the vow

We took vows. We made a vow of silence. We all did. Some complied more than others, or so we have "heard." I took a vow of silence. During the Ceremony itself, the Presider spoke no words, nor any sign language utterances. All the Candidates knew in advance this was at the heart of the Ceremony, not the only vow but a critical one. Stark in its simplicity, its lack of protocols, aberrations, rewards, punishments. We knew this out there in the world. We knew this, we were told, warned, if you will. We could've run right then and there. I could have run. We complied. We affirmed by standing as one, rising from the pews, our white cotton robes rustling (the robes took no vow of silence!), our cowls covering our heads. Obviously white vestments or black. Had to be either one. We stood as one. However, two Candidates, one male and one female, refused, they remained seated while the others stood. The Ushers politely ushered them out into the blaring noon sun. No remonstrances, no frowns. They were told, we were all told, this was a last chance to shun the vow of silence, to make a silent statement of rejection -- or freedom, if you subscribed to such a worldly view. Better now than later.

I stood. I assented. I had no hesitation. If I were to hesitate, would I have remained seated? We will never know, will we?

The first week was the hardest. Such a new means of living, with so little training or practice! The Ushers were tolerant, letting the odd, random spoken word to escape, as happened with many, if not most, of us. Things like "yes" or "no" or "what." One quickly learned that such monosyllabic slips faded away, subsided, stopped, given no conversational milieu to flourish in. After all, what does "what," "yes," or "no" even mean without a prompt or context or wordscape? Almost nothing.

I napped a lot at first. The antidote to this, the Ushers knew, was work in the fields. Raking, pruning, digging, mulching, watering, transplanting. The work was a boost to my spirits, uplifting, despite the hard labor involved.

By the end of the first year, the silence became a routine, an atmosphere, a given. I can't speak for anyone else (obviously, I am not permitted to speak at all), but I was surprised that the wordless soundscape (coughs, sneezes, burps, farts, yawns, knuckle cracklings continued to flourish) did not create a white purity, a pristine echo in my heart and mind. Quite the opposite. The silence, for me, evoked a roar of white noise. No, no, that's not quite right. Sure, there was the static of anxiety, fear, and restlessness, but that was nothing compared to the relentless interior monologue gonging in my head, made silent only by sleep, which over time became increasingly sparse.

Wasn't this the purpose of the vow, to silence, or quell, the running commentary of my mind? Weren't they trying to soften, eventually mute, our narrative (a worn-out word), our editorial board, our storyteller without lips or voice?

Voice. That word. Voice. Do I have one? (Whispers in my cell have proved inconclusive.) I am convinced that my voice persists; it has not vanished; its imprint can still be felt. 

And that is why I have written this crumpled note, unfolded into legibility, I pray. Hear my voice. Rescue me. I can't speak for any of the others. But rescue me. I've had enough. Get me out. There are rumors, scribbled on napkins or toilet paper, that some have made it out.

I'm screaming. I'm shouting. 

Can you hear me?

Vow Wows

Forgive the absence, and now the exhaustedness, arising from the vows taken by my first and only son with his betrothed.

So, here goes, some rambling reflections 'pon it:

Friday after two trips to the aeroport, I successfully greet and meet and welcome Grandma, my Mom, 90, on a hot October day, also nearing 90, delayed by flight changes and a sweltering runway plane, which she dubs a school bus, then onto the rehearsal dinner, a misnomer because nothing is rehearsed, splendid food for 17 of us, though alas we are mostly segregated by family but people had catching up to do and there was commingling and intermingling, I had the scrumptious chicken and have somehow switched tenses, though it wasn't too tense, except for maybe my eyes staring and jaw dropping at the date of the bride's brother, direct from Miami, and the father of the bride graciously offering to help pay and I accept, not sure if offense would be taken by an acceptance of that or a rejection oh well.

Saturday I refrained from panic or refused to buy into it the sweltering record or near-record heat exchange of texts and calls from Ballet Daughter wishing she were here, likewise the call from Cayman Brac Godmother; the motherly wifely (mine) 140 to 150 cupcake parade into the zoo, a perfect place for this wedding couple, having met at a pet store, and indulging in an ardent love of animalia exotica, a zoo that overlooks the cityscape. An afternoon thunderstorm I tried to nap through, a tying of E.'s knot by me, his silk tie, a paternal snugness, a double-Windsor bond; E. the groom at the zoo at 4 p.m. two hours early, pacing like an expectant father; his lapel flower forgotten, I rush to the zoo and flower him; back home, expectant for Maryland Brother and Wife who arrive in the nick of time, wondering in my soul at the absence of Massachusetts Brother and Clan; wondering further at a funeral and a wedding in the same week (for me and B. and A. at least). And then the vows, a justice of the peace (an omen one hopes); inside, threat of rain, not at gazebo; IrishStepDaughter reads Emily Dickinson clearly and proudly flowergirl too:

It's all I have to bring today --
This, and my heart beside --
This, and my heart, and all the fields --
And all the meadows wide --
Be sure you count -- should I forget
Some one the sum could tell --
This, and my heart, and all the Bees
Which in the Clover dwell.

right after I had read my just-composed barely ink-is-dry haiku:

October dusk light
wedding all here with love's fire
all ways radiant

resisting the temptation to say "this is a haiku, a haiku consists of" and then E. almost saying the vows even before the judge finishes the prompt an eagerness of love and J., his wife, his legal wife now, holding hands, staring seriously and meaningfully into each other's eyes. Followed by the photos and fotos and dancing and eating and former in-laws [including a chat re the serial comma w/ NYC lawyer Catherine; she's unfortunately against it but I may've converted her] and drinking (no liquor for your scribe not a drop not even at the toast...and no dancing for me with the J lo lookalike), Mom (Grandma) in tears because Their Song (for which they took dance lessons, it was sweet and innocent and endearing) was Unforgettable and our lost beloved Richard loved Nat King Cole, he did. If you look around at any wedding sadness you will find, and not just in corners. The breaking of the cake (muffins) results in sloppy messes, licked off the bride's bosom, so I'm told, because I was talking to someone, but, hey, he's My Boy, so it's no surprise.

Sunday brunch here at Purple House with Bro J. and Wife B. from Maryland here despite the quick preparations and tensions a fine food time and later Mom off on a plane all smoothly.

Whew.

Beat.

And I gotta work Monday, a holiday for some but not for me.

Cheers.