House of the Holy

One thing I can count on when I visit Cincinnati and turning on the radio is that the play list is pretty much the same as the last time I visited and the time before that and the time before that and if I reach back far enough I can pretty much count on hearing the playlist of my senior year at high school. Flirting with disaster, something by Meatloaf, Lynard Skynard and always… always Dog and Butterfly by Heart. Not to mention something thrown in by some lesser known bands. Loverboy for example, how’d you like to be the list of bands that influenced Loberboy. Time to hang up the axe.

After a couple of weeks of crashing at someone’s home and displacing the general order of things tensions whether or not they’re recognized develop. It was time to move on and I’ve settled in Mount Saint Mary’s of the West Seminary. Yes it’s true. I have a small lovely cell of a room recently refurbished with paint and fixtures from Restoration Hardware. Not a Crucifix or praying hands adorn a wall. It is quite barren and quite comfortable. No television, no radio, very, very sporadic internet access and my only other companion on the floor are a Father Shrear who specializes in Biblical studies and scripture.

I’ve never made it a secret regarding my lack of faith and I’ve often mocked the Catholic Church and religion as a whole. I have to admit and eat some of my words; I’m getting something out of this experience. Speaking with some of the older members of the community, specifically Monsignor Lane and the previous mentioned Father Shrear, not to mention some of the young men who are going through the seminary I’m starting to buy into the concept of a higher power or a divine being. I like the structure, orderliness and symbolism offered by the church. Not to mention the familiarity of it all. I like those old Saints glaring down at me and the peacefulness of walks around the grounds and Athenaeum at three in the morning. If nothing else this experience has given me the opportunity for introspective reflection.

So as I walk the halls counting cold tiles while all the young seminarians are a sleep, I run my fingertips along the frigid walls looking for answers, waiting and hoping this new discovery will help get me to through the end, healthy, happy and a productive member of my family. Listening to the young priests and older Priests, no, no Friar Tucks, talking about their responsibility is almost metaphoric of mine. They have their flock of souls, I have my very small gaggle to take care of, share and hopefully teach write from wrong. So I sit quietly in the dark choir with the saints looking up me, wondering what I of all people am doing here. Waiting and feeling blessed to have such a peaceful place to count out the days.