The Refectory Manager

The refectory . . . A place to nourish the soul. A place to share the savory comestibles, the sweet confections, the salty condiments of the things that matter. A place to ruminate the cud of politics. A place to rant on the railings of religion. A place to arrange the flowers of sanguine beauty. A place to pause in the repose of shelter. Welcome, my friend. The Refectory Manager

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Location: College Place, Washington, United States

Sunday, July 12, 2009

Clanning Love

Spent part of the day at the Athena Caledonian Games.

Athena is a little farming community just across the border from me in Northeastern Oregon. For the last 40 or so years, this community has sponsored an annual Scottish festival with traditional Scottish games, music, dance, food, story-telling, and yes . . . that fuzzy sense of belonging. To a Clan.

There are dozens and dozens of these festivals around the country, and they draw a lot of people.

The urge is primal. To belong. To love and to be loved.

My grandparents (both father and mother's side) are all from Ireland/Scotland. And I can claim at least four Clans in which I have a heritage.

It struck me today, as I listened to a story-teller (and she also played the harp and sang) tell about the ancient Scots . . . before there were bagpipes (they were still in Spain and in the mountains of Europe) . . . before there was coffee and caffeinated black tea. A time when the social unit was most definitely the clan. The land-owner chieftain. The tenet farmers. And the dowry for marrying a woman was cattle . . . and how the young ruffians of one clan would go and steal cattle (that was all they had of value . . . the chieftains owned the land) and the next night, the ruffians of the victimized clan would go and steal their cattle back, plus a few more for good measure. How the harpists were the ones who would "inspire" the fighting spirit with their music . . . so inept at the task, for the harps were so pastoral.

The young warriors would be camped out down by the river. No fire . . . smoke and flame would give away their position. Wrapped up in the big kilts to keep from freezing to death. Barefoot. Stiff and sore in the morning. No coffee. No tea. Cold oatmeal mush. And that damn harp music that would deign to put them back into a stupor rather than rally them to the fight.

The harpist telling us this tale then played a "violent, warrior reel" to illustrate her point. And she then related an experience from a performance a few years back, where someone in the audience blurted out how "peaceful" that music was!

But the harpist brought us back to the rowdies . . . she let rip with a drone of ominous intention. What was that noise!

Awful! The sound of a stuck pig at the slaughter house!

And the first bagpipe was making its way into battle in Old Scotland. Now that was music to excite the passions of war!

Our story-teller harpist now tells us how the harpists in battle got relegated back to the court. To soothe the chieftain. To mellow the soul.

The bagpipes and drums were to stir the fighting passion.

To identify the clan. To challenge. To protect. To foster the sense of belonging.

And the identity of the clan was utmost. And to belong was even more so.

As I watched and listened to that lady play her harp . . . what I saw is not what was there for the seeing. She did look the part. Strawberry blond hair . . . swirled in helter-skelter ways. High cheeks. Small mouth. Breathy singing. Drab olive dress with a large stenciled band of decorative Celtic knots encircling the skirt. Celtic rings on her fingers.

But what I saw was a young man. Handsome. Gawd was he handsome. And he had that radiance about him. That magnetism. That charisma.

And his playing . . . those intricate melodies, the little syncopation in the beat . . . the nodding head of Old King Saul lagging behind .

And then the singing. Those lonely hours of herding sheep and goats, training his voice against the wind. The words in his lyrics the pictures of the violence and the passion of the freedom of nature.

Those little commands to the relentless sheep dogs . . . the herding . . . the nurturing . . . the protecting . . . the loving.

The sense of purpose.

As David would sooth an irascible old King, another young man was stealthily sequestered from sight . . . humming that same melody . . . a dissonance . . . a resonance . . . a harmonic . . . a unison.

In time they met. They knew the songs. They sang. Together. They melded into one. And their souls mated.

Their clans were different.

Their love was one.

And such is the essence of conflict in the myth of belonging.

The imagery is infused deep within us.

The warmth. The love. The association. The assimilation. The belonging. To the clan.

And yet, we have lost our identity.

Like David did when he lost the love of his life . . . Jonathan.

And out of that personal tragedy in his life . . . the belonging became even bigger. Chieftain of his clan. Chieftain of all of Yahweh's clans.

And the story of his love complexes.

Such as it would seem to the casual observer.

So many wives. So many children. 'Cause it was the manly thing to do! The kingly thing to do! The sheer display of power and control.

All that killing . . . Saul with his thousands, but David with his ten thousands.

The marriages for political power and gain.

The theft of another man's property . . . the killing of that man . . .

Sin. Blatant sin.

The sparing of David's life for the law said he must die. . . . but in his place, the death of his child. Some kind of love.

And then one of his son's raping his half sister. Yet David loves this son. Won't punish him. And another son, the full brother of the raped sister, hates his half-brother . . . and kills the son David loved.

Clans.

Belonging.

Buying a wife with cattle . . . the particulars written into the marriage contract.

So where was the love?

The Scottish games . . . competitive skills in the making of war . . . in killing. Throwing primitive lethal things with deadly accuracy and distance.

The dance. The music. The tartan. The identity.

The belonging.

The wanting to love and to be loved.

And a listless little farming community, just across the border into Oregon, celebrates the myth of belonging for as far back as people could tell the stories of their belonging.

The Shamrock. The Thistle.

The Celtic harpist's song.

The song of ancient soul-mates . From different clans. Melded in love.

The quest to belong. To the clan. To any clan.

The quest.

To be loved.

To love.

The Refectory Manager