Wednesday 1 February 2012

Preparing for Candlemas

I like piggy backing on Clare's posts. 

Here's one about someone we met at St Cecilia's, friend of Candy (she knows everyone, really, everyone,) and what she is up to tomorrow.

Here in Blackfen we have been practising Mass IX and my pencil notes from yesteryear are still holding good.  Schola buddies will be elsewhere doing their thing. It's tricky actually to sing together when primarily we sing in our parishes.

Rubricwise, Jonathan (MC) manages to make his response to my questions seem as though the question is both new and interesting.

I should say that my knowledge and interest in things rubrical extends only as far as what to sing when. It doesn't interest me why or how it may have been different in the past I like the absence of chattiness in the EF.

And now we are going to receive a candle, blah blah, what are they up to in Husborne Crawley again?  Tealight Day? Bring your own bean bag.*
Ditch stuff like this and into the vacuum comes paraliturgical garbage which shows how my mindset of, 'Tell me what music to do when,' is only suited to the traditional liturgy.  Let's just stick to the real thing.  Anything else is pointless.

One of the first sung EF Masses that I went to was Candlemas and I remember Jonathan gesturing with his sleeve in a general way to the congregation that it was now candle time.  No words.  Reason #765876 why I like this a lot.  Lay people are silent.  Priests have to follow the book.  Phew.

*OOdles of time ago I went on a staff retreat.  Drove miles.  Arrived.  Parked.  A bloke was walking across the carpark (a place where you may encounter.. PEOPLE.)  I asked him where we should go.  This being a Catholic type place I was expecting to have to say very little and that someone would instantly beam at me, tell me what to do and put the kettle on, probably in one seamless action.  Instead he looked affronted that I had deigned to approach him said, 'I'm on a silent retreat.'  Tip.  AVOID THE CARPARK.

The weekened was awful.  I still have no recollection as to why I went in the first place.  Truly dreadful.  Another 48 hours that I'll never get back. Can't remember too much else about it and I shalln't be trying. The dodgy shopping list was I fear complete.

Tea lights
bean bags
circle time ( I NEVER say anything in such circumstances.  You could sit me in a circle for days and I would remain mute. Then I'd probably explode and then you'd say I have anger ishoos.  If only you'd shared with us, leutgeb. Runs away.)
bits of material swirled around a bit with stuff that should be on a nature table arranged in a way that says NOTHING and looks less attractive than if it had been done by the under 5s.
People asking prying questions and people telling everyone their private stuff.  My name's leutgeb and you can mind your own business and I have friends and family and don't necessarily need to know everyone's business.  I'm a teacher and I have to know stuff I don't even want to know about people, so I don't inadvertently say something that could upset someone or if a pupil collapses I know which medical condition it probably is and can react accordingly or if they freak out I know why.  Really, I can take only so much.
lay people bossing me around. Byeee.
ex-nuns bossing me around.  (Anger management again.)  You want the respect that I would given to a nun, without being one.
priests who aren't called Father who look like scruffy blokes, you are supposed to wear black OK -  easy - you aren't more approachable, because I don't actually want your opinion, I want to know what the Church's mind is and by looking scruffy you look incompetent.  Sometimes I don't even know you are a priest.  I once went into a church with someone, this scruff bag man in his 50s appears who looked a bit miffed at me. How was I supposed to know you were the parish priest?  Give us a clue.  You looked like you were there to do some DIY, change a few light bulbs or something. Wear the right clothes.  It's depressing looking a shambles.
Nuns who aren't called Sister and look frumpy, because if you don't have at least a uniform, how do you decide what clothes to wear, you are supposed to have given up all that stuff lay woman do after all, but you are always very bossy and humourless and boring and give me chapter and verse on whatever useless book you are reading, whilst saying something rude about the Pope.  You hate authority whilst expecting to tell me what to do like we are in some fascist dictatorship.  Great.
dreadful music.  Dilemma.  Sing to support or remain mute and have to listen to someone say, 'As St Augustine said, 'he who sings, prays twice.' ' I can't claim to speak for the great man of Hippo, but I think we all know, he didn't mean, 'Colours of day.'  Colours of day, dawn into the mind.. was the lyricist on LSD or something?  Please.
Lay people going on and on, see above.

A silent retreat sound like a good plan.
Monastics don't talk much.

And after that trip down memory lane, resting on the tetrachord of Colours of Day, I can sleep easy in my bed, safe in the knowledge, that what I have to sing tomorrow is all in one book. 

Busy day today.  Two orchestra rehearsals, 6 hours of scholarship auditions and then a meeting about the trip I'm running next week. Tomorrow another 6 hours of audtions. 

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