Brother Columba's stall
Vigils is at 4:15am. This time of year it's fully dark, and the abbey church is lit only enough to read the psalms.
Brother Columba died in September, aged ninety-one. He had the same stall in the choir for sixty-two years: back row, left side, under the window with the cracked pane. He always arrived first, sat with his eyes closed, and always, always cleared his throat right before 'O Lord, open my lips.'
Nobody has taken his stall. It isn't a rule. We just haven't.
Last Tuesday I was the first one in. I sat in my place, novices' row, front. The church was completely silent. And then, from the back left, under the window with the cracked pane, someone cleared their throat.
I didn't turn around. I don't fully know why. Maybe because turning around would have meant deciding what it was.
The bell rang, the others came in, Father Prior intoned the opening versicle, and we sang the Invitatory as usual. Afterwards I told our novice master. He is not a man given to drama. He listened, nodded, and said, 'Columba never missed Vigils in sixty years. I don't suppose he wants to start now.' Then he sent me to help with the bread.
I'm not writing this to claim a miracle. I'm writing it because the communion of saints, which I profess every Sunday, felt very close that morning. Close enough to clear its throat.
A paperweight for my Saturn return
New desk accessory: a piece of smoky quartz. Not because a chart told me to. I checked four different 'zodiac stone' lists and they disagreed on literally every sign, which as a data analyst I find very funny.
I bought it because it's heavy, dark, and a bit cloudy in the middle, which is an accurate summary of being twenty-nine.
It sits next to my transit calendar. When I get dramatic about Saturn, I pick it up and remember: Saturn isn't punishing anyone. It's asking what you're building and whether it will hold weight. So does a paperweight, really.
Rosehip syrup and itchy fingers
The dog roses along the lane are heavy with hips, so the kitchen is a sticky mess this weekend. Rosehip syrup the way my Nain made it in the war years: top and tail a kilo of hips, chop them, drop them into boiling water and simmer, then strain twice through a jelly bag. Twice. The little hairs inside are why we called them itching powder at school, and you do not want them in your syrup.
Sugar into the strained juice, a short boil, then into sterilised bottles. Leave plenty of hips on the bush for the blackbirds and the fieldfares coming in for winter.
A spoonful on porridge in February tastes exactly like this lane in October. That's the whole spell.
Two birthdays, one of them set by the moon
Amma texted at 5:10am: 'Today is your star. Go to temple if you can.' In our Tamil family your birthday isn't only the date on the calendar. It's also the day the moon returns to your birth nakshatra in the month you were born. Mine is Revathi.
Growing up in Toronto I found this mortifying. Two birthdays, and one of them moved every year. Now I love it. The Gregorian one gets cake and coworkers. The star one gets an archana on my lunch break, the priest chanting my name and my star, a phone call with Amma, and a quiet hour of feeling claimed by something much older than me.
If you've never asked your elders what star you were born under, ask. It's a very good excuse for a phone call.
Blackberry cordial before the púca gets them
In Ireland you're told never to pick blackberries after Samhain, because the púca goes round and spits on every last one. My gran put it a little more rudely than that. So the last weekend in September is cordial weekend in this house.
Two big bowls of berries from the ditch at the end of the road (above dog height, always), a splash of water, simmered soft and mashed with a wooden spoon. Strained overnight through muslin, then sugar and the juice of a lemon, brought to the boil and bottled. A dash in sparkling water by the fire in January is a whole summer, saved.
The first glass gets poured out under the hawthorn for the good people. Best to stay on their side.