Wednesday, July 12, 2006
More Tales of the City
Once again, I ventured into the city to do an errand across town. Walking toward the bus stop, I noticed that the Orthodox Russian Church in the next block had its doors open, and that people were going in. So, after some hesitation, I decided to venture in to see, finally, what was inside. The interior of the church (which I viewed from the vestibule) was dazzling. It was covered from floor to ceiling with rich replicas of Byzantine mosaics. Indeed, the ceiling itself was decorated in brilliant, sumptuous colors.
A service of some sort was going on. Some six or eight robed priests stood at the front leading the service. The congregation (at least those standing near me) frequently crossed themselves and bowed, and as I watched them I realized that only a few minutes earlier I had stood before my tongka and had likewise bowed. In fact, during my bows I had felt the soft energetic flow move into my head, and had wondered if this sensation might in part explain why the bow is so important in many religious traditions. For me, it is as if you bend forward to receive god in your head.
Then in the church there was some quite lovely chanting, and I felt little "buzzes" of delight as I listened. My, I thought, no wonder people are attracted to this tradition. First you are given a feast for the eyes, then solace for the ears, and you yourself are allowed to affirm with your bodily movements your sacred connection with the divine.
Then I noticed a sign near the door to the sanctuary. It said that men should not wear hats during the service, and that women should not wear short skirts or shorts or pants. When I read the last item, I realized that I was wearing (as always) slacks and sweater. Suddenly I felt like an intruder, the unwelcome outsider. And I quickly left. Apparently, this church demands that all women wear skirts. Now, I have nothing against skirts that other women (or men, for that matter) choose to wear. But for me it is a symbol of subordination, the demands placed on women throughout the ages to assume an inferior role, and to succumb to the dictates of fashion and the "feminine mystique." I do not own a skirt, and don't plan to acquire one. It is doubtless part of my continuing rebellion against stereotypical roles and appearances. So be it.
As I continued my journey, I was struck once more by the diversity of this city and its citizens. I stopped by a lab to give blood for a routine test. The phlebotimist was from the Philippines, someone whose family had been prominent in Philippine politics. He said he himself would be arrested should he return.
Then I went on into the Castro, the gay section of the city, to have lunch. As I sat at my outside table, two very sweet young fellows asked if I would take their picture. Of course, I was quite glad to do so. Oddly, these gentle young men were dressed in leather, a choice which seemed at odds with their manner. Well, San Francisco is for many a place of fantasy, where one can play act one's innermost desires. And one way of doing that is by one's dress.
After lunch, I went to a store looking for a certain kind of hat to protect against the sun. One section of the store was stocked with costumes and accessories of all kinds, from feather boas to wigs. More ways to fulfill the inner dream of the self.
I didn't find my hat, so went home looking the same as when I arrived.
But on the way, I couldn't resist going into a metaphysical bookstore--and despite all my vows to the contrary, bought two books, one called "The Tantra of Sound" and the other "Yoga of the Mahamudra." For me, these, more than anything, are the symbols of who I am.
A service of some sort was going on. Some six or eight robed priests stood at the front leading the service. The congregation (at least those standing near me) frequently crossed themselves and bowed, and as I watched them I realized that only a few minutes earlier I had stood before my tongka and had likewise bowed. In fact, during my bows I had felt the soft energetic flow move into my head, and had wondered if this sensation might in part explain why the bow is so important in many religious traditions. For me, it is as if you bend forward to receive god in your head.
Then in the church there was some quite lovely chanting, and I felt little "buzzes" of delight as I listened. My, I thought, no wonder people are attracted to this tradition. First you are given a feast for the eyes, then solace for the ears, and you yourself are allowed to affirm with your bodily movements your sacred connection with the divine.
Then I noticed a sign near the door to the sanctuary. It said that men should not wear hats during the service, and that women should not wear short skirts or shorts or pants. When I read the last item, I realized that I was wearing (as always) slacks and sweater. Suddenly I felt like an intruder, the unwelcome outsider. And I quickly left. Apparently, this church demands that all women wear skirts. Now, I have nothing against skirts that other women (or men, for that matter) choose to wear. But for me it is a symbol of subordination, the demands placed on women throughout the ages to assume an inferior role, and to succumb to the dictates of fashion and the "feminine mystique." I do not own a skirt, and don't plan to acquire one. It is doubtless part of my continuing rebellion against stereotypical roles and appearances. So be it.
As I continued my journey, I was struck once more by the diversity of this city and its citizens. I stopped by a lab to give blood for a routine test. The phlebotimist was from the Philippines, someone whose family had been prominent in Philippine politics. He said he himself would be arrested should he return.
Then I went on into the Castro, the gay section of the city, to have lunch. As I sat at my outside table, two very sweet young fellows asked if I would take their picture. Of course, I was quite glad to do so. Oddly, these gentle young men were dressed in leather, a choice which seemed at odds with their manner. Well, San Francisco is for many a place of fantasy, where one can play act one's innermost desires. And one way of doing that is by one's dress.
After lunch, I went to a store looking for a certain kind of hat to protect against the sun. One section of the store was stocked with costumes and accessories of all kinds, from feather boas to wigs. More ways to fulfill the inner dream of the self.
I didn't find my hat, so went home looking the same as when I arrived.
But on the way, I couldn't resist going into a metaphysical bookstore--and despite all my vows to the contrary, bought two books, one called "The Tantra of Sound" and the other "Yoga of the Mahamudra." For me, these, more than anything, are the symbols of who I am.
