On a bus from Vancouver to Cali. Don’t ya feel a bit sheepish sipping that venti chai while reading Adbusters—oh, moderately, but it’s a sheepishness I enjoy. Outraged and amused and indulged all at the same time.

Christmas craziness—the “ease” of e-mailing wedding photos for developing meant an all-nighter the likes of which I hadn’t seen since university essay deadlines (not counting vigils—wanting to vs. having to).

Tried to work it so our semi-stellar wedding video could go from passable (ie: what are they saying?) to interesting with a bandaid of subtitles. Fell through. Our own damn fault—waited until we had 24 hours to departure before hooking up with Rob, out friend in the video-know (make that video semi-know). Some missed connection or other meant that digital spits out analog after barely taking the slightest sample. *sigh* Stayed up all last night typing up a transcript for the folks (we’ll use parchment paper to make it seem deliberate. Merry Xmas!). The only problem with having a video is that what was once glossed over in the delirious bliss of the moment becomes points of irking contention (“Hey! we didn’t choose that prayer/blessing/verse!”) Short-lived contention, though: it was the priest’s 5th wedding ever, and I’d take a nervous/excited priest who’s still enthusiastic about the whole thing, over a bored fifth-one-today priest any day. Of course, we missed Father Nuemann, but the blessing of rare sunlight pouring from the stained-glass window of the apse right onto the two of us standing in the nave gave every indication that he was there (thanks, Monsignor).

We haven’t been back to church much since. I feel like I owe something to the choir for generously filling the vaulted hall with song. It just hasn’t been the same since the diocese started going hard-core against the same-sex marriage issue. Even from the choir loft, we couldn’t wince our ways through another homily from the Bishop Exner. The wedding was all that is good about the Catholic church: coming together to share in a sacrament of love (okay, the excess reference to “father” and “he” when anthromorphising the Divine still jabs slightly—especially with the Holy Spirit, so obviously a feminine principle). The ultimate commandment being to love one another, I don’t get the vehement upholding of a side note in Leviticus. And the Pauline letters on the subject can’t trump the fact that it’s no where in the red text. Besides, the “physician heal thyself” motto comes to mind everytime the Bishop stands up to condemn this or that form of consenting sexuality. Most Catholics I know just go with the “He’s the Pope/Bishop/Cardinal/Priest; he’s supposed to say that” attitude even when not agreeing with the dictates (birth control, sex outside of marriage, homosexuality, no female priests, etc.), and be comfortable with their own beliefs over what is and is not a sin.

The ritual of Catholicism is what attracted me to it. What most would see as dry and repetitive is lush and pregnant with symbolism that sometimes even those performing it are unaware of. I like that they give a nod to the feminine aspect of the Divine. I like the rainbow of saints, each expressing in a different way, the sacred that manifests in humanity. I like those theologians who looked beyond the literal text and short-comings of the men who wrote and/or compiled the scriptures and could reveal the spirit of the behind the words. Father Neumann was good at that, in his good-natured traditionalist way. Another, Father Parsons would blow our minds. He would talk in this flat brisk monotone, but if you had the focus to catch on to what he was saying, he dropped pure science on you. The guy in Sierra Madre who had to stand on a box for his head to reach above the podium and who spoke like Mel Brooks. Such moments I miss, but not enough to pull me back into regular attendance. We’ll see. I’d like to take a break from Western forms for awhile, having immersed myself so thoroughly in it for the last ten years.

Yoga is my new spiritual home for awhile.