Dancing with Brooms
Weekend reflections on authentic culture, identity, and maybe why we’re so miserable
When I first thought about writing this thing, I imagined a pretty straightforward publication reflecting on past business failures and what I thought of as hilarious anecdotes from the trenches of a service-based company. Throw in a little armchair philosophy and maybe we’ve got something here.
But now, honestly, I have a growing contempt for all things hustle culture, which seems like no more than a completely engrossing means of distracting oneself from reality. This idea sort of came to the surface as I danced with a broom under the starlight Saturday night.
That night, after Vespers, our little parish had a folk dancing party celebrating Greek, Irish and Bulgarian traditions, although I’m sure I saw some Russian “stuff” in there too. It was for everyone, although it was most definitely focused on the young people of the parish. In a world doing everything it can to strip us of our most basic identities, or even to transmogrify them into their opposites, the folk dancing party was a mighty cultural “YAWP” for tradition.
We were there for it. I was particularly there for it when I saw Fr. Paisius, my sort of spiritual advisor and father in the faith, manning the DJ station. I learned later that DJ Paisius, his family, and a few other parish members had recorded the music that we all danced to that night.
My words can’t do justice to the joy of the night. All I can say is that it was beautiful. Men, women, and children in concentric circles kicked up their feet and danced endangered dances. The Halls, who I’ll talk about in a minute, gave us all basic instruction and then we were off. The space was too small for all of us, the clumsy adults and the myriad children. The circles ended up going opposite directions simultaneously which led to much shoulder-bonking. I was kicked several times, and I stomped on too many people’s feet.
It was a holy mess and sweaty fun.
Oh yeah, and one dance, (Polish, I believe), involved dancing with a broom for some reason.
The night was also a send-off for the Halls, a beautiful family from Alaska who had come to the parish about a year ago. I might have mentioned them before. They have a story, which isn’t mine to tell, but I can say that they’re going through their own crucible. But despite their pain and suffering, they and their three beautiful children were a light in our world. About four months ago, on the day my wife told me she thought a short separation would be good for us, I had walked out of the church hall in a state of shock. It was Herman Hall (“Herman” is his Orthodox name, after St. Herman of Alaska), who followed me to remind me that suffering can be for the good.
I gather that they did a lot of that in the year they spent with us. Despite their own suffering, they taught us how to dance. They tended the fires of culture and tradition, and passed that flame onto us before they moved on.
They left more than tender memories, though. Herman is a true craftsman, and he led the construction of the St. Seraphim cemetery chapel, a humble little building behind (and to the east) of the church. His temporary presence left a permanent mark on our lives out here on the prairie.
We blessed and dedicated the chapel yesterday. After the long liturgy, we processed outside and down the long walkway, encircling the little structure and filling it. Father Ambrose prayed and walked around the chapel.
“Glory be to the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, now and unto ages of ages..”
Orthodox life is nothing if not one continuous prayer. Every moment is given to God, or at least that’s what we try to do.
Later, after everyone broke off into their groups to chat and visit, I headed toward the chapel for some quiet alone time. The Liturgy, while beautiful, is a full-contact sport. It’s exhausting. And while I live for social “communion,” there comes a point where my introverted soul overloads.
The chapel was packed. Packed with the choir. I stayed for a minute to listen, but it was another one of those “lonely in a crowd” situations. I wished I could have sung with them, but I have about as much musical ability as a stump.
I slipped out and walked the church grounds. At one point I walked through the ribs of the new church hall, and wondered if we would keep dancing in there…
My wife and I crashed back at home and watched a documentary on Baku, the capitol of Azerbaijan. (Long story). It beat us over the head with the theme of the weekend: “culture.” Baku, like everywhere in the world but the United States, it seems, was rich with culture and had a long historical memory. Even when we lived in the birthplace of our nation, with historical and cultural reminders every few feet, it took an effort of the will to feel connected to our culture. And our country is currently engaged in a project to tear down and erase it’s own heritage, while other places seem to protect and remember theirs, even if in some diminished form.
At times it can be so profoundly lonely.
My wife told me about a conversation she had with one of the other wives on Saturday night. She and her family had come back to America from Ecuador not long ago.
“I don’t know how long we can live in America,” my wife’s friend evidently said. “Everything is so artificial here.”
Before this weekend took off, I had breakfast with a literary friend on Friday morning. He runs an outfit that helps kids learn how to read, write, and most importantly, think. As he often does, he kicked off the conversation with, “What are you reading?” I told him about “Our Thoughts Determine Our Lives,” and he told me about some thoughts he’d had about identity while reading Graham Greene’s, “The Power and the Glory.”
By “identity,” he wasn’t talking about the cheap, political forcefield of identity politics, but of the fundamental importance of relationship. Our identities are strongest, and best ordered, when forged in relation with others. At the risk of mangling his well-ordered articulation of it, he talked about a person’s relationship first to God, then to the particular communities that share that faith, to our spouses, children, grandchildren… He saw our identities in relation to our groups, rightly ordered, top to bottom, as the key to happiness, i.e. peace.
I didn’t know it then, as we had breakfast, but I was about to get a crash course in identity, community and culture over the weekend. Honestly, it’s blowing my circuits.
And while the realization of our cultural impoverishment is really doing a number on me right now, I’m enlivened at the same time - even to the point of waking up at 3:30 this morning with an urgent prayer on my lips: “Lord, help us to preserve and to build that which is good, true and beautiful.”
Last night, just before the bedtime routine, I finally went out to the shed to assess the entropy that three months of neglect had wrought. It wasn’t pretty. Hastily dumped boxes took up all the available workspaces. Tools were on the floor. The floor! Cobwebs covered everything around the periphery, and while I don’t think tarantulas make cobwebs, this is tarantula country…
I had to laugh. All of this weekend reflecting on culture, maintaining or rebuilding it, and I had a perfect manifestation of it right there in my workshop. The craftsman’s dwelling place was in much need of re-ordering.
It’s time to rebuild…