A lot of my writing is inspired by my childhood. I grew up in a big Italian Catholic family and spent a ton of time with my Nana Maria, who just happened to become the muse for the main character of my upcoming women's fiction novel, Beautiful Secret. Nana Maria took me to church with her on every Holy day, and I vividly recall standing next to her in the pew, my sentiments a mixture of wonder, confusion, and even boredom. I would imagine how fun it would be to be able to bring my Barbie dolls to the church and set them up on the altar. I'd flip through the song books, loudly. I'd beg for mints, which she always had in her purse. Nana Maria inevitable cried in church. I used to watch her, feeling sorry and sad that she was weeping. I never understood what it was that made her so emotional.
Now, I totally get it.
Every time I walk into a Catholic church, the smell of incense and flowers hits me, and I'm seven years old again. I'm curling into my Nana's dress and playing with the kneeler. I miss the atmosphere, the heavy air, the dim lights and stained glass. I miss the relics, the statues, the blessed twists of Palm branches at Easter time.
I attend an interdenominational church these days. I find it fits my family's spiritual needs more completely than our local Catholic Church did. It took me some time to get used to the large auditorium, rock-style band, and triple screen, but ultimately, I love my church and have no desire to leave it.
Most Sundays, I cry, and sometimes, I don't even know why.
Below is a poem I wrote when I realized today was Ash Wednesday. Memories flooded over me, and this happened. I hope you enjoy it.
Ash Wednesday
Heavy wooden doors, etched and adorned,
Inviting one and all - open me and find rest here.
A drafty breeze, heavy with spicy incense, incites a strange comfort.
I push into the snaking throng of people, all here for the same yearly ritual.
Glancing up at the muted colors, a familiar ease washes over me.
Through stained glass windows, I’m transported back to my youth.
A nana in a blue housecoat, shushing me with serious eyes.
I straighten and try to stop fidgeting.
Colorful robes and ancient language flowing on the altar, mysterious and familiar at once.
I wonder what they’re saying and if their collars are uncomfortable.
Dissonant chords and shimmering dust mites floating along the perfumed air.
I imagine myself a fairy, gliding atop a golden speck and rising into the rafters.
In front of me, lining pew after pew, a sea of fedoras and braids and tight perms and bald heads.
I wonder what their stranger faces look like.
A cold hand dusts over my forehead, marking me with the symbol of my truths.
It steals me from my foray into yesterday and brings me back to now.
Here.
The priest smiles warmly at me, his eyes telling me to come back soon.
Amen, I say, then find my way back through the vestibule, into the cold, bright afternoon.
Later, eyes of every shape and color fall onto my forehead, landing on the smudge of black
I can feel those eyes - evaluating, categorizing, wondering in silent judgment.
No one asks.
Until one little girl with bouncy blond curls and a voice like a bell tugs at my shirt sleeve
Is that black magic? She asks.
Laughter bubbles in my belly, but I subdue it and manage a small grin
No, it’s not magic, I tell her.
It’s ashes.
Her puffy-cheeked face tilts to the side, asking why without any words.
I sigh heavily and touch my fingers to the powdery smear
It’s just what we do, I say with a shrug.
I don’t have a better answer.
I never did.
Yellow ringlets bob, and away she skips across the busy street.
I watch as she trails after her mother, disappearing inside another set of heavy doors.
Etched and adorned.