Remembering Dublin

Last December, I went to Dublin for a three-week "vacation."  It's not exactly a vacation because I just couldn't imagine myself, doing nothing for 21 days.  But, truth be told, it was the best three weeks of my life since I arrived in Europe.
I arrived to a community that has experienced a bit of a storm lately and I'm just lucky to be there during the quell, on a sort of ceasefire that accorded me a bit of a space to put myself in.  Actually, every member is just nice and lovable in own way, with ticks and a charming quirkiness or two, enough to keep them interesting but not too much to scare me away from them.  It's a bit like living in a sitcom, really, where each has a personality that isn't at all one-note and is downright punchline worthy.  My favorite is of course, Father Raphael which is in many ways my best friend in Europe. He's the most Irish person you'll ever meet in Dublin, but at the same time, he's never a stereotype Irish.  At all our travels, he sang me nationalistic songs that always involved a story of a very specific woman, which I find very fascinating because, embarrassingly, the only traditional irish song I know is Cockles and Mussels, which I only learned later to be a song about a prostitute. We went to pubs, the proper Irish ones and was introduced to hot toddies and dark beer.
At other times, when Fr. Raphael couldn't accompany me, I never ran out of people to help me go around. Thanks to Renoir, Ben and Mary, I was able to go to Duleek, to Galway, to Drogheda....  With them, I scoured museums and parks and churches and theaters.  We watched the traditional Christmas concert of Handel's Messiah and were among those who stood up while the choir sang the composer's trademark Halleluiah. I walked the length of the river Liffey.  I hang out with Filipinos, too, who, despite the years of staying in Dublin have stayed Filipino by heart.  In fact, on my last night, I was with them till dawn, belting out Pinoy standards on karaoke machine.  But what marked me well was the spiritual side of my vacation.  For the first time, since I arrived in Europe, I felt truly a priest.   I celebrated Mass (the new translation which really sounded unelegant, if my opinion matters) and heard confession and prayed and shared tea with the local Catholics, like a true pastor would.  I guess it helped that I can speak a bit of English.
Truth be told, Dublin haunts me even until these days.  The seedy pubs, the crumbling monasteries, the moldy tombstones, the ubiquitous Celtic filigrees, the medieval melange with the cosmopolitan feel of the city, the charming accent and the ready smile of its people.  But most importantly, the Irish Catholic faith, a faith that knows how to forgive and to ask forgiveness, a faith that is alive and well and is practiced in every aspect of life, a faith that is homegrown but well-informed and well-worn by countless prayers of novenas.  It suffice to say that when I went there, a place which is way much nearer to the North Pole than La Mure, I have never been more warm, I have never been more blest, I have never been more at home than any other place in Europe.


Nursing a mug of the dark brew,
I am reminded by the West Liffey wind
of how I traded hops and malt
with Mass bread and wine.
I held much of my dignity, however,
announcing with a borrowed accent,
my love for all things green and medieval,
only to be reminded that a year ago,
the closest I can get to Dublin experience
is buying a bar of Irish Spring.

The Funeral of a War Hero

I left early to be at Pierre Chatel, a village about 7 km from the rectory.  I had with me my black bag containing just about everything I'll need for a celebration of a funeral rite.  It's actually an overnight bag, practical, elegant and spacious.  The church was closed but there are already a few people by the front steps.  As I made my way to the back-door, I passed by an old man and greeted him bonjour but he seemed lost in his thoughts and didn't reply back.  As I entered the building, I was greeted by the comforting warmth of the thermostat and the dim silence of the sanctuary.  I set up my CD player by a side altar, at a piece of instrumental music, Gabriel's Oboe which I have used as entrance song to practically all of my funerals since last June.  I donned my robes and was greeted by a war veteran.  He said he'll be saying a few words during the celebration and that three other war veterans will be there to carry flags.  You see, our beloved deceased, Georges, has participated in the battle of Montfroid in Savoie on a  resistance against the Germans, during the Second World War.  Apparently, he received many medals for for his courage, leadership and patriotism.  It should be noted though that while he's a local hero, he's not French.  He belonged to a family of Italian immigrants who escaped Mussolini's regime and settled in the mining community of La Motte d'Aveillans.  Foreigners were viewed with contempt those days and Georges worked hard to belong to his new country. From the number of people who went to his burial, I can say his efforts paid off.

The funeral service was just like all other funerals in Matheysine:  quiet.  The congregation, when greeted, would respond with nods and a mumble.  To songs and prayers, they join me by mouthing the words without producing any sounds.  Their lips would enunciate the difficult French words but you'll not hear a single squeak.  If some person would dare to sing any louder, he will be hounded with stern stares and well-placed nudges until he'd step back and sing the rest of the song in awkward silence.  I thought at first that it was only in my funerals that the people are like that.  It turned out, my confrères have the same experience at all funeral services they made.

The coffin was covered with the tricoloured national flag and is flanked by two candles lighted by the grandchildren of Georges.  At the song, Ave Maria, the deceased's daughter trembled with emotion and sobbed in a peculiar way: it had all the trappings of a full-pledged sob, with all the shoulder and head motions, but none of the sounds.  It actually impressed me:  an all-out cry on mute.  

We all went out at the song, Amazing Grace and went to the cemetery.  The high noon sun is melting last night's heavy snow and there's water and mud everywhere.  The three war veterans, these fully decorated flag bearers were cautious to walk over the melting snow while balancing their flags.  The coffin was placed near the mouth of the tomb which Georges shares with his wife, Simone.  I made a reference on how he died on a Valentines day, and how these two, separated by death, are now reunited in death and in the life after, and then everyone lined up to bless the coffin with holy water, a simple gesture of solemn goodbye to a beloved friend.

Tree branches looked

like lifted hands holding up snow

towards the high heavens.

As the first signs of spring begin

to bud on the leafless twigs,

the white icy holocaust melted

and dripped, the sun trapped

at each crystalline drop.

Lifeless, but we know it isn't

true, because days from now,

all the snow will be gone,

and these branches will again

be furiously teeming with life.

Asking the Dead

This is only my fourth post and I already wish to talk about death. Don't worry.  It won't be about my own death.  Nor would I contemplate or wish for a death of a person.  I just felt like the need to talk about my visit at the chambre funeraire.

This afternoon, I walked to a funeral parlour, only half a kilometre from the rectory.  I went there, first, to take advantage of the sun, which is becoming a rarity this January and I felt that a bit of fresh air won't hurt either.  Second, I wish to visit the remains of Monique, a nice middle aged mother who died of cancer just a few days ago.  She is well-loved by her family and her community, and I often see her during the Mass, always smiling at the pews. She's a member of our little association and I have already been to her house a few times, and have met her family.

Peeking at the glass door I hesitated a bit at the front steps the funeral parlor as I saw no one inside.  I entered anyway and wished aloud that someone is there to tell me where would I find Monique's wake.  A paper carefully taped on a door replied mutely of my query.  I entered and I was surprised at the dimness of the room. I must make this clear:  the room wasn't dark, it is just that it didn't have the artificial funeral candelabras that we often use at home.  The furnishings were utilitarian but tasteful, chaises on corners, a coffee table book, a table lamp, a reproduction of still-life painting on the wall.  As I surveyed the room and went to discover what's behind the divider that stood at the middle of the room, I soon realised that it's not only the candelabras that are missing.

Before me was a bed, and there lies Monique, wearing, not a formal dress, but a cream-colored thermal pull-over, covered with a dark blue quilt until her chest, her two white hands resting over her stomach.  There was no coffin at all.  It struck me as strange but then again, the whole concept of it seems to stress to all who visits her that she was just, in fact, sleeping.  As I sat down at a bench nearby, I looked at her and tried to recall of my memories of her.  One thing for sure, her sweet smile, even at death, hasn't left her.  

I then tried not to stare as I felt it not right to stare at a lady at whatever state she is.  Also, I began to hallucinate and imagined seeing the tell-tale rise and fall of her chest, breathing.  I felt obliged too to stay silent in my prayers so as not to disturb her "sleep."  So I just looked around this corner which is just as dim as the rest of the room and it felt companionably quiet.  Near her was a receptacle for holy water and an unlighted candle.  On the floor is a slab of stylised cut marble bearing the inscription, Annabelle Soeur.  Who is Annabelle Soeur?  Later, I realised that the writing actually said, A Ma Belle-Soeur, "to my sister-in-law." 

While my eyes were rarely on her and I barely made a sound, I didn't dread the presence of Monique's mortal remains.  I guess I am no longer afraid of the dead people.  In fact, in the dimness of the place, I began recalling the memories of my own beloved dead.  My mother, my father, my sister...  I don't know but that thought ached a lot like a nostalgic splinter in my eye and next thing I knew, I was weeping.  

I then asked Monique, in French, that if she sees my mom, my dad and my sister, to please, please tell them I said Hi, and that I love them and I miss them very much.  And that I am doing well although it would help alot if they would always pray for me.  My hallucination led me to believe that she smiled the more after that. Then I recited a decade of the rosary, stood up, wiped the tear-stains away from my face, bid Monique my adieu, went to the register to sign my name and then left.

Paperbacks

I am lost in this chapter

where the protagonist hid

among indecipherable words and I fear

that I don't care anymore.

My own story blurred at edges

and my world is filled with

the same faceless words that hurt

my eyes.  I searched

for the solace of a sound,

familiar, flowing, unstudied,

to break out somewhere between

the lines.  Is there an end?

Yes, of course, but reading it

would mean death to a friend.

On my 37th birthday

I just turned 37 last week and truth be told, for the first time in my life, I felt I really grew up.

I admit that at each birthday, I can see things that changed in me.  My appearance, my voice, the fact that I moved from year to year to different levels of education... I had celebrated my birthdays in weirdest places, often hung-over by new year revelry, or just at home, or in my apartment, or in my seminary room, or in front of the computer answering emails and private messages.  Last week, I was just in my room, almost two years as a priest, who before Christmas was in one of the most beautiful cities I've ever been, and, as always, since my participation in Facebook, looking over the messages of many people, most of whom, I only met once somewhere in my past and now, our only interaction is the rare "likes" we give at each other's posts.

But as I said, suddenly, I felt that I had grown up.

It might sound a bit late, especially for a 37 year old, to say these thing, but frankly, I have no excuse whatsoever.  All I knew is that the world around me has suddenly changed and I felt its weight bearing on my soul.  I no longer doubt the power of hushed prayer and the importance of silence while looking at the window with a cup of cheap tea.  I give more respect to the written and spoken words and bow down to appreciate the lyric touch they give in my adult life, but more importantly, I realised that I have a new friend, wordlessness, an ominous being that loomed over me as a ghost, but now, she holds my hands with such warmth, that I am assured that it is her that I need, here and now.

As I turned 37, I have learned to lay down my imaginary sword and surrender to my long-time enemies, uncertainty and subtlety. And while they leered in delight to my defeat, I somehow feel that I earned their respect and will one day be there with me on the streets, offering me cigarettes or helping me with my groceries or picking up my fallen ego from the floor.

As a 37 year old, I am confident that I've grown wiser, more cynical, more dark, more compassionate, more nuanced, more adventurous, more careful.  At 37, I am now much closer to knowing who is the real me.

Here's another free verse, during the time the parishioners gathered to reflect on the letter of our local bishop:

We read the letter, but our hearts drummed hard
on the questions that seemed not to rhyme
with the superlative generalities
that rose and fell like a heaving chest,
short of air, peppered with nominal gasps in risk
of reducing the Word into something proverbial,
or painfully parochial. We pulled our vests,
in a church that is becoming more and more
Cold.  Hope is the word
we all desperately want to touch and hold.