Wednesday, November 23, 2016

rosary by the river..

The woods are now filled with the muted yellow of an artist's palette.The green has fled and here and there I can see the grey of tree trunks that stand sentinel by the river.The birds have been taking their yearly fling southward; the bird bath yesterday was visited by blue birds, bright orange robins, stunning blue jays, and some red headed house finches.None seems in a rush to leave.

There is nothing more calming than walking in the woods, leaves scattering, saying the rosary. The one that I am using was made in Russia; the beads are blond wood with a cross that is edged with curves and all caught with white string. Simple. I recall the day that I bought it in St.Petersburg. It was a beautiful August day, two years ago. After the store purchase, we went into St. Issac's church and I saw a perfect bag to hold it.There was Russian writing embroidered on the side and oh, how I wanted that little bright blue sack.However, despite my fevered yearning, they didn't accept anything but rubles.How Russian of them! Of course, we had none.  I smile remembering how my husband scoured around looking for rubles outside the church, only to find that we couldn't get back in without missing the bus.A memory worth many rubles.

Sauntering with rosary in hand, I never feel alone or unproductive.I hold the mother's hand and we wander together in harmony.The beads come from a forest on the other side of the world in a place that, years ago, I would have been unable to go.The faithful in St.Petersburg gathered that day in a small side chapel of that huge cathedral.They held a service touching in its intensity.Heads covered, eyes on the altar or closed, grace dwelt among them. While in that city, we also saw the place where American communists helped bring on the Russian Revolution.What was going on in that church is of a different sort . Mary, Queen of Heaven, pray for us.

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