A Modern Fable

Posting the link from Olga caused me to remember something she wrote while I was in San Francisco several weeks ago.  She had discovered that only blocks from my hotel was a Lush store — a kind of body care and potion place.  She posted this on her blog, and I meant to put it up myself, but she and I became engrossed in a bitter dispute over tuna fish salad and whether one should listen to monks in that regard, so the time passed.  I ran across it again today, however, and thought I would put it up, mostly as a lesson that even in this day and age, fairy tales and fables indeed linger on:

And the Father said, “Behold, my children, I am taking leave of my household and firm for the period of seven days, for I will journey to the coast of the west to see the grand cathedrals and relics of the city which is known as San Francisco. Do not pout nor give me the look of young puppy dogs, for one ticket is all I have, and I have one ticket.”

And the Eldest Daughter said, “Father, you are cruel to travel alone and not take me, for I much desire the chance to travel to the coast of the west, though I am too much of an Irish lass to appreciate the wide stretches of sand and surf. Willst thou reconsider?”

And the Father said, “Neener.”

And the Eldest Daughter, who was fair and virtuous, grieved to hear him say such. “Then, oh sorrowful One, I entreat thee with many punches and pokes to taketh thou this list, which is precious to me, and enter within the sacred building on Powell Street, for as you make your pilgrimage, I would wish for you to make one for me. Therefore, enter the Sacred Lush, and stray not from this list, nor forget to ask for samples from the Wise Ones.”

And the Father said, “Expect not treasures, nor set your hopes upon the castles of the sky, for I am not made of money.”

And the Eldest Daughter pulled forth her greatest weapon, the Look of the Abused Puppy, and the Father did laugh until without breath, and the Daughter knew that while the precious list would not be fulfilled, it would be considered and, with love, grow smaller by the use of the Revered Paternal Credit Card.

“Ahh!” the Eldest Daughter warned, “Let not the containers explode, nor melt into one solid mass, lest you wish to maketh me your enemy. For I am meticulous in the ways of Lush, and you are an easy target for poking.”

And so the Father departed for the coast of the west with the precious list, and the Daughter waited, and sharpened her nails.

A rather frightening tale, at least for the hapless father, so I’ll reveal the ending.  In prosaic terms, I indeed found the Lush shop and stumbled inside.  I was immediately accosted by a terrifyingly perky salesgirl, who asked “Can I help you, dude?”

I immediately went into brain freeze, and all I could think of was to thrust the list at her and say, in my best Dan Ackroyd style, “I’m on a mission from God.”  She wasn’t fazed in the least, and immediately started gathering the goods.  But consider Olga’s version:

And yea, when the Father didst enter into the Sacred Lush, a Wise One DID bound up toward him, and DID say, “Dude, what can I do for you?”

And the Father, in the timeless style of the Brothers of Blue, didst say, “I’m on a mission from God,” and thrust the List into her hand.

And yea, the Daughter didst rejoice, and the Father remained unpummelled.

A close call.  I am fearful to say that her younger sister is not only as clever in her writing, but even fiercer in her pummeling.  Keep me, the dutiful father, in your prayers.

Dreaming of Diveyevo

Pilgrims to Diveyevo, 1904 It has never been any secret that I have a strong tendency toward being a spiritual tourist.  I go to Greece, and visit nary a beach, but happily wander through countless monasteries and churches.  I go to San Francisco, but enter not a bar or club, but seek out relics and churches. In the same fashion, I have always wanted to go to Russia, but the desire has been unfocused.  Russia is a huge country, with attractions for a traveler like me in every nook and cranny of the place.   If I had gone, I would not have known where to begin.  But now I have a notion– a dangerous state of affairs, as my family well knows. I have just finished reading St. Seraphim: Wonderworker of Sarov, by Helen Kontzevitch.  Saint Seraphim, a 19th century Russian saint, is who I am named after.  He lived the sort of life which makes people sit, jaw gaping, as they read about him.  He even has a devoted following among non-Orthodox:  the Archbishop of Canterbury is a fan, as are many Roman Catholics. The Saint was clairvoyant to an astonishing degree, immensely humble and loving, and had a habit of addressing visitors as “My joy!”.  While St. Seraphim lived in a monastery in Sarov, he was responsible for the establishment of a monastic community for women, Diveyevo, some 60 miles from Sarov.  The nuns he called “his orphans”, and he promised never to leave them bereft.  He also left a great number of astounding prophecies, many of which have happened just as noted.  Even though he reposed in 1833, he left a letter for Tsar Nicholas, which the Tsar received unopened in 1903 when he came to Sarov for the ceremonies in which the humble monk Seraphim was officially made a saint.  The letter, written in Seraphim’s own hand, apparently informed Nicholas of what lie ahead for Russia and the Royal family.  The Tsar, by all reports, was grief-stricken. After the Russian Revolution, the communities in both Sarov and Diveyevo were closed.  Many of the monastics were arrested and sent to the Gulag.  Others were dispersed into surrounding villages, where they lived in poverty, maintaining their monastic vows and meeting secretly for services.  Nonetheless, they persevered, perhaps in part because of a prophecy left by the saint, that the two communities would re-open.  True to his word, they in fact were re-established in 1991.  They have grown tremendously:  in Diveyevo there are over 500 nuns in residence. At the present time, Sarov is a city closed to foreigners.  The Russians have located nuclear facilities there which make it impossible for a tourist to visit.  Perhaps partly for that reason, and partly due to his unceasing watchcare over the Diveyevo convent, the saint’s relics have been moved to one of the churches there. Lithograph of Diveyevo Convent, ca 1904 Now I ask you:  how can I not go visit the one I am named after?  As best I can tell, Diveyevo is about 200 miles from Moscow, and is reached by train, followed by a bus or cab ride.  Does the fact that I know absolutely no Russian dissuade me?  Of course not.  I don’t know any Greek either to speak of, but that was a great trip. I don’t know when I might go, but I’m resolved to do it, some day.  Now I just have to break the news to my wife.