In future Sundays we shall move into our Acts of Contrition and follow up with readings, but for the pilot Spinster Sermon, we'll cut straight to the homily itself:
‘I’m not going to stand for it,’ she screamed down the cluttered stairs.
‘Stand for what?’
‘You being such a bitch to me. I go out of my way to do
things your way. I bend over backwards. And all you can do if remind me how I
only have a month to go until I need to move out. You can’t even bear to spend
more than half an hour in a supermarket with me.’
‘Oh you do get yourself in such a huff,’ she jokes.
Teenager high jinx. Such memories. Sadly, this is
not a memory. Well it is. But one from today, not twenty years ago. Moving home
has brought back all the old behaviours. Mum is made of sterner stuff than me,
a more grounded soul, so clashes are frequent.
I find myself seeking attention and getting angry when I don’t receive it.
I thrive on intrigue and giggles. Mum on peace and gardens.
This last ridiculous argument
was down to the Twinings Logo in the tea and coffee aisle
during our big shop in Asda. I asked how old she thought it
was. She said old and moved to go. I said no, guess how old? She said 100
years? I said no. She said 200. I said no. She said, ‘Enough, I’m sick of
playing these games, we’re leaving the supermarket now!’ So I got upset. Such a
shame. The Answer is 300 years. So near. Yet so far. I read it on a tweet this
morning. I am twelve.
The twelve year old put the shopping in the car in a stony
silence. Drove home. Unpacked. Took items particular to herself in a bag up to
room. Slammed door and sulked in the tiny back bedroom still full of boxes.
This is following a further scene at the check out, when mum had asked me not
to do any of my cooking until after she’d finished her’s, as she had a friend
coming over. I’d glowered back. ‘Oh, don’t worry, I won’t be anywhere near you. I’ll
stay out of your way.’ God. I’m a bad episode of Sunset Beach, perhaps I’ve
turned into my own evil twin?
Then mum knocked on my bedroom door and asked if we could talk.
This is always bad. I stop being angry and get upset. I cry. Mum feels bad. She
wants a hug. I am so tense I don’t want anyone near me. She doesn’t understand why
I’m upset. She says she loves me. I cry a bit more. We’re just different
people. A spinster and a divorcee sharing one very small house. She knows I’ll
find a job where I can move out. Having tried for over a year, I am less sure
of this. But I am sure that I get happy when I write.
I had already planned to start my Spinster Sermons this
morning. At 5am. When I woke up with the monthly barren bat signal. The
Spinster Special. This is no way completely explains the proceeding paragraphs…
I was pondering a way to motivate self to write again. I knew I needed
something with a reasonable frequency. I admire my friends who keep to weekly
blogs by adding photos of fashion or travels or some such. As I reside in the
Shire and my social life is pretty sparse this would have been tricky so I wanted
to play with the Spinster thing. At 5am, I realised that Spinster Sermons would
work.
As a very lapsed Roman Catholic I could still recall the
Sunday Mass rundown. There’s a welcome, an act of contrition (saying sorry for
being bad), lessons (Bible and Gospel readings), a sermon or homily,
transubstantiation (flying saucer paper with stamped crosses and cheap red wine
turn in the body and blood of Christ), Communion and then thanksgiving. All
rounded up by a song.
This week’s Sermon seems to have something of a lunar theme. Next week who can say. Two weeks time will definitely
be sex based. We should be back to tears again in 4
weeks.
In the spirit of this back to front, moon-kissed Spinster Sermon. I offer up this reading by Keats. I first learnt the tale of Endymion when captivated by the most beautiful man at Chatsworth. There are many tales of Endymion. My favourite is that Semele, the Goddess of the Moon who fell so in love with his beauty she decided he must never age. He was therefore granted immortality but must always stay asleep except when the Moon Goddess came down to visit him and enjoy his company. They had 50 daughters.
Endymion by John Keats. 1818.
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.
Not prevalent in your usual Roman Catholic Mass, but Spinster Sermons offer up movie recommendation of the week. Mass tended to tell us what not to watch. The Life of Brian was certainly banned. This week I recommend Bright Star http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0810784/ the story of Keats but told through the eyes of his lover, Fanny Brawne. It's gentle and tender and kind and of course poetry filled.
I think we come to the end of today's Sunday Spinster Sermon and I'd like to include my favourite part of Mass. The connection. When we would all stand up from our pews and make contact with each other. We'd say 'Peace be with you.' 'And also with you' while we shook on it.
So.
Peace be with you.
And also with you.
Much love
Til next Sunday
Alison
xxx
Lovely, Dear, lovely.
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