Yesterday was Ash Wednesday. It was the first time I have not marked the day with ashes or being reminded of my dust-esque nature. For a good part of the morning I spent time grieving this; I even did a little pout and cry routine (ok — it was actually all out bawling). But then, I settled down and in.
So what if I couldn’t go to church, a building full of others who need to mark this time and do this ritual? The churches I have been visiting over the past few years to do this, aren’t even my own. I file in, with other strangers to become a part of this strange, public/private ritual that has a hold on my heart like it is the very key to my salvation. Then people have all sorts of opinions about whether to wipe it off or not, oh the pressure of it all. *ugh* So what if someone with a seminary education didn’t smudge my forhead and tell me I am going to die—I know this anyway. So then, the question becomes what do you do when left to your own?
Well, it felt good to cry, to pout, piss and moan for a minute. But then, I just gave up and gave in. I set an altar, said some prayers, wrote my gratitude, smudged my own damn head with oil given to me by a dear friend when I was in grief over my father. And you know what, it is ok. Its more than ok really.
Of course I miss my community and people. But the show and lent, must go on.
I may or may not use this space to post my lenten journey. I sound non-committal because well, I am. But I think I will. Join me. Or not. *sigh*