REGINA Inspiring. Intelligent. Catholic.
Masterpieces 2014
by Tamara Isabell
02
Scotland’s Ginger Beauties By Tamara Isabell
Scotland abounds with natural beauty: lovely seashores and fir-clad mountains, rushing rivers and green glens, clear lochs and dark moors -- and, of course, redheads. Reflecting their Celtic origins, the Scots boast the highest percentage of natural red hair on earth, at a whopping 13%. Fascinatingly, it seems the
Scots are to blame for the incendiary reputation of redheads. Given the high-percentage of red hair in the Scottish population and the fact that they descend from the infamously violent Celts, today’s redheads suffer under the stigma of being hot-tempered -- whether they are or not!
Photo credit: ​www.dreamstime.com
Is there a Redhead inside you? Fiery reputations or not, those of us not so blessed and who admire those ginger tresses are in luck. With a little pre-planning and maintenance, you too can be a ginger beauty
Coloring Do’s and Don’ts Do: • Invest your money in a salon treatment. You will achieve longer lasting results and a truer color by going to a professional! • Wash your hair before dying. There’s an old wives-tale about not washing before coloring, but don’t believe it! The color will best adhere to clean hair. • Rinse your hair in cold water, if you can stand it, to prevent fading. • Lighten your eyebrows just a bit, if you’re changing your color by several shades. It will help your color to appear more natural. • Avoid chlorine as much as possible. It can actually bleach the color out of your hair. Don’t • Wash your hair for two to three days after coloring. Your lovely new color will fade if you do. • Expose your dyed-red hair to the sun. Be sure to stay in the shade or cover with a hat if you want to prevent fading. • Use harsh shampoos, the milder the better. (Read the labels to make sure it doesn’t contain sulphate, which will strip the color over time.) • Wash your hair every single day, if you can get away with it. Your color will last much longer with less frequent washing.
Red-Haired Madonnas & Saints Though a Russian proverb emphatically declares “There never was a red-haired Saint!� in classical Catholic art saints are often depicted with red hair. For example, Mary Magdalen is often depicted as a redhead, although her true hair color is not known. Red hair ran in the families of European aristocracy, notably Henry VIII, both his daughters Mary and Elizabeth, and Mary, Queen of Scots. Perhaps this aristocratic association is why Mary, the Mother of God is sometimes depicted with red hair.
Reflecting their fiery Celtic origins, the Scots boast the highest percentage of natural red hair on earth -- a whopping 13% of the nation’s population.
08
LIGHT COATS
By the Cathoholic Shopaholic
FOR LAS
‘Worker’s Coat’: The word ‘tartan’ refers to the pattern of interlocking stripes which we would typically call ‘plaid.’ The various tartan patterns sometimes (but not always!) represent Scottish
families or clans. Must have t look, but must have it in tarta out at Scotland Shop. www.scotlandshop.com.
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SSES
tartan: If you like the an, then check these
It rains a lot in Scotland... Recently, REGINA editor Beverly Stevens noticed Scottish lasses sporting this look on the streets of Edinburgh.
NOVA SCOTIA: Once again REGINA’s favorite fashion icon, Kate Middleton sets the standard for style on a recent trip to Glasgow, Scotland. How utterly charming does she look in this tartan Workers Coat by Moloh?
We the Ordinary People of the Streets By Tamara Isabell
People-Watching in Paris with Madeleine Delbrel We take our places in a sidewalk cafe in Paris, tempted by the fine weather, wine, food, and intelligent conversation.
Even the most seemingly insignificant things around us take on the weight of sacramentality.
Our spirits are lifted by the ineffable ambience that is Paris
One understands the bread and the wine, the taking and eating on a fundamental level in such a setting as this.
People-watching, for instance. Why do we search the faces of strangers?
It’s a universal pastime in Paris – the whole reason for its world-renowned ‘café culture.’
A Regina Photo Essay
Surely we entertain ourselves by noticing the details and the differences. (These elegant Parisiennes are in their 70’s!)
French sisters stylin’ and shoppin’
A Regina Photo Essay
French teens and their ubiquitous Coca-Cola
Young and old alike on bicycles.
A Regina Photo Essay
Beneath this layer of idle amusement, however, there is something else at work.
Perhaps we search these oth of ourselves
her faces for a glimpse
And as we search, we confront the universality of humanity itself.
The more saintly among us perceive the gaze of Christ in that humanity.
We the Ordinary People
M
adeleine Delbrel certainly did.
Swept into the heady artistic world and philosophic thought of early 20th France, she was an uncompromising atheist in her youth. Inspired by a circle of intellectual Catholics, she experienced a profound conversionin her early 20’s, launching her into depths of faith as unflinching as her previous disbelief had been. Although she was a gifted writer and thinker, pondering how the interior and exterior worlds meet, her works are surprisingly accessible. She sets the battle lines in the struggle for holiness in the most ordinary of circumstances, in our most intimate and mundane encounters. Her ‘We, The Ordinary People of the Streets’ draws a contrast between those in religious and active life, but it might just as well be called an ode to peoplewatching, as Delbrel reveals the joy and hidden holiness to be discovered within the ordinary all around us.
We, the ordinary people of the streets do not see solitude as the absence of the world but as the presence of God. For us, the whole world is like a face-to-face meeting with the One whom we cannot escape.
We, the ordinary people of the streets, know that all our work consists in not shifting about under grace; in not choosing what we would do; and that it is God who acts through us.
Lough Derg
St Patrick’s Purgatory
I
t is a pilgrimage renowned for its austerity — fasting, walking barefoot, sleep deprivation, intense self-examination and prayer. Some may wonder what it is that draws pilgrims by the thousands year after year; especially today, when Catholics have little experience of penance. Since the early Middle Ages, Lough Derg, or “Saint Patrick’s Purgatory” has exerted a mysterious influence on Catholic pilgrims. Legends recount how
Saint Patrick himself discovered the cave on the island, said to be the entrance to Hell. We owe the best accounts to Tractatus, a text written by a Cistercian monk in the 12th Century which details Christ’s revelation of the cave to Saint Patrick. Apparently Saint Patrick was having some trouble converting the stubborn Irish, and so Christ revealed the cave to him as a proof of the torments of Hell and an inducement to be purged of sins. Early pilgrims
Three-day retreats begin at the end of May and begin with a ferry ride to Station Island. Pilgrims remove their shoes upon arrival and remain barefoot for the entire three days. A 24 hour vigil is kept the first night in the basilica, with pilgrims praying or talking together through the night.
would enter the cave and remain there overnight, steeped in prayer and self-examination. Visionary tales emerged over the years, and by far the most popular was that of the Knight Owein as recounted in Tractatus.
a basilica dedicated to Saint Patrick was built in the 1920’s. Today, Saint Patrick’s Basilica has become as the embodiment of the celebrated cave. It is the place where pilgrims make their vigil, remaining within throughout the night in imitation of the pilgrimage pattern of olden times.
Pilgrims today no longer enter the cave itself. The entrance to the cave was closed in 1780 by the Franciscans and was later covered up altogether. Instead,
Three-day retreats begin at the end of May and begin with a ferry ride to Station Island. Pilgrims remove their shoes upon arrival and remain barefoot for
Considering such privations, it is astounding to find that some 15,000 people visit Lough Derg each year, with 80% of them returning pilgrims! Pilgrims share their stories on the Lough Derg website, and the consistent thread to be found in their tales is that they experience some mysterious pull that brings them back year after year. the entire three days. A 24 hour vigil is kept the first night in the basilica, with pilgrims praying or talking together through the night. There are nine “Stations” that may be prayed at various sites on the island. One very simple daily meal is offered, consisting of “plain toast, wheaten bread, oatcakes & black tea/coffee.” There is a one day pilgrimage available for those physically unable to endure the rigors of the three day fast. It does not require one to go barefoot. Pilgrim Paddy shares his story from 2013: “First time I did it I said never, never again. 56 times later here I am with a wonderful group from Cork.” Father Owen McEneaney, the new Prior of Lough Derg, worked summers on the island in the 1990’s and recalls “the healing and joy that so many pilgrims experienced. For some it was through the Sacrament of Reconciliation – for others still it was just as a result of spending time in this very unique, sacred, holy place.” Father McEneaney ponders whether pilgrims might indeed be “healed by the place itself.” One can’t help
wonder whether the island actually has a special power, reading the joyful accounts of the pilgrims. If you are considering making the pilgrimage yourself, visit the Lough Derg website. Peruse the pilgrim stories and consider whether you are physically and spiritually ready to commit to the deprivations. When asked what he might recommend to those trying to decide whether the pilgrimage is right for them, Father McEneaney warmly answers, “Lough Derg is a sacred place – made holy by centuries of pilgrim prayers – a sanctuary where people can continue “to come as they are to a quiet place and rest a while” – a place where people are not judged – a place of care and understanding and compassion – a place where one can encounter the grace of God – meet the Christ who desires them more than they ever fully appreciate.’ ALL PHOTOS COURTESY OF LOUGH DERG
Upon entering the cave the knight underwent a series of ten torments at the hands of horrifying demons, eventually crossing a terrifying bridge passing over hell itself, which deposited him into a beautiful paradise. After retracing his steps back to the cave entrance — this time without the demon-torture – Owein learned to his astonishment that only 24 hours had passed in the real world.
Bavaria On Wandering in a Catholic Landscape
Pope Benedict has called his native Bavaria “a land so beautiful that it is easy to recognize that God is good and to be happy.” To wander in such a lovely, well-ordered landscape is to inevitably encounter God.
T
he German word for hiking is ‘wandern,’ which brings to mind the cheerful act of wandering and the serendipity of discovery. Pope Benedict has called his native Bavaria “a land so beautiful that it is easy to recognize that God is good and be happy.” To wander in such a lovely, well-ordered landscape is to inevitably encounter God. To think of a natural landscape as “well-ordered” might seem strange to Americans, as our forests loom with a particular sort of dark and thorny wildness, but in Bavaria one does not encounter such trials. Bavarian land is blessed with gentle slopes, curving streams, and a verdant glow of health. The Bavarians, over the eons, have fitted themselves into this benevolent order and have developed the virtues to preserve and enhance the land. Villages are tucked discreetly into the particular dales where they ought to go, with no urban sprawl. Artful forest management has rendered the woodland hospitable to humans and wild creatures alike. Everywhere one
sees evidence of man having been inspired by God’s bountiful Providence, and his respect and deference to that Providence. Bavarian villages are tucked discreetly into the particular dales where they ought to go, with no urban sprawl. Artful forest management has rendered the woodland hospitable to humans and wild creatures alike. Everywhere one sees evidence of man having been inspired by God’s bountiful Providence. What more perfect setting for Catholicism to flourish in? What more perfect setting for Catholicism to flourish in? We know the Faith takes hold everywhere, but one gets the sense it is bound to happen in such a place where the material world so clearly reaches out for and testifies to, His glory. We can imagine Saint Boniface and his early encounters with the roving Germanic tribes in that land. Were the forests themselves a bit darker and more unruly in those pagan times? Nevertheless, Boniface
Bavaria: On Wandering in a Catholic Landscape
recognized it as a land which wanted only a bit of industriousness on the part of man in service of God to perfect it. So he took out his axe, hewing oaks into churches, allowing the grace of God to hew pagans into Christians. And the fruits of their efforts have endured. Today’s Bavarians are the heirs of this Catholic landscape, created by God but embellished by the devout sweat of their ancestors. One can hardly round a bend in a Bavarian road without finding a roadside chapel, a crucifix, or a statue honoring Our Lady or a saint. Religious murals adorn Bavaria’s charming Fachwerk architecture. The world-famous Passion Play in Oberammergau has been running steadily for almost 400 years, with every sign of running for the next 400, as well. Annual festivals continuously revolve around harvest and religious events with an almost liturgical rhythm, celebrating everything from the humble asparagus to regional wines with a distinctly Christian joy for the simple and natural. Whereas the Deutsche Bischofskonference reports a falling away from the Church in Germany as a whole (Editor’s Note: Today, under 30% of Germans identify themselves as “Catholic” – see here for the reasons) Bavaria maintains a strong 55%. This is because the region is so tied to the Catholicism of its forefathers that it is impossible to imagine that bond ever being completely undone. The Bavarians won’t stop calling themselves Catholic any more than they will stop calling themselves Bavarian, and for the same reason: it is their honorable and historical
identity. To be Bavarian is to be Catholic, and both qualities spring from the same soil. The Bavarians won’t stop calling themselves Catholic any more than they will stop calling themselves Bavarian, and for the same reason: it is their honorable and historical identity. To be Bavarian is to be Catholic, and both qualities spring from the same soil. The fierce independence of the Bavarian is connected to the cycles of his natural environment, and his Catholicism is a product and a reflection of that same environment. Although Europe’s postmodern secularism has infected Germany as a whole, it has not and will not gain the same ground in Bavaria. Just as God allows the fallen-away Catholic to stray a bit before calling him back to that which he has forgotten, the Bavarian will always be summoned by a rediscovery of the natural beauty all around him. The patterns of life that have been built into that natural order form a rhythm that harkens to God. In a land so reflective of God’s own beauty, one can only wander so far. All Bavarian paths wind their way back to their Creator — and the wanderer joyfully discovers that He is good. Just as God allows the fallen-away Catholic to stray a bit before calling him back to that which he has forgotten, the Bavarian will always be summoned by a rediscovery of the natural beauty all around him. The patterns of life that have been built into that natural order form a rhythm that harkens to God.
“Religious murals adorn Bavaria’s charming Fachwerk architecture. The world-famous Passion Play in Oberammergau has been running steadily for almost 400 years, with every sign of running for the next 400, as well. Annual festivals continuously revolve around harvest and religious events with an almost liturgical rhythm, celebrating everything from the humble asparagus to regional wines with a distinctly Christian joy for the simple and natural.
An Afternoon with Fatima in Germany ~ By Tamara Isabell We were the only American family left in our neighborhood. The others had already moved away, but my husband was among the last of the battalion to oversee the base closure, and it was taking longer than anticipated. I was actually pleased with the situation. It gave me a chance to improve my German language skills and immerse myself in the culture. I was content to linger in the somewhat constructed world of the expatriate, a reality tinged by foreign perceptions. Faith was something I never thought of then. I had an enthusiasm for new experiences, and if questions ever came up about those on the fringes of the culture I so eagerly absorbed, I would have argued all answers should be sought in terms of politics or social reform.
An Afternoon with Fatima in Germany
F
aith was something I never thought of then. I had an enthusiasm for new experiences, and if questions ever came up about those on the fringes of the culture I so eagerly absorbed, I would have argued all answers should be sought in terms of politics or social reform. I later came to an understanding of the Turks, the Russians, the Albanians, and other degrees of eastern immigrants about, and of their position within the carefully woven veil of German liberality, but on that day I had no sense of it. Indeed, I could not have said whether Fatima was Croatian or Kentuckian, had never given it a thought. I knew her German was broken, but was still too preoccupied with my own sense of the foreign all around me to spare a thought for her alien condition. Our acquaintance centered around the Kindergarten, where we often happened to be picking up our sons at the same time. When she asked me to coffee I accepted with a “Danke shoen. Funfzehn Uhr, oder?” Coffee was almost always at three o’clock, and in our Siedlung, full of couples in their thirties with children, always meant an understood play-date. I had lived there a long enough time to know that without having to ask, but a short enough time to still feel smug about knowing it. I fostered a sense of superiority to other Americans stationed in Germany, who could do little more than get by in shops or order a Bier in a Gasthof. We walked almost everywhere then, and with pleasure. To pass through our neighborhood on the way to the Bakerei or Supermarkt meant the loveliest of strolls through meticulously tended gardens. Petra was out weeding hers as we set off to Fatima’s later that day. My son happily joined her children at play as I stopped to chat. She welcomed the interruption to her work, and asked where we were off to on such a fine day. “Am Duengerheim.” I answered, acknowledging the unfortunate street name of Fatima’s dwelling.
“Ach! Schoen, schoen…” replied Petra, seamlessly changing the subject to neighborhood matters. I was fluent enough to understand all of what was said, but none of what wasn’t said. I see that now. She called out to me as we left, “Stop by on your way back. We’ll most likely still be out,” and it held no significance for me. We followed the directions Fatima had given me to her place, which brought us to the other side of the Siedlung, under the train station and beyond the connecting tunnel. The style of the neighborhood changed from single dwellings and row houses to apartment buildings on that side of town. I had no trouble finding her building, as the complex stood directly opposite the Sankt Thekla Kirche, the largest church in our town. The structure dominated the cityscape and could be seen from all directions of entry into our village. I went into the church a few times in a touristy sort of way. There was an interesting painting of a vaguely middle-eastern looking woman in one of the alcoves. I assumed it was Saint Thekla. The situation of her church strikes me as significant now, but it was the sort of thing I never thought of then. I went into the church a few times in a touristy sort of way. There was an interesting painting of a vaguely middle-eastern looking woman in one of the alcoves. I assumed it was Saint Thekla. When we got to Fatima’s apartment I suddenly realized I’d forgotten to ask her apartment number, and so found myself pondering the names on the doorbell panel, so very different from the German family names to which I’d become accustomed. Petrovic, Burakgazi, Emmini, Polzin… I wondered how she’d expected me to know which was hers, and considered the problem of having to ring the doorbells at random and ask. I was at that stage in my fluency where one hesitates to speak by phone or intercom. That was when a dark-haired woman I recognized as
a fellow Kindergarten-mom approached us. “Emmini?” she asked, pointing to a third floor window. She was nodding encouragement and ushering us toward the front entrance. I nodded and smiled as she amicably gestured and jabbered in a language I couldn’t identify. A group of helpful pedestrians materialized around us, neighborhood faces I knew by sight but had thought of as disconnected with one another, all converged here in their various home occupations, carrying grocery bags, digging in flower pots, standing in groups and smoking cigarettes. Everyone seemed to know about us and our visit, as the helpful gesturing commenced all around. My son looked up at me doubtfully as we entered the building. I nodded and smiled as she amicably gestured and jabbered in a language I couldn’t identify. A group of helpful pedestrians materialized around us, neighborhood faces I knew by sight but had thought of as disconnected with one another, all converged here in their various home occupations, carrying grocery bags, digging in flower pots, standing in groups and
smoking cigarettes. Everyone seemed to know about us and our visit. Our guide brought us to a third floor landing, indicated a door on which to knock, and abruptly left us there. I was still in doubt as to whether we were in the right place, and so felt relieved when Fatima opened the door and welcomed us in. Her sons greeted my shy little Thomas, and led him away to their room, their cheerful chatter emanating from within. The apartment was small, but meticulously clean. It was not so orderly as the homes of my German friends, but one got the impression it was due to the challenges of living with children in a confined space, not from a lack of housekeeping. I found myself in a different sort of home than I’d expected, and Fatima must have noticed the furtive curiosity in my glance, as she immediately insisted on showing me around. She then conducted a comical sort of home tour in which walking from room to was unnecessary, as one could behold the entirety of the dwelling from
An Afternoon with Fatima in Germany
the front hall. She indicated the children’s room, with the boy’s bunk beds on one side, the baby’s crib on the other, the tiny master bedroom in which the double bed occupied most of the space, the kitchenette with it’s small dining table, and the living room. In each case I would s omewhat lean in the direction she indicated and express my approval. “Yes, but…” she shrugged, with an expression of making due with what one’s got. We had to speak to each another in our second languages, my German being not perfect, and hers much less so. She indicated I should take a seat in the living room, and as I did I began to fret how we would fill the space of the typical two-hour coffee visit with conversation. Then something caught my eye that directed my worry in another direction. I was sitting directly opposite a photograph of a man in uniform brandishing an AK-47. It was quite large, framed, and bordered garishly in red and black with bits of green and yellow. It was not an action shot; it was a posed portrait, which only made it the more bizarre to my thinking. I tried to hide my astonishment as Fatima brought in the coffee cups from the kitchen. “Mein Brueder,” she explained. “Tot. Im Albanien.” So she was Albanian. Her brother had died there in the conflict. I couldn’t make out much of how it had happened with her language skills. I was sitting directly opposite a photograph of a man in uniform brandishing an AK-47. It was quite large, framed, and bordered garishly in red and black with bits of green and yellow. It was not an action shot; it was a posed portrait, which only made it the more bizarre to my thinking. “He was good”, she said, her eyes welling up with tears. “And young.” I made up my mind to try to soften my glance when it landed that way, as it was clear she beheld nothing
alarming in the presentation, no more than a portrait of a beloved brother who happened to be a soldier, in her eyes. I suddenly recalled the day I’d taken Petra along with me to a Book Fair on the American post. As we’d driven down Colonel’s Row, she’d been shocked to see all the American and German flags at the front of each house, lining the whole of the street. “What is this?” she’d demanded to know, explaining about not displaying the flag in Germany. That was before the 2004 World Cup had made it acceptable as a benign sort of fan-accessory. I wondered if our tame display of patriotism had so alarmed her, what she would make of this. Fatima and I had the most civilized coffee then, guarded by the watchful eye of her dead brother and his looming machine gun. She brought everything in on a tray, with pretty cups and saucers, and all the proper accessories, much the same as my German acquaintance would do, but then instead of the usual cake accompaniment, she laid out a sort of flat-bread, layered with sheep’s cheese and oil. She pantomimed with her hands to show me how much kneading and folding of the dough was necessary to accomplish the recipe. It was very good, and as we ate we were able to discuss the culinary specialties of our own nations, comparing them with each other’s and with the German variations. We were still chatting comfortably when her husband came in. Fatima and I had the most civilized coffee then, guarded by the watchful eye of her dead brother and his looming machine gun. She brought everything in on a tray, with pretty cups and saucers. He went into the bedroom to change out of his work clothes, but upon his return sat down and amicably joined us at coffee, something a German husband would never have done. Fatima introduced him as Flori, and as he eagerly took up the conversation, I found his German was better then hers. He could even find a word or two of English when we needed it.
He had been a Professor of Mathematics at the University in Tirana. He and his family had been forced to flee when he was targeted as some sort of an instigator, although I wasn’t quite clear on why he was targeted or whether he actually was an instigator. In Germany he added to their living by working as a part-time underling for a house painter. They were apparently glad for him to have a job of any sort, even one so far beneath his abilities. Most of their acquaintance were unable to find work at all, and it rendered a state of futility upon the male population there. Their apartment and those of all the buildings in their complex were paid for by the German gov-
ernment. They tried to explain to me their position of having to be grateful for something they would rather not have been given, and insisted on the desire to work for themselves. At the same time they described their being on a waiting list for a government house, and petulantly expressed their impatience at the wait time. “But you know the Germans, how they are.” said Fatima. I thought of the time I’d remarked on a neighborhood I’d noticed in a nearby village, full of new houses and Petra’s husband sniffing, “Yes. Those are for the Russians. Nice, aren’t they.”
An Afternoon with Fatima in Germany Flori then turned the conversation back to me. “Your husband?” he asked, nodding. “He was in Kosovo?” He had been, although I wasn’t sure I wanted to discuss it with them, of all people. We’d naturally been sympathetic to the plight of the women and children in the camps, but after my husband had spent some months in the region he’d told me “I’m pretty sure we picked the wrong side on this one.” We’d naturally been sympathetic to the plight of the women and children in the camps, but after my husband had spent some months in the region he’d told me “I’m pretty sure we picked the wrong side on this one.” “We are so grateful to the Americans for their help,” gushed Flori. “So very, very grateful.” “Oh, no,” I reassured him. “It was the right thing to do.” I hoped it was true. It seemed like it ought to have been. Then he brought up 9/11. He and Fatima wanted me to understand how very shocked they’d been, watching the news that day. They wanted to make it clear their sympathies were with the victims. Flori then touched on the motivations of the bombers, saying “Yes, there are problems. There are difficulties and disagreements, but to address it this way…” I was glad the doorbell rang then, interrupting our conversation. It was the woman who’d led us up to the apartment. She turned out to be Fatima’s sister-in-law, and for some odd reason was named Mary. Flori didn’t understand my surprise when I remarked on her name. “Yes”, he nodded. “Maryam, Maria, Mary… it is a good name.” “Yes, but Mary.” I said. “It’s just, such a Christian name.”
“No, no. We have Mary, too. Your Bible, our Koran. Yes, Mary.” I struggled to make the connection of how that could be, but he didn’t seem interested in discussing it further, as the sister-in-law had brought a video tape they’d apparently planned for us to watch. Flori translated for her, “This is a tape of her wedding day for you to see.” “Oh!” I exclaimed. “Is she a newlywed?” “No,” answered Flori. “This was four years ago.” I couldn’t quite understand the point of watching it then, but they all seemed so eager I put on a show of anticipation as well. As the tape rewound they described to me about their country, how beautiful it had been before conflict had torn it. They wanted me to understand Islam was not practiced as strictly in their region. Fatima described to me about facing east to pray multiple times a day and scoffed, “No, we don’t do this.” “Bekim does.” translated Flori, for Mary. I assumed she meant her husband. “So?” asked Flori, playfully. “Is this what you expect from a Muslim home?” I could see they wanted me to play along, so I made a little joke about having expected burkhas which pleased them very much. “No, no!” laughed Flori. “You walk down the street in Tirana, you think you are in the disco.” They started the video then, which began with a wedding caravan of cars, and a poor caravan it was, all the economy-sized cars having the appearance of being patched up like faded old jeans. They were crammed with wedding revelers though, smiling and waving at the camera when it fell on them. As the caravan started moving there was a general sort of “Hoorah!”, or the equivalent of it in their language, and a honking of horns. They wound their way slowly through city streets in the most shocking state of ruin, their celebratory joy scarcely piercing
the gloom all around. There seemed to be a habit of waving at passersby which they persisted in even though there was no one to wave back. The city really had the most decrepit, abandoned look about it, so that I couldn’t help admiring their cheer in the face of it. I never could make out the name of the town they were in, no matter how many times they pronounced it for me. They explained the caravan was making its way to the bride’s house, where there would be a viewing of her dowry. I smiled expectantly at Mary, who cast her gaze down to the floor. “You must understand,” explained Flori. “Nobody had anything at this time. Nobody.” It became clear what they were preparing me for when the video got to the dowry part. The wedding guests filed into the house of the bride’s family, making their way into a room in which Mary sat, not yet dressed in her wedding clothes. The normal furniture had been cleared and tables with cloths had been brought in to display all her worldly possessions, which consisted of some clothing and personal articles, and a few pairs of shoes, from what I could make out. There was a palpable dip in morale at this point amongst the guests, who filed through the display seemingly at a loss for how to react. Mary hung her head in shame as a guest picked up a hairbrush and optimistically inspected it. Fatima tried to explain to me with her halting words and big gestures how very vast the array of goods would have been in happier times, how differently the guests and bride would have behaved. They seemed to feel apologetic toward even me watching the video four years later, although I’d certainly brought no expectations of any sort into it. Things perked up when they took the bride away in their cars to a house of relatives, to dress her for the wedding. There was a flurry of female excitement, a general bustling and fussing common to women in such circumstances everywhere. She emerged from the process in veiled finery, although the veil was so long one could hardly make out much about her dress. She seemed to drift like a hovering spirit
as she walked, and was led out to the car waiting to drive her to the ceremony. The ceremony itself was not filmed, only the reception after. Everyone gathered into groups around tables and behaved like wedding guests the world over, like children at play, only there was no alcohol to turn it ugly toward the end. All variety of interesting food was spread on the tables on great platters, and everyone seemed to eat leisurely bits here and there rather than one large meal. They had a number of unfamiliar traditions they explained to me. One game I couldn’t make out involved the groomsmen and cigarettes, and had some sort of mildly bawdy implication to do with the wedding night. Through it all Mary sat unveiled, in the most elaborate dress sewn with pearls and jewels. They had done her hair and made her up so that she appeared quite another person from the plain woman sitting next to me in the apartment. Both the wedding guests and the camera seemed enchanted with her, as all gazes turned her way again and again. One got the sense they’d sacrificed all they had, and gladly, for her to be elevated to such status of beauty, that the point of it all somehow converged in her and everyone knew it, and so were drawn to her because of it. She did not partake of any of the games or festivities, only observed with regal detachment, her expression very grave. I pondered what it could mean and looked at her next to me on the couch. Tears sprung to her eyes, as she said something for Fatima to translate. Through it all Mary sat unveiled, in the most elaborate dress sewn with pearls and jewels. They had done her hair and made her up so that she appeared quite another person from the plain woman sitting next to me in the apartment. “She says… she loves her husband, very much.” said Fatima, as if that explained everything. It was touching, how although all the attention had been focused on her, she only thought of her spouse, and how she carried that devotion in it’s original form even then, as if time had not gone by. There was more to the video as a group of men had begun to life the bride up and carry her about the reception hall, when the children suddenly tumbled
An Afternoon with Fatima in Germany
into the room, begging to play outside. The adults scolded the interruption, but the boys were persistent; so I used it as an opportunity to observe the time and imply it was nearly time for us to go. This came as a great surprise to our hosts, who’d evidently expected us to stay for dinner. I never could have imagined such a possibility as it was never done that way in German homes, so had to politely insist against their protests. I probably could have rearranged our plans, but the truth was it was all becoming too much, the politics, the machine gun, the wedding. It was tiring, and I just wanted to get back home and not have to think so much.
continued to play.
I probably could have rearranged our plans, but the truth was it was all becoming too much, the politics, the machine gun, the wedding. It was tiring, and I just wanted to get back home and not have to think so much. I finally got away by accepting Fatima’s offering of a dish to take back with me for our dinner. She ladled some sort of hot soup into a large covered container, and wrapped it with a dishtowel so as not to burn my hands. I bid Flori and Mary farewell, and then Fatima and the boys walked downstairs with us. We stood in the courtyard for a bit while the children
I supposed I was, although I couldn’t remember the last time I’d done anything pertaining to that fact. I’d been raised Catholic, but my religion had become nothing more than a memory of ceremonies attended and rituals performed. I looked back at it fondly, but without it having any real connection to my adult life.
It was summer and so still light out. We could see the facade of Sankt Thekla’s from between the apartment buildings. A shadow from the topmost cross on the upper rooftop was cast onto the courtyard pavement, where the children made an impromptu game of hopping from quadrant to quadrant as we watched. Their own shadows merged with the image of the cross whenever they approached the center of it. “You are Christian, yes?” asked Fatima.
“You are Christian, yes?” asked Fatima. I supposed I was, although I couldn’t remember the last time I’d done anything pertaining to that fact. I’d
An Afternoon with Fatima in Germany been raised Catholic, but my religion had become nothing more than a memory of ceremonies attended and rituals performed. “I guess it’s sort of like you not facing east to pray.” I explained. Fatima nodded and seemed to reflect for a moment. “I should maybe do better with this.” she finally said. I wasn’t sure how to respond to that, especially since I felt no such corresponding call in my own life then, so I simply looked up at the sky and observed, “It’s going to rain.” I used the dark cloud moving in as an excuse to say our goodbyes quickly. I wanted to make it home before the rain began. As we approached Petra’s house on the walk back, I saw she was still out as she’d said she would be. Thomas skipped on ahead to our house, as we did not live much further, and her children were not out to play. She directed a wry smile at the enormous dish I was carrying and asked, “What’s this? Your nice dinner tonight?” I nodded that it was, as she leaned in and wrinkled her nose as if smelling something bad. “Knoblauch!” she said, fanning the air in front of her face. I never have known a German who could abide the smell of garlic. “And…?” she asked. “Did you have a nice visit?” “Ach! Schoen, schoen...” I nodded. I hardly knew how to relate my conflicting feelings about it all, so I tried to keep to innocuous essentials like the flatbread and pretty cups. It seemed no matter what I said I found myself confronted with a raised eyebrow or a loaded question. As we conversed, I slowly realized I was being probed for details, and was expected to deliver them in a manner which conformed to her own dry disapprobation. I felt the shock of realization and a flare of righteous anger. I suddenly saw the sharing of the wedding video as an intimate offering of the best they’d had
to give, and felt the loss of not having something similar to share with them. I wanted to somehow defend and justify them in Petra’s eyes. At the same time I remembered the hint of underlying greed I’d picked up on, their willingness to exploit the system that had been thrust on them, and had to admit my own opinions on the subject were really not so very different from hers. An image of the brother with the machine gun passed through my mind, and I decided to keep that part to myself. “Their apartment is so small.” I insisted. “They really have so little.” “Oh? Is there something more they need?” she asked. Something else we should be giving them?” I had the distinct impression there was, only I couldn’t think what. Just then the bells from Saint Thekla’s started ringing six o’clock. Something about the sound evoked a thought or a memory I struggled to grasp, but couldn’t seem to get hold of. I felt a sudden, stabbing conviction the chimes were a herald of something, but then immediately lost hold of that, too. “Vespers,” remarked Petra. It was what one said at that hour without it ever meaning anything in particular. I had to rush off then as the cloud had blown in and completely obscured the sun. I ran homeward and felt the first stinging drops of cold rain on my face, the gusting wind muffling the sound of the bells. I found Thomas waiting at the front door, impatiently wanting to get inside away from the rain. As we entered the warmth and comfort of our home, I was relieved to find my anger and confusion already beginning to fade. It would be many years before I would think back and remember about the bells, the wedding, the shadow of the cross, and begin to wonder what Mary had to do with any of it. It would be many years before I would think back and remember about the bells, the wedding, the shadow of the cross, and begin to wonder what Mary had to do with any of it.
Beautiful Irish Lace
How the Church Taught Lace-makin to the Irish T
he industry might never have flourished had it not been for the Famine in the mid 19th Century. One way in which the Church responded was to help training centers to be set up by Catholic clergy and convents as a means of assistance to the suffering poor. The nuns in these convents were the repositories of knowledge of
the ancient craft of lace-making techniques, methods imported from all over Europe. They in turn taught these to Irish women and girls as a means of gainful employment for women whose men were all too often unemployed or underpaid farm workers. An industry was born, and the
unique layered, intricate look of Irish lace was eventually developed, distinguishing it from other European laces. Irish laces evolved in distinct styles according to the region in which the lace was made, among them Irish Crochet, Carrickmacross, Clones, and Kenmare. The various laces adorned tables and clothing alike, but were also
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Irish Lace is famous the world over, but most people have no idea that this industry originated with the Irish Famine and the Catholic Church’s response to the plight of the suffering poor.
commonly used for wedding dresses, veils, and baptismal garments. Sadly, the industry was a short-lived one, as the advent of the Industrial Revolution made machine-made lace cheaper and more readily available. Today, there are still some works of Irish Lace to be found in antiques shops, and a few artisans in Ireland and throughout the world continue to practice the technique.
While there is a machine-made version available, traditional Irish Lace is always made by hand. Larisa Chilton, founder of the Irish Crochet Lab, shared some images of the beautiful traditional work she is doing for a client. These lovely pieces will eventually be joined to make a wedding dress, a design which will take an estimated eight months to complete!Anyone with basic crochet
skills can learn the craft, but the available resources are primarily in the form of 19th Century books, written in a form of English that can make the patterns difficult to interpret. Luckily for those interested, Larisa has made it her mission to keep the craft alive by teaching it on her website. Visit irishcrochetlab.com to find out more about her video tutorials.
R.
www.reginamag.com