Cardinals
An introduction
The first time I went to mass I was ten years old. It was Christmas Eve. Of course I’d been to church, but Catholic Church seemed like so much more somehow. It was new, theatrical and interesting. I was looking for something different than the Baptist church I attended with my grandparents. I wanted to find God. He was supposed to be everywhere but I’d never seen him. I assumed the Catholics knew something I didn’t.
I looked forward to dressing up in the black velvet dress I’d brought specifically for this momentous occasion. All of my special clothes were passed down from my wealthier cousins. I prayed the original owner of the dress wouldn’t be here.
We had dinner first. Mass was at midnight. It was a departure from the Christmas Eve dinners I had with the other side of my family. These candied yams sweet potatoes had marshmallows burnt on top and we sat formally at a large dining table eating beef so rare it seemed to still be bleeding. My cousin put cheez-whiz on hers. I pretended to be vegetarian.
When we got to the church I wasn’t allowed to sit with the family because I hadn’t done something called a catechism which I immediately confused with cataclysm. Probably best to avoid something like that, I’d decided.
I enjoyed watching the show from my perch with the teens on the deep sill of one of the colorful abstract stained glass windows that lined the chapel. Someone explained they couldn’t take communion either. They said it was because they hadn’t done a confession. The older kids passed notes scrawled in the margins of the hymnals. My hands ached in sympathetic anticipation of an usher catching them and smacking them with the books they’d defaced. No ushers ever appeared. Whispers were only occasionally hushed or generally ignored. I kept an eye out for a disciplinary look in my direction, but it never came.
The church was lit with what seemed like hundreds of candles and the air was thick with spicy incense and the scent of evergreen from the holiday decorations. I suddenly understood that the scented candles in the downstairs bathroom were supposed to smell like this church. They smelled like a nursing home I’d visited once so I held my breath every time I’d used it.
The music was dull. The choir sang well but nobody clapped or smiled. In fact, nobody truly seemed to be enjoying themselves. The pastor priest spoke in what I would later learn was Latin and everyone prayed the same prayer in unison. It felt like saying the pledge in school.
The robes that the priests and their helpers wore along with the decorations were my favorite part. There was one special priest wearing all red. I stared at him, as he shone cheery and bright on his throne. He fell asleep at one point but it was late and at least he’d dressed for the occasion. I felt that God would forgive his nap. I was disappointed when the line to take communion revealed row after row of boring outfits. There wasn’t a single bejeweled hat.
I missed seeing the head deacon and deaconess of my home church in their matching red suits complete with coordinating canes striped to look like peppermint sticks. They had candy for the children every Sunday if you greeted them politely. At Christmas it was candy canes. The beauty of this church didn’t match the people inside of it. If were Jesus I’d want people to put on their best outfits and be excited for my birthday.
After about an hour we’d walked back to the house where we were handed big mugs of hot chocolate that tasted strange. It was very convenient to just mix it out of a packet even if was bland and watery in comparison to the creamy kind we dipped churros in down by the beach back home.
It wasn’t a bad Christmas. I decided I preferred my regular church with the other side of my family. I still hadn’t met God. Mass was considerably shorter than our usual Sunday services, but something from the experience still left me feeling cold. I wanted to combine the beauty of the Catholic Church with the over-the-top ritual I knew of incredible gospel music and a fashion show.
Nearly thirty years later I spent Christmas walking in the woods near my home after sipping coffee in bed and listening to the MF Doom Christmas Album, a tradition started this year. This home is no longer near the beach or near my old families but it’s the first true home I’ve ever had.
My dog, my parter and I wandered around, observing the squirrels busily running up and down branches and enjoying the afternoon sunshine. Cardinals were hopping around on the ground, their cheery bright feathers a stark contrast in the wintery landscape.
As my partner and I walked, I shared my favorite anecdote about cardinals on Christmas cards often being depicted as two red male birds. Cardinals mate for life so it delights me that there might be a person giving unexpected meaning to their Christmas wishes. We talked about our futures and how we both hope things will be better than expected in the coming year.
Over the holidays I committed to finishing a draft of a novel I’ve been writing for a long time. Writing made me put thought into my place in the world and I delved deep into who I wanted to be when I came out of this hibernation, this winter. Writing the novel and then having written it made me feel like a completely different person than the one I’d been before. I have redefined myself.
I’m a thinker, a writer, and an artist.
My novel is written, but isn’t ready. I’m still learning the craft of writing and I need to practice it so this is where I plan to do it. I don’t know what this will evolve into yet. I want to share my visual art too, and the image accompanying this piece is my own original digital art.
Even conceptualizing this introduction took many forms until I went back to my comfort zone: thinking and research.
I couldn’t get the cardinals out of my mind so I learned more about them. I looked up the etymology of the word. I researched the folklore surrounding them. I learned that the Northern Cherokee Nation has a story about the red bird getting its color from helping a wolf and the Choctaw Nation have their own story about the red bird being the daughter of the sun. The symbolism surrounding the bird ranges from symbols of hope and good fortune to messengers from loved ones or signs from the universe.
I don’t know how my art will continue to come into the world in the future but I like to think that the cardinal I couldn’t get out my mind, the little bird so bright, facing the wind and being a beacon of hope is a good thing to begin with.