surprised and said: "I had almost given up, There is God." I decided that whatever I was doing could wait and stood there talking to him.

His voice sounded like the voice of a person who has not talked to anyone for a long time.

He called me his daughter, told me he had a daughter and a son, but they had abandoned him. He lives close by, but money isn't enough, so he comes to sit here hoping for a few stotinki thrown in the basket, which contained nothing but a small bottle of lemonade.

He needed the company, I wish I had stayed, I wish I had asked his name. He told me tonight he can get himself dinner. He played beautifully old revolutionary songs and marches. Told me: "We are disappearing as a nation and people, we need to take care of each other." Yes, we do. There was shame and painful vulnerability in the way he talked. This is all wrong, but what is to be done? I left him there alone in a city of 2 million that could care less. I hope tomorrow someone else stops for a few minutes to see the old man playing outside the palace doors.

National Palace of Culture (NDK)

From the minor to the major keys of story

When I was five I started playing the piano. I gave up on it in early teen years. My major achievement was playing the Moon Sonata. I still remember the slow progress I made in learning to play it and the sheer delight in hearing myself play the sounds of a beloved piece of music. My mom loved to lay on the living room couch and listen to me practice. I got to a point where it became automatic, I didn't have to search for the keys, it flowed through the fingers - it had become a part of me.

When I think of melody I compare it with story - story told in minor or major keys, in its complexity reflecting a certain reality, mood, frame. The way I tell a story like a groove that gets deeper and deeper ingrained and finally becomes me. I am my story and my story makes me.

I have been thinking of this interaction for many years now. I worked for a year with people in transitional housing in Chicago. It was rewarding work with men and women trying to change old patterns and take a chance at making something new. Several of them were from the African-American community. I noticed the different spirit and lightness in which they held themselves in tough situations. One of them in particular struck me with his story. He had lost his father to a violent death, gone to the funerals of relatives killed in intercity violence and himself had been in jail for selling drugs. He wanted to change his life, to be a different man and father. What I noticed was the open manner and sincerity in him. The way he would answer to a question: "How is your day?" "Thank God I have all I need. Thank God, I am alive and it is a good day. And how are you, are you well, are your kids well?" The ability to see outside misery and sadness and to be thankful, to be caring for others. I am amazed at the resilience and bubbling life I have witnessed in the close friends and acquaintances of his community. They have weaved the sweet melody of sadness and joy in a powerful distinct voice.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ipb_xzcCs6

We too have amazing music. The music of the ages that we have inherited has the quality of haunting sound unlike any other - it is otherworldly. Next to it today we play the chalga that is a mix of Oriental beat, trashy vulgar language and almost naked women.

But this is just a surface observation. What I am more concerned about is the overall melody of our stories. My story - the negativity I have absorbed and keep spitting out in the way I see, internalize and express reality. There is so much negativity - in myself, in my friends, in the newspapers, in the public spaces, in the interactions, in the government. I pick up random conversations from last weeks - the young people leaving, the education sinking down, the corruption in government, the backstabbing in the churches, the health reform bringing nothing, the old left without enough money to live on, the kids with disability still treated with disdain, the ethnic tensions rising... The list is going on and on and on. What are we powerless about and what could we change? If slavery and discrimination in America brought out such beauty are we up to the challenge to bring beauty out of ashes in our home?

I think there is a holy space outside and inside us that needs to be searched for and held to with all our might. If a person reaches out for the quiet of God small miracles happen.

We traveled back home from the Black Sea yesterday. I had come to the conclusion that we are a lazy nation waiting for the mercy of others to solve our problems. Not so in Trakia - a geographical region in East Bulgaria. Ten years ago we went the same rout - there were few scattered fields of crop and land going through its Sabbath - not touched by human hand or cared for. This time the view gladded us. It was a sunny day and the passing visions were spectacular.

There were miles and miles of golden wheat ready for the holy harvest. It made me think of Yovkov and Elin Pelin and their emblematic stories of harvest, summer and singing women. In Karnobat region stretched way back to the distant hills orderly green vines that would produce the sweet wine of autumn. The yellow faces of the sunflowers followed their mother sun making the land smile. Small orchards of peaches, nectarines, apples and pears greeted us. Along the roads a green wall of old walnut trees stretched for many miles.

It is the season of the linden trees, with open windows their subtle tea perfume could be felt in the air with the smell of warm earth. Their small flowers inhabited by fairies.

This land - it is not forgotten. Someone had lovingly tilted it and watered it. It is a beloved land of hardworking people who wake up at dawn and stay late nights to give it a drink. Their small villages were tidy and clean. The little gardens full with summer flowers and vegetables. The houses many times left unpainted for the lack of money, red brick showing the ware and tare of time, stamped with poverty.

It sang the sweet melody of labor, land, community and hope.