Holy Days

Whenever I travel to a place, I just start walking. I pick a landmark and just start moving. After a long, cross-continental set of flights, I found myself on my feet the day before last.

One of the blessings and curses of having been a theatre artist is that I want to interpret everything. I am built to construct meaning from little shimmers of things, passing moments that are here and then gone. Walking will help you do this. There’s a way of collecting these glints as you go, both by careful noticing and allowing yourself to be surprised.

I walked into the coffeeshop named for Saint Francis. On the wall:

This man from Assisi taught us that all things seemingly mundane are in fact special and beautiful… He approached everything with a humble wide-eyed view of simplicity and courtesy. Everyone mattered to Francis. Everyone was important, worthy of attention & kindness.

And from G.K. Chesterton:

St. Francis deliberately did not see the wood for the trees.

About ten or eleven months ago, my family and I were in England on holiday. We got up early in Bermondsey and, after a great cup of coffee, we found ourselves in Southwark Cathedral. They were preparing to celebrate a morning Eucharist and so I slid into the chapel where they worship on whatever day of the week it was to commemorate victims of AIDS/HIV. That little chapel in Southwark is connected, the priest said, with Grace Cathedral San Francisco for that commemoration. It was also Saint Swithun’s Feast Day, the patron saint of that particular priest.

Here I am these months later standing in Grace Cathedral in the city named for Saint Francis. This say was the Feast of Corpus Christi. The Episcopalians don’t celebrate that so much. It gets a special little prayer and they move on.

The first time I experienced the phrase “Corpus Christi” was in college when I was studying theatre history. Back in the medieval world, the Corpus Christi festival lasted several days and featured plays from church and guild communities. Since medieval times, some traditions still do the parties, frequently with a procession throughout their villages or cities, carrying blessed bread and wine throughout the place. Corpus Christi = the Body of Christ. Maybe you get all the connections.

So here I was on a procession of my own. The coffee shop named for Saint Francis. Maybe the coffee was blessed. A stop in Grace Cathedral. A visit to a noodle shop in Chinatown. Back to Grace for Choral Evensong. They’re graduating three choristers from their choir.

The next day is the Feast of the Visitation of the Virgin Mary. The choir sings the Magnificat. “My soul magnifies the Lord,” they sing. There’s an eclectic group assembled. The Bishop. The Dean. A Sikh man in the front row sternly and proudly watching his son. Me, a tourist.

The Feast of the Visitation is even more obscure for me. My hack internet research says the celebration was started by the Franciscans in 1263. More Franciscans. I’m up early for a visit of my own: the old Franciscan mission, named for the Saint, and for which the city is named. The Catholic priest preaches briefly on the Visitation story. Mary travels to visit Elizabeth. John, the eventual Baptist, does a little dance in the womb.

I venture to the art museum. There’s an exhibition called “Rituals of Care” by Lee Mingwei. In one of the installations, you bring in an article of clothing that needs mending and a person sits across from you and talks to you while they mend the clothes. Some of the clothes stay and are sewn into the walls by long runs of colorful thread. The idea is to show that we’re all connected. When we all mend each other.

I visit the Japanese Tea Garden. The Rose Garden. The Russian Orthodox Cathedral. I can’t enter because I’m wearing shorts. Women need to be in dresses and a head covering. I get on the wrong bus. I walk to the Pacific. I walk and walk. There’s an email from a Franciscan I’ve been in touch with lately. I ride over to Little Italy. There’s a restaurant that seats probably sixty people and there have to be at least half that many working in the restaurant. That’s quite a ratio. Four or six people in front of house. Four behind the bar. A hostess. Three chefs doing pizza and grill and antipasti. Folks in the back making pasta and desserts. Management. Hospitality matters to me. Yes Chef. Fire four sole. Can I get a push on the Little Gems. Thank you Chef. Service. Hands. Burrata to 33B. Thank you 33B. Sorry for the interruption. Here is our gorgeous tagliatelle with morel mushroom.

Generously spirited people never let the glass be empty.

Ride back to the place called Holy Hill. New friends, all folks headed toward the priesthood, here from all over the country. A proper California burrito. Stories. Where are you from? How did you get here no I mean how did you get here? Dabbling in theology.

This morning is the start of Pride Month. I remember that the steps to Grace Cathedral are painted like a Pride flag. The little chapel across the way has decorated itself accordingly as well.

Bodies matter and move. Bodies of Christ. Feast days and festivals shimmer alongside each other. Early this morning, before coffee, I see a coyote wandering through campus. Later, a friendly wild turkey. Francis would be pleased. Let me go do my laundry. All things seemingly mundane are in fact special and beautiful. All days are Holy. My soul doth magnify.