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I have--had? the tenses aren't lining up in a way that entirely makes sense right now--an odd relationship to the idea of faith, religion, stained glass and the word-concept [muse].
This all does tie together, I promise.
I'll start with the easy ones.
My parents didn't raise me (or my brother) to go to a church once a week to worship--I think I was actually in a church holding services maybe three times up until I was twelve.
Twice at the behest of my paternal aunt (since thoroughly estranged from my father*) while we black sheep were visiting over in Wisconsin. I have no memory of either occasion, though I do have a vague memory of a white-lace dress with plastic pearls bought thrifting and worn to an easter service. (I apparently spent the whole of the service staring raptly up at the stained glass windows)
The other vague memory was me weirding out the poor man in charge of the sunday-school service during a summer the family spent in the caribbean (I'd spent the night over at a friend's house, and they brought me along) when he asked me if I believed in god and wound up in a minor theological debate.
I'd been in churches, of course--I was part of a choir and they held a couple of concerts in churches that doubled as public halls--but they were very little different from other public buildings.
When I was sixteen, I went to Russia for three weeks, as part of a touring group**, and while there, we ended up being able to wander through St. Isaac's Cathedral in St. Petersburg one November afternoon.
The word you're looking for is "bzuh."
The difference was positively brain-melting--there was a weight, a gravity, intricacy there that my lutheran (I think?) aunt's church totally lacked, and had never even conceived of. (Which, come to think of it, was actually kind of prevalent the whole trip--anything old enough to have a sense of presence was kind of overwhelmingly Other.) (Even more oddly, that's probably one of the events that started solidifying my approach to things Other--'you're bigger than me, yep. Still going to treat you like an equal, for the most part, and I am polite to my equals, for the most part.')
I'd say that I suspected, but empirical evidence to date implies a reasonable amount of certainty in the matter, that I don't have a standard relationship with organised religion.
I was raised with no rituals, be they 'attend upon a sermon once a week' or 'light these candles on this day'. My mother has an . . interesting relationship with the creative ether. Aware of it, but often not able to really touch it, if that makes sense--she'd often ask my opinion of a feeling or perception. Which gave me an odd sort of equality with her, despite her entering menopause as I was entering puberty.
She also never implied or told me I was wrong about something to do with the Other (my father totally ignored/s the whole matter), so I never encountered the whamcrunch effect that people I've talked to about creative things (occasionally referred to as 'muses', 'headpeople' and 'that damned voice that won't leave me alone!') when someone respected told me it wasn't real, dear. I ran into that particular problem a few times with close-to-own-age friends, when I tried to share, but all that wound up causing was me not sharing anymore, not me doubting the existance/my sanity.
Y'see, I was the storyteller, among my groups of acquaintences, and when the kids my age outgrew those games, it just became one more point of disparity between them, and me. After all, nobody else learned to ride their bike inside the house, or dressed up their little brother in paint and their grandmother's dresses.***
The disparities gave me a whole different set ofissues subscriptions libraries, but doubt in the reality of the existance-of-Other, not so much.
It's an interesting place to be looking from, living in a society ruled by the descendance of the Judeo-Christian mythos--stained glass in converted cathedrals (hello, Victoria Conservatory of Music performance hall!) can/will hypnotise me, but the images are only stories, not parts of a rejected/modified/mostly-ignored faith. Beautiful and intricate and indicative of someone's faith (even if it's just in craftsmanship) in a way most modern churches don't approach.****
All of which is terribly incoherent, and while definitely not meant as insult or disparagement on anyone else, it's what I was thinking about tonight. Also, I plan to install stained glass in the New Place--the pieces chosen so far are a set of maple leaves, and a vengeful water ghost from Russian mythology. 'cause I'm logical. :)
*: long story that has to do with the care of my paternal grandfather and my father's ability to hold an impressive grudge. As the aunt in question and I'd never really hit it off in any sort of real fashion, this doesn't much affect me. Nuclear family/chosen kin, yo.
**: another long story, that involves my father, citizen exchanges in the '80s between the USSR and the 'States, a need for medical care for visiting soviet teenagers, a six-foot-five man with an iron gray ponytail who offered medical care free, my father's occasional O.O;-causing incubation periods, and a whole bunch of clowns.
***: he used to steal my dress-up clothes, and wore 'em to preschool. I have slightly strange parents, as all they did about their very Odd Son was snicker, and defend him to bemused teachers. He was a remarkably amenable sibling, up until the point he grew up enough to care about other peoples' opinions (a stage of development I have an off and off relationship with. >.> ), and big enough to fight back. *cough*
****: the church the roommate and I saw the Yale Russian Chorus is was an exception. Hand-molded brick, hand laid, with decorations of driftwood and fading flowers, abstract simple glass. Peaceful, resonant and feeling nearly empty (and listening) even in the midst of a packed house.
This all does tie together, I promise.
I'll start with the easy ones.
My parents didn't raise me (or my brother) to go to a church once a week to worship--I think I was actually in a church holding services maybe three times up until I was twelve.
Twice at the behest of my paternal aunt (since thoroughly estranged from my father*) while we black sheep were visiting over in Wisconsin. I have no memory of either occasion, though I do have a vague memory of a white-lace dress with plastic pearls bought thrifting and worn to an easter service. (I apparently spent the whole of the service staring raptly up at the stained glass windows)
The other vague memory was me weirding out the poor man in charge of the sunday-school service during a summer the family spent in the caribbean (I'd spent the night over at a friend's house, and they brought me along) when he asked me if I believed in god and wound up in a minor theological debate.
I'd been in churches, of course--I was part of a choir and they held a couple of concerts in churches that doubled as public halls--but they were very little different from other public buildings.
When I was sixteen, I went to Russia for three weeks, as part of a touring group**, and while there, we ended up being able to wander through St. Isaac's Cathedral in St. Petersburg one November afternoon.
The word you're looking for is "bzuh."
The difference was positively brain-melting--there was a weight, a gravity, intricacy there that my lutheran (I think?) aunt's church totally lacked, and had never even conceived of. (Which, come to think of it, was actually kind of prevalent the whole trip--anything old enough to have a sense of presence was kind of overwhelmingly Other.) (Even more oddly, that's probably one of the events that started solidifying my approach to things Other--'you're bigger than me, yep. Still going to treat you like an equal, for the most part, and I am polite to my equals, for the most part.')
I'd say that I suspected, but empirical evidence to date implies a reasonable amount of certainty in the matter, that I don't have a standard relationship with organised religion.
I was raised with no rituals, be they 'attend upon a sermon once a week' or 'light these candles on this day'. My mother has an . . interesting relationship with the creative ether. Aware of it, but often not able to really touch it, if that makes sense--she'd often ask my opinion of a feeling or perception. Which gave me an odd sort of equality with her, despite her entering menopause as I was entering puberty.
She also never implied or told me I was wrong about something to do with the Other (my father totally ignored/s the whole matter), so I never encountered the whamcrunch effect that people I've talked to about creative things (occasionally referred to as 'muses', 'headpeople' and 'that damned voice that won't leave me alone!') when someone respected told me it wasn't real, dear. I ran into that particular problem a few times with close-to-own-age friends, when I tried to share, but all that wound up causing was me not sharing anymore, not me doubting the existance/my sanity.
Y'see, I was the storyteller, among my groups of acquaintences, and when the kids my age outgrew those games, it just became one more point of disparity between them, and me. After all, nobody else learned to ride their bike inside the house, or dressed up their little brother in paint and their grandmother's dresses.***
The disparities gave me a whole different set of
It's an interesting place to be looking from, living in a society ruled by the descendance of the Judeo-Christian mythos--stained glass in converted cathedrals (hello, Victoria Conservatory of Music performance hall!) can/will hypnotise me, but the images are only stories, not parts of a rejected/modified/mostly-ignored faith. Beautiful and intricate and indicative of someone's faith (even if it's just in craftsmanship) in a way most modern churches don't approach.****
All of which is terribly incoherent, and while definitely not meant as insult or disparagement on anyone else, it's what I was thinking about tonight. Also, I plan to install stained glass in the New Place--the pieces chosen so far are a set of maple leaves, and a vengeful water ghost from Russian mythology. 'cause I'm logical. :)
*: long story that has to do with the care of my paternal grandfather and my father's ability to hold an impressive grudge. As the aunt in question and I'd never really hit it off in any sort of real fashion, this doesn't much affect me. Nuclear family/chosen kin, yo.
**: another long story, that involves my father, citizen exchanges in the '80s between the USSR and the 'States, a need for medical care for visiting soviet teenagers, a six-foot-five man with an iron gray ponytail who offered medical care free, my father's occasional O.O;-causing incubation periods, and a whole bunch of clowns.
***: he used to steal my dress-up clothes, and wore 'em to preschool. I have slightly strange parents, as all they did about their very Odd Son was snicker, and defend him to bemused teachers. He was a remarkably amenable sibling, up until the point he grew up enough to care about other peoples' opinions (a stage of development I have an off and off relationship with. >.> ), and big enough to fight back. *cough*
****: the church the roommate and I saw the Yale Russian Chorus is was an exception. Hand-molded brick, hand laid, with decorations of driftwood and fading flowers, abstract simple glass. Peaceful, resonant and feeling nearly empty (and listening) even in the midst of a packed house.
