I managed to rise early enough Sunday morning to get myself ready to attend my first ever Catholic Mass. I wore the Balinese sarong I had brought in lieu of a towel, as a long skirt. Donned some extra jewlery and felt ready for such an occasion until I actually arrived at the
iglesia. Now I felt all kinds of awkward. Instantly my nose itched and I was certain I wasn't supposed to scratch it (itch it?) My skirt felt too tight to sit on the narrow pew comfortably. In fact I didn´t fit on the pew quite right at all. Music filled the congregation, a little peppy festive hispanic diddy with
guitarra y marimba accompaniment.
Padre Gregorio (who is actually Father Greg from Minnesota despite his foreign sounding title) made his way down the procession following the altar kiddos. He kissed the heads of the little tikes and shook hands with everyone else.
What proceeded was more awkwardness for me; when to stand? when to bow your head? when to sit? when to kneel? when to sing? (or pretent to...) when to just get on the floor full on?--well maybe nobody really did that one.. Then it was: quick scramble to find your friend who was sitting next to you recently in the crammed pew but who got up to sit somewhere else with her head between her legs due to the intensity of the incense permeating almost all of your orifices, and ask her to slip you some coins to place in the basket that is floating around because of course, you'd forgotten all about this minor detail when going to church.
It has been so long since I've been to any kind of service, but all of a sudden the memory of the collection basket came flooding back. I remember my baby sister and I quietly but effectively fighting over who got to place the larger of the two sums of money mom had handed over, into the basket.
The experience here was enchanting. At one point the
Padre instructed us to Greet Thy Neighbor, and the whole lot of us became uber chummy and we all enjoyed round after round of exuberant hand shaking. I loved hearing the sermon in Spanish, it was beautiful and oozing with power and solidarity. I wouldn't be too surprised if I started looking for ways to attend more mass down the road, especially in another language. In a small way, I began to feel a little connection to the community, we were at this moment sharing (on different levels of course) something unique compared to my inter-cultural experiences to date. It was humbling.
Incidentally, for those who were expecting a medical mass and not a religious one... We did conduct a prenatal visit for a woman who seemed to have a couple of heads in there. Both midwives crammed into the tiny room and crouched around her so each could tap out the heart rate they were listening to via both the fetoscope and pinard. If they were not exactly a match, then sure enough we could say there were two heads in there (and likely also two full bodies..) But alas, only one heart rate, which led us to ponder some sort of uterine fibroid or other finding that would require someone with one of those x-ray vision machines (an ultrasound).
That was Sunday, and tomorrow is Wednesday, the 2nd. It is finally my day to be on-call for births at the clinic. Will there be a midnight baby girl tonight between the 1st and the 2nd? Twenty-seven years and another continent later? I am just praying to the birth goddess that it all works out, and if it's meant to be, then I will tell all about it I'm sure.
xoxox
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