Rituals...

Sancti Joanne ad Portam Latinam.  Wednesday 6th May, 2020

To me there is something rather wonderful and comforting in being part of a tradition. Although histories behind the traditions may become obscure or fantasised or unknown there is still a contact with one's heritage, placing one in a context. It reminds us of our forebears, of their understanding  of their times and of how things change and move on and are transitory. They were born, lived and died taking their inheritance and passing it on, perhaps altered or modified. We have been born, we live and we will die and pass on our traditions and alterations and understandings which may be changed in time. 

Yesterday a Benedictine nun sent me an email about her study of local names and customs. Near her convent is a field called 'Goblins' Hole' and near that field is a wood called 'Lady's Grotto'. She speculates that there was a small shrine to Our Lady, the Mother of Jesus, in the wood. It was, she thinks, a protection against the foul fiends inhabiting the darker quagmire of the land around it. 

Today's feast of St John of the Latin Gate celebrates the failed martyrdom of St John the Evangelist in Rome. Supposedly the Emperor Domitian in the year 92 immersed St John in a vat of boiling oil. St John survived the attempt to boil him alive and was later exiled to Patmos. The feast day celebrations have themselves had a chequered and intriguing history. Tradition and ritual have fascinated me. The latter has in particular been in my consciousness of late as several friends and acquaintances have died. The strictures on travel and on the size of gatherings have meant that very few have been able to attend the obsequies. It is hard to be unable to say one's farewells in the tradition of the deceased friend. Rituals are hallowed words, actions and symbolic gestures of a tradition. Thus my late brother's death had the ritual of his body being received in to the Church the evening prior to the funeral. Then the Requiem service accompanied by the music of Faure's Requiem, the sprinkling of the coffin with holy water and it's incensing. Particular prayers, the bearing of the coffin and its burial. The gathering of family and friends, the homily and the eulogy. Then the wake and gathering of the people to celebrate, talk and grieve and mourn together and to share memories. The ritual was a way to express deep sorrow and loss and to beseech the God of the dead. 

For many years as a child I lived in the Middle East. I so well remember the ululating of hired mourners at the funerals I attended. We need to hear, to express, to symbolically enact our emotions and our beliefs.

In this pandemic lockdown I have developed a new routine and timetable. It is a way of coping, of changing to new ways and norms, to control and measure and normalise a difficult set of new circumstances. 

I have not ritualised the day but I have ritualised the morning and evening changing and adjusting of my catheter. My first catheter I called Gertrude, my new one Philomena. I gave a name in an attempt to understand that I was in a new lifestyle, had to face unpleasant actions and to befriend the problems and to remain calm and focussed. First I wash my hands, then I say a prayer to the Patron of Doctors and Medics, I then do the various necessary actions and finally I ablute again and give thanks. It is not the ritual of a traditional religion, it is not a traditional way of dealing with catheters but it gives me an understanding of the power of ritual.

The ritual gives me purpose, eases me, allows me to manage and control the procedures and keep me calm. It then puts it all in to a greater context.

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