In all the years that I’ve been a music minister (at Catholic, Methodist, and Lutheran churches), I don’t think I’ve ever played a service or Mass for All Saints’ Day, which is strange since my son was baptized on this feast. That’s almost four decades of playing the pipe organ without having to deal with saintly litanies. (At Catholic Easter Vigil Masses, the priest/cantor sings several litanies involving saints and angels and whatnot, and I have a confession: I don’t like litanies or Gregorian chant all that much. A little too medieval for me.)
Sharon Olds comforts herself with a litany of prepositions . . .
The Prepositions
by: Sharon Olds
I’d probably be a Behavior Problem
all my life, John Muir Grammar
the spawning grounds, the bad-seed bed, but
the first morning at Willard, the dawn
the first morning at Willard, the dawn
of seventh grade, they handed me a list
of forty-five prepositions, to learn
by heart. I stood in the central courtyard,
enclosed garden that grew cement,
of forty-five prepositions, to learn
by heart. I stood in the central courtyard,
enclosed garden that grew cement,
my pupils followed the line of the arches
up and over, up and over, like
alpha waves, about, above,
across, along, among, around, an
odd calm began in me,
before, behind, below, beneath,
beside, between, I stood in that sandstone
square and started to tame. Down,
from, in, into, near, I was
located there, watching the Moorish half-
circles rise and fall. Off,
on, onto, out, outside, we
came from 6th grades all over the city
up and over, up and over, like
alpha waves, about, above,
across, along, among, around, an
odd calm began in me,
before, behind, below, beneath,
beside, between, I stood in that sandstone
square and started to tame. Down,
from, in, into, near, I was
located there, watching the Moorish half-
circles rise and fall. Off,
on, onto, out, outside, we
came from 6th grades all over the city
to meet each other for the first time,
White tennis-club boys who did not
speak to me, White dorks
White tennis-club boys who did not
speak to me, White dorks
who did, Black student-council guys who’d gaze
above my head, and the Black
plump goof-off who walked past and
suddenly flicked my sweater-front, I thought to shame me.
Over, past, since, through,
that was the year my father came home in the
middle of the night with those thick earthworms
plump goof-off who walked past and
suddenly flicked my sweater-front, I thought to shame me.
Over, past, since, through,
that was the year my father came home in the
middle of the night with those thick earthworms
of blood on his face, trilobites of
elegant gore, cornice and crisp
waist of the extinct form,
till, to, toward, under, the
lining of my uterus convoluted,
shapely and scarlet as the jointed leeches
elegant gore, cornice and crisp
waist of the extinct form,
till, to, toward, under, the
lining of my uterus convoluted,
shapely and scarlet as the jointed leeches
of wound clinging to my father’s face in that
mask, unlike, until, up, I’d
walk, day and night, into
mask, unlike, until, up, I’d
walk, day and night, into
the Eden of the list, hortus enclosus where
everything had a place. I was in
relation to, upon, with, and when I
got to forty-five I could just start over,
everything had a place. I was in
relation to, upon, with, and when I
got to forty-five I could just start over,
pull the hood of the list down over
my brain again. It was the first rest
I had had from my mind. My eyes would run
slowly along the calm electro-
cardiogram of adobe cloister,
within, without, I’d repeat the prayer I’d
received, a place in the universe,
meaningless but a place, an exact location—
Telegraph, Woolsey, Colby, Russell—
Berkeley, 1956,
fourteen, the breaking of childhood, beginning of memory.
slowly along the calm electro-
cardiogram of adobe cloister,
within, without, I’d repeat the prayer I’d
received, a place in the universe,
meaningless but a place, an exact location—
Telegraph, Woolsey, Colby, Russell—
Berkeley, 1956,
fourteen, the breaking of childhood, beginning of memory.
Litanies can provide some comfort, as Olds’ poem demonstrates. They occupy the mind, provide a kind of stability. Olds keeps returning to the list of prepositions because the real world (full of nipple-flicking boys and injured, alcoholic fathers) is so out of her control.
As you know, I’m what is sometimes referred to as a “cradle Catholic”—that means I was born, baptized, and raised in the Catholic Church. There have only been a few times in my life that I haven’t attended weekend Masses on a regular basis. I think every young Catholic goes through that sort of rebellious stage where, instead of going to church on Sunday morning, you hit McDonald’s instead. (That little rebellion ended for me when I started to get paid for playing the pipe organ on Saturday evenings.) I’ve been doing my church musician thing for going on 40 years now.
So, my weeks are full of teaching and library work, and my Saturdays and Sundays are full of organ and piano benches at one Catholic parish (on rare occasions two), two Lutheran parishes, and one Methodist parish (very infrequently). If you’re wondering when I get a day off, the answer is pretty simple: I don’t. Planning any kind of time off for me is like planning the invasion of Normandy.
Today, I was able to pull off something pretty special. In the middle of working and teaching and music ministering, I planned a surprise 30th anniversary party for my wife. My biggest surprise for her: our daughter drove up from medical school to attend. While my wife and I attended our regular Saturday Mass, our kids and friends gathered at a local restaurant, decorated its back room, and waited for us to walk through the door.
To say that my wife was taken aback is an understatement. She had no idea what was happening. I could see it on her face as our litany of friends and relatives all shouted “Surprise!” And when she realized that our daughter was sitting at the head table, she just about lost it.
Everyone we loved was there. We ate and talked and laughed and reminisced. In a year that has been dominated by President 47 dismantling democracy and taking food and healthcare away from American citizens, tonight was balm for my heart and soul.
After the dinner, our daughter and her significant other came to our house to play games and visit. It was such a good day and night. (I didn’t even mind going to the laundromat today, and I hate doing laundry.)
Saint Marty wrote a litany for today, based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:
Write a poem that includes visits from three saints. You can research saints on the Internet and choose your favorite, or make a list of your obsessions and create a saint from that. Write a poem to the Saint of Poets, the Saint of Birds, or make up your own saint. The Saint of the Internet, perhaps? The Saint of Broken Violins? Feel free to use one or more real or invented saints in your poem.
Litany of Saints for Laundry Day
by: Martin Achatz
I wake on dirty clothes day
to first snow on the grass,
a breath of white that will
be gone as soon as the sun
opens its morning eye.
Our Lady of Termination Dust, pray for us.
I stare at autumn gold
on the hillside across
from King Koin Laundry
this first day of November.
Saint Maidenhair, pray for us.
I scribble these words, my first
lines while the colds
spin cycle, tumbling
like teens in a Buick’s backseat.
Saint Coitus, pray for us.
I think of you, my first (and only)
love at home, waiting
for me to return with
baskets of bread-warm clothes.
God of Bounce Dryer Sheets, remind us
we were all once fresh and clean.
