sunday morning passing

It is hard, at times, to remember the day while traveling – you can’t read the paper, or understand the blur of words spoken on tv or on the radio. Several times what I thought was a Tuesday was, in fact, a Wednesday – and once what I thought was Wednesday morning was actually Friday afternoon.

And the only way I knew today was Sunday was because a soft, gossamer hymn unfolded from the open doors of Notre Dame like some lyrical, curved finger – beckoning, beckoning.

So I sat in on early mass – empty as it was, the words echoing throughout those vast and delicate halls. It was serene, like how I imagine sitting in a Vermeer painting might feel. And I wished – to some very small degree, as I had in the Vatican – that I felt something for religion. That I could appreciate the moment on more than two dimensions. The words meant nothing to me – the statues were just statues; the robes just pieces of cloth. But they were words sung beautifully, and statues carved with skill, and robes draped and stitched by an attentive hand. And to me, it made a nice picture.

But then again, isn’t that – in part – what religion is all about? Finding the greater beauty in things. I may not believe in God, but I do believe in religion – religion for personal edification, for personal bolstering. Religion for personal meaning.

I may not accept it all, but I feel it at times – and I take from it what I can, and give in return my appreciation and respect. And while I may be heathen at heart, I hope I am at least reverent in mind – and can sit in mass, and smile.

Because oh she sang so much like an angel.