Yoke of Oppressions

Illegal Gathering

Or,
Yoke of Oppression

I swear I’ll publish my account of Pennsic XLII. But it’s not an easy thing to write. I’ll need to devote to it my full attention, which I can’t do until I get out of another particular quagmire.

It feels like it started an eternity ago. That’s because it started before I went to Pennsic. The Before Time.

At the beginning of the Summer, I’d been to Gulf Wars XXII, and I think I’d been to Border Raids. I’m pretty sure I’d also been to Coronation and Kings & Queens. I was still coming off the high. I’m always coming off the high. But I was going to Pennsic soon. I was at Joan’s pool at one of a slew of parties she has every Summer. I don’t go to church unless there’s free food but I do know Pastor David, the Episcopal rector of St. David’s where my parents go on Sunday. He was there and asked what I’d been doing lately. I told him about the sewing of vestments, and that I was going into business sewing...well, whatever people want, particularly vestments, so if he ever needed anything…
He gave me a sunny smile and said “you know, I need a surplice!”

Holy shit! A real commission for a real priest! I even knew what a fucking surplice was!

It’s also called a choir cotta which is wrong because choir don’t wear them [citation needed], but it’s basically a choir gown. It’s something that was on the list of things I needed myself as Cardinals wear them too. Well, theirs is called a Rochet. Surplices are much shorter now but David wanted one of the awesome why-else-would-you-wear-one Old English long surplices.

I took him up on it. Of course I took him up on it. I excitedly told Joan about this. She fixed me with a look.

“You’re not ready, kid.”

Joan has been sewing sixty years. But I have the kind of Buddhist outlook that makes me question my teachers, so of course I took on the project anyway.

September rolled around and it wasn’t done.

Don’t laugh. There’s no reason any reasonable idiot wouldn’t think the project was feasible. The whole structure is in essence four big triangles plus a collar and two gussets. It’s a deceptively simple little bastard. Look up at the neck there. Those wrinkles are an extremely deliberate thing called “gathers,” and they’re a motherfucker if you’ve never done them.

The project was disagreeable from the start. First I had to go back and forth with a man I didn’t see regularly with fabrics and measurements. That was just irritating. The real trouble started early. A simple task. Get a pattern.

Mom bought me the book Vestments And How To Make Them as a gift. The book is originally from 1912. My favorite chapter is the one about how to make cassocks. It’s not even one page long. It’s a picture and an entry saying that making cassocks is too hard and it should be left to a professional tailor. This is why my head is so big.

This book has a surplice pattern, which I set about drafting. This was a difficult but very interesting experience. When I was a kid the only kind of math I could stomach was geometry, and it turned out to aid my drafting, and before long I had something passable. I presented it to Joan with some questions on how to get the curves down. She answered with a question; why bother drafting it?

Buy a pattern, she said.

It’ll be easier, she said.

Oh yeah?

Go out into Montenegro and bag a unicorn. Catch a chupacabra in a bear trap, get HD footage of bigfoot and catch my ex performing any act not motivated by self-interest, and I still defy you to find a sewing pattern for an Old English surplice. Or any kind of liturgical surplice or choir cotta.

McCall’s 2105. McCall’s 2105. It burns a McCall’s 2105 shaped hole in my subconscious so only McCall’s 2105-shaped thoughts can come in. I have McCall’s 2105 dreams. McCall’s 2105 is a vintage sewing pattern for a surplice, long or short, pointy or round sleeves. It’s out of print and you can’t have it. Everyone on the entire internet is sold out of it. I would perform seks acts to get this pattern. If you have it send me your name and a picture of what debasement you wish me to perform for you.

The search availed but one option and it wasn’t promising. It was an outdated website, churchlinnensdotcom or something, run by a woman who appears to be insanely old. The site was like a catalog. You couldn’t use paypal or any of that heresy, you actually had to send a check to some place and presumably an envelope with the pattern would magically come back.

It almost fucking didn’t. By the time we came around to this step Pennsic was about ten days away. I was hoping to finish the surplice before I departed. The pattern finally arrived terribly late and was the wrong one. Mom had rather uncharitable speculations about the proprietor’s state of mind as she sent it back along with a polite E-mail requesting the correct goddamn one, ROUND yoke, NOT square. So it wasn’t getting done before I left.

So basically for two weeks, Pennsic, Pennsic, Pennsic, then I get home.

I returned to find the proper pattern in my possession. The package contained a rather disturbingly familiar pattern and several pages of literature, into the sea of which are cast the instructions. The whole thing is preceded with a horrendously bubbly history lesson as well as some things I don’t want to hear about books. Particularly that this pattern came out of one. And that the name of that book is Vestments And How To Make Them circa 1912.

If anything I should defy my teachers more. That was where my suffering came to a middle.

Way back at the beginning of this process, in spite of my enthusiastic favor of linen/rayon fabric for David’s surplice (it feels like clouds and love), David had decided on cotton/poly because it doesn’t wrinkle. Unable to counter “wrinkles are period!!” like Domenico taught me to, now that I was back it was time to go buy it. JoAnn Fabric opened up a location 5 minutes from my house, but that was a month away at the time, so we had to go to one about 45 minutes away. So when they don’t have what you want it’s very frustrating. And they didn’t have it. Empty-handed again we were forced to order it online. We did get 10 yards though, at $3 a yard, which is really inexpensive, leaving me to screw up freely.

When that finally did come I was instructed to consult Joan. This happens a lot. I don’t want to run to her for everything, but while the family’s LLC is the umbrella I stand under, I have to respect their wish not to have to buy more material if it blows up on the launchpad. So when I arrive at an impasse, or even a potential impasse, or even something I haven’t done before on a commission, I’m usually issued a general halt and sent scurrying to consult The Oracle. She does indeed know all, but this visit saw her in a fitful mood. She didn’t like that pattern. It wasn’t marked or annotated, it had to be lengthened the instructions were ridiculous. When one more hunt for McCall’s 210-fucking-5 fell flat as Sigourney Weaver’s ass, she finally relented and we analyzed the materials. Then we ran into more problems. Chief of these were that I have fabric 44 inches wide for this. This would work for a normal sized surplice but the pattern I have is for the short boring version. The thing is essentially bell-shaped, so if you make it longer it gets wider, right away crossing 44 inches. You can’t have a surplice with a seam down the middle of it, FFS, so we made the thing longer, not wider.

And then of course, the gathers. Fiddly bastards, they are, deliberate wrinkles made by doing something normally considered destructive, a counterintuitive process by a counterintuitive technique. I’ll shield you from the particulars but I had to do it over again four times.

Finally the yoke was finished and the thing was wearable. The sleeves weren’t done but you could put it on. Once again a meeting of the experts was called.

The thing wasn’t wide enough. Joan and mom actually pronounced it dead. It didn’t look right. For it to do so we’d have to order wider fabric and start over. I gave up because I was told to. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.

Pastor David was very sweet about it, but I did have to admit to him a project beat me.

When I made my first thing, I expected it to suck, but I still wear it. When I did standup for the first time, I expected to bomb, but I didn’t. That came later. It hurt much more that way.

Meanwhile let me tell you about my buddy Arn.

Arn is a recent acquisition, joining a little after me. He’s bigger and younger and started his career with a boffer LARP and showed up with us when that wasn’t hardcore enough. He commissions me for this and that pretty often, and he asked if I could make a simple T-tunic for $40.

That’s another thing that’s supposed to be simple.

Go to Youtube, go to Google, look up “how to make a T-tunic.” There’s a slew of examples and it’s very easy. My Celt friends make these. They do this without measuring, trimming seam allowances, pressing, or any of that fancy stuff, and it drives me out of my late-period mind. It’s two pieces of boxy fabric sandwiched together. You cut the neckhole around a saucer. Arn wanted long sleeves and a long hem. Easy.

So I go to make this thing, and when you do this you fold the paper in half for symmetry and draw away based on your subject’s measurements. Folded in half, the neckhole didn’t look big enough traced around a saucer. So I used a dinner plate.

Oops.

I make this thing out of black linen and it comes out with a neckhole so big you’d think the guy wanted to show off his cleavage. Dude’s not that big. All this time I’m also working on that damn surplice, so I ended up staring at this abomination of a $40 throwaway commission that was supposed to be a slam dunk that I’ve managed to hash. It was humiliating.

So then they pronounce the other one dead.

I’m sitting there. Watching Arn’s tunic. I want to make it go away. I’ll do anything to make it go away. And determined to get something out of my failure with the surplice, I grab the thing up and determine to fix it.

Around the giant neckhole, I put a yoke, which makes it look better. The yoke is slightly off, so I put gathers around the yoke, which makes it look even better. Before long this isn’t a $40 tunic anymore. Finally I hang the Diocese collection keys around the ties I added, and now you have something someone might buy for about $100 or more.

He was very happy with it. Still is. I got $40 and the promise of finally launching something and having it stay up.

This is why a lot of people give up sewing. You can work on something for months, get to the end and find it cannot be saved, that your efforts and materials have been totally wasted. I don’t know why I still do it. Maybe it’s from the thrill of getting it right. Or seeing that garment you made on the person later. Or hearing the compliments they get on its construction which they are then forced to attribute to you.

I kind of lost my train of thought. But basically, I hate gathers.

GULF WARS XXII [Day 4+5]

GULF WARS XXII

Days 4 and 5

50 Shades of Sunburn

ADDENDUM: I’ve been informed that my virgin mind ran days 4 and 5 together. I was going to fix it but I ended up at my first Pennsic and now it’s hopeless. I know not all of this stands up to scrutiny. As my mom would say, just eat it.

Hardships.

We willingly give up our internet, our cars, our air conditioners to do this thing that we do. We sleep on the ground, we make peace with the bugs. We take liberties with our hygiene and walk until our feet remind us just how miserable they can make us if mistreated. It’s about Day 4 that these things start to become palpable. I experienced this or that difficulty every day I stayed at Gulf Wars, but Day 4, the last full day, was when I started noticing them. Some of them are historic, a reminder that the past is a good place to visit but you wouldn’t want to live there. Some are proprietary to the SCA.

Dust.

The roads are all unpaved, and there’s dust in the air. It gets in everything. I was thinking of adding to Skopa’s legend that you’d know him from the other Cardinals if you asked for Ashes and Dust. If the demand was made he’d ash his cigar and slap his cassock, producing a cloud of dust. If I cracked the tails of my red coat, unfailingly dust would burst out. My sinuses were in a constant state of some level of distress. I was constantly blowing my nose. I didn’t enjoy carrying around a bandanna for that, but a little damp in my back pocket was better than having to drop what I was doing every half hour to find some toilet paper. It was following this event I made sure I had some nasal spray handy in my kit going forward.

Heat.

I got lucky at Gulf Wars. We all did. It was almost pleasant at most times. My outfit, in practice, isn’t as awful in the heat as I expected. But Late Period get it pretty bad with their doublets and pantaloons and such. Cotton is key, they say. Natural fibers, they breathe more than polyester. Humidity will kill ya. One of the things people keep telling me about is water, and I’m going with a few gallons of it. I’ll tell you a little secret about me. If it’s not too hot, I only button the first 10 or so buttons down to my belt and wear the cassock like a trench coat. If they’re buttoned ALL the way down, it means it’s really hot outside and I’m not wearing any pants. If you see only the four buttons below my belt open, I just got out of the bathroom and I might be kind of drunk.

Cold.

I haven’t had many encounters with cold. But at Gulf Wars it got cold at night. I was usually fine with my vestments on, but the night they decided to “Celt me up” I hadn’t quite learned my way around and got lost in the middle of the night going from the longhall to the camp. It was dark and I was alone and I suddenly was seized with this violent and convulsive chill. I wasn’t sure I’d make it back or if anyone would find me if I collapsed. I’m not sure if it had anything to do with intoxicants or fatigue, but these moments seem entirely endemic to SCA events, there were nights I couldn’t even get my top half out of my sleeping bag without being completely disabled by the cold, not its intensity but my sheer vulnerability. I dunno. Stay warm at night. Another reason I don’t like T-tunics.

Rain.

I haven’t dealt with rain in earnest. Mom’s worried sick about that. It’s simple really, I’ll wear a lot less. In my work I’ve acquired several giant-ass ziploc bags, and all my clothes are going to be sealed in them. I’m taking ALL my socks, and there’s a Wal-Mart nearby in case things get really nasty. I’ve talked about the horror stories before, but only got a small taste here at Gulf Wars. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. They’re calling for rain at Pennsic 42, so you’ll get some tales of woe when I get back.

Sun.

Shade is a commodity. I’m of Italian descent, but only half. So my resistance gives out eventually. This happened on Day 4.

I was watching the fencing. I admire the fencers and would probably make a decent one, and would love to fight in my vestments. I saw a large field of rapier fighters, and discovered another phenomenon endemic to the SCA. The battle was huge, I’d say about 100 on each side, and one side won by a landslide. The other side was left with one or two. When this happens, when the number of fighters on one side can be counted on one shaky hand, and they’re grossly outnumbered, the side with more fighters will actually line up. It’s about the honor, and they’ll fight one at a time because why the hell not, right? Victory is already theirs, why be gauche about it? This fight ended. On the other side of the field though I saw all the White Scarves gathering together. These are the Dons of Fence, equivalent to a Knight in Heavy Combat. There is such a thing as a Knight AND a Don. If you see someone with both a white belt and a white scarf on his arm, look the fuck out. They can float like a butterfly and sting like a rhinoceros. And they’re banding together on the field, and I swear I heard the Marshall say this on the megaphone:

“Hey, y’all, the White Scarves wanna challenge y’all to a battle, they gonna teach you ‘bout rapier fightin’ or somethin’!”

Now the problem is, today is REALLY hot. Too hot for no pants even. So I’m just out there in my wrap pants and my zuchetto, sitting on a hay bale, watching a castle battle. People with rapiers jabbing each other at a gate, three windows around the walls, with someone manning each. I’m not sure how many you have to get past but if you beat them you can come around the back and poke people in the ass.

As this ended too, I heard a voice behind me. I think it was a Marshall. “Hey, Father? Your shoulders are starting to match your hat.”

Oops! Toast. I was starting to pink up.

So on the way out I stepped over another pile of arrows. They have to sort them after the fight. Which ones are yours, which ones are his, and so on and so on. And as I stepped over them I had an idea. I approached a woman tossing more arrows on the pile.

“Excuse me,” I said, “are you a Marshall?”

“Marshall in training,” said the beautiful redhead.

“But you know the rules, yes?”

“Sure, what do you want to know?”

“Well,” I said, “are you allowed to carry arrows onto the heavy field, even if you don’t have a bow?”

“Yes, you are,” she said.

“Okay, well, I had this idea, tell me if this is legal. Let’s say I take this huge riot shield, and in my other hand, some throwaway weapon like a mace or something. And on my back, a huge backpack of arrows. Then I run and get in front of one of our archers, and say ‘hey! Get behind me! Free cover! Free ammo!!’”

The girl’s eyes widened. “Oh my god...if you did that for any archer, they’d love you--if you did that for me, I would--” she put her hand on my arm, “love you.”

Heeeeeeeeee!

We discussed it a little further, a few other marshalls getting in on the conversation. Yes you can carry ammo out to your archers and crossbowmen. Yes you can bring a crate and set it down, no it’s not practical, all someone has to do is kick it over, but a backpack would be great.

I’d had a number of other interesting questions answered on this trip.
Would a rattan Bishop’s crosier be legal? Yes.

Would a sword cane be legal? Yes.

Would it be period? Yes.

What’s stopping me from putting a rapier blade on a long stick and making a polearm and taking it on the light field? Technically nothing and people have done it.

People still seemed to recognize me by the hat. So as I started making my way back, Ansteorra intercepted me again. It wasn’t a huge party, it was a number of people sitting and slacking. And the insisted on filling my goblet. I spent a good few hours there and before long they had me pretty pasted.

I met someone who also had a priest persona but hadn’t brought it, and we got into a long conversation. He was telling me he had a lot of great gear including a Bible that was special: on the left, it was written in English, and on the right Latin, so you could give the Latin verse and then turn right around and smugly tell people what it all means.

When I was a kid, I wanted a Bible. My grandma didn’t seem to get it. A Children’s Bible, Bible Bedtime Stories, she sent me three books that weren’t Bibles until my aunt, a devout Baptist, sent me a real one. I didn’t understand a word of it. I still have it somewhere, but it’ll never see any use now. Someone at Gulf Wars told me his brother used to give sermons at Gulf Wars...in the original Latin. I had to do that. For the first time in probably twenty years, now I wanted a Bible.

Did I mention I was getting lit? It was nice, I found my zone and stopped there. And one of the Ansteorra girls kept readily accepting excuses to put her hands on my bare back, suntan lotion, aloe gel for the damage done already, and, to make a long story short, we went back to my tent and pow!

I promised not to out her because we’re still on speaking terms, and yes, she reads this blog. But she still jokes about being treated like a choir boy. That and I’m still feeling out my audience and I’m not sure how raunchy they’re willing to read. So contact me directly for the really funny Dirty Priest jokes. I’m credited with being the only person to get laid among our group, so yay me I suppose.

So anyway, then we went to the 7 Deadly Sins party. This is where things got interesting. I’d been to a few parties, but D’aliquis and I went to a rather unique one. It’s the only one I’d been to that needed ID to get in. For some reason I forgot mine twice and had to run back both times. I blame not the intoxicants, but my own stupidity for that. D’aliquis was sweet and waited for me both times even though I urged her to go in without me. Since I had to go back twice I decided to make some kind of progress otherwise. I grabbed The Sign.

Construction on the sign began on roughly Day 2 or thereabouts. It was a random piece of wood someone found and carved the words ORGY BUNKER into. It made the rounds of the camp, hanging from this or that tent.

It ended up in some other odd places too.

It orbited Crawhere a few times before arriving at my place.

I saw no reason at all to move it.

So anyway I returned to camp and found it hanging from the bumper of St. Evecorn’s truck and decided we needed another scandal. So I snuck it into the 7 Deadly Sins party.

I have no idea why I went to all the bother of actually smuggling it in under my vestments, it’s not like they had a ban on signs. How would they tell us? With a sign?! I went inside with D’aliquis and found Murdaigean, and hung it on his neck. He was already drunk and threw up his rock fist. That should get things started. I had no idea that this would be a very small scandal in comparison to what was to follow.

It was a fantastic party, and had something of a scavenger hunt. I started playing by accident. I was in a conversation with a woman with a mask and mentioned the word pride, and was given a flat marble. Apparently the Seven Deadly Sins were walking around the party that night and would each give you a token if you guessed who they were. The tokens were then used to bid on an auction. I’d just nailed Pride. She gave me a hint: Greed wears gold. Apparently I arrived late because they started winding down. And I botched it when I mistook Lust for Greed (she was wearing gold on her mask, come on!!). This was the start of a much more complicated story because Aliquis was there.

What can I tell you about Aliquis without getting in trouble? He’s a bit of a wild one. Legendary in his own right. And he does things his own way, for better or worse, and without guilt or remorse.

Meanwhile D’aliquis’s friends have intercepted us at the party. They’re all excited. “So, we’re not leaving until noon tomorrow, so you two take your time, okay??”

I know what they’re up to. I smiled. “Worry not my child! She has already received the D.”

They started squealing. And now you know why I call her D’aliquis.

Eventually I ran out of things to look at and we headed back to Crawhere, where we sat around the fire and were treated to the Buttery Banana song.

I don’t remember any of the words but I do remember it was incredibly off-color. It was after that I was compelled to deposit D’aliquis at home.

Not long after that, Aliquis came back.

“I think I got banished from the 7 Deadly Sins party.”

“...really banished?” someone asked.

He nodded, drawing a breath through his teeth. “Yeeaaahh.”

Once again I’m really not sure how much of this story I’m supposed to tell you. Aliquis isn’t on facebook, so I can’t tell you precisely who he is. This may be one of those things. A Scadian story that’s so personally yours, so unique to you, you can’t share it. Because as much as I want to, I can’t blog the story about why Aliquis was “banished” from the party, what he experienced there, and the story of his plucky sidekick revealing a little of himself. So please don’t go messaging me and expecting me to tell you the sweet details of this awesome and mind-blowing story of the Terrier!

What I can tell you is what happened after that. The course of the previous story touched on how Murdaigean and Ceanag met me. This drew Aliquis’ attention to me. Almost at random he turned to me and asked “what do you do?!” Looking at me like I’m some sort of alien. I smiled. He turned to someone, I think it was Gnaeus. “He’s cool, right? Is he good?” Gnaeus was trying not to laugh. “Yeah, he’s...he’s nice!” This diverted him temporarily, but before long Aliquis asked me again. “What do you do?!” I smile again, but the third time, he’s really serious “What do you do?! You gotta be one of those geniuses, right? You do computers or something? Come on, what do you do!”

He was being really aggressive, and I cracked. I told him the truth. A woman had just destroyed my life. I didn’t do anything. I used to have a job before I put my trust in someone who left me flat. Coming here was, if anything, part of my therapy. But what do I do? Nothing. I live with my family. I say “family” every time because I hate saying I live with my parents. You happy?

He eased off immediately. “So you’re movin’ in with mom?” He nodded, his face a dim outline, his eyes just reflections of the campfire. “I’m doin’ that too. It’s hard.”

It was somber for a little, but enough drinking was going on that this didn’t last. Suddenly he’s talking at me again. “You goin’ to school?”

“I got my degree, yeah.”

“Are you going to school!”

“No, I’m done!”

“What are you, dead?!”

This was the beginning of the gospel of Aliquis. I learned great wisdom from him that night, proving that it can come from anywhere.

“You wanna fight polearm?!” That’s what I did at the time. “Who’s teachin’ ya?”

“Tanaka,” I said.

He nodded slowly. “I heard of ‘im.”

You hear that, T?

“You wanna be a spearman? The first thing you have to do is learn to run backwards.”

This stunned me too, how true it was, how much sense it made, and how many people have confirmed that yes, if you can do that, you’ll have a huge advantage.

“Stand up!” he demanded.

Okay. Little nervous now, but I was surrounded by big burly Celts who’d jump in and separate us if this got violent. He stood me up and turned me around. “When you’ve got a shield, right?” he was right behind me, right in my ear. “When you’ve got a shield, a spearman’s going to come up behind you and use you.” He started bumping me left and right with his arm, symbolizing the spear. “They’re gonna try to steer you, use you for cover, point you where they need you, you gotta establish a rapport, without even talking you have to work together.”

I have the strange ability to see through the weirdness of a situation and focus on the lesson. Everything he was saying made sense.

Aliquis turned back to Gnaeus and demanded the truth about me, and how well they’d vetted me out, then nudged me toward the darkness. “Get over here. C’mon.”

Once again, not feeling in danger per se, but on my toes. And sure enough, something hit me on the shoulder.

“Ow!”

“Pick that up.”

I bent down and picked up a tall, red fiberglass spear. It had a snappy flex and was taller than me. Aliquis was suddenly right in my face. “If I see you on the battlefield without that, if I find out you’ve left that in a closet somewhere...you don’t wanna know, you don’t wanna know what I’ll do to you!!”

Wow. Okay. Suddenly I had a spear. Aliquis returned to the fire and suddenly his sidekick, the Terrier, was in my face too.

“You realize that’s his second favorite spear?! You must treat it with respect!”

Okay! Okay! Sheesh. Wow. What an evening. I returned to the fire and stood with it, doing my best to show it the respect and honor due something of its caliber. The end was wrapped in green tape, the details are sketchy but it was bestowed as some sort of “curse,” a sign of rivalry that his opponents looked for to come after him specifically, which I was ordered to remove as I had not earned it. The haft matched my outfit and it was lighter than rattan. It was a beautiful thing.

What I should have done is thanked him and gone to bed. Instead he turns on me again.

“If I don’t see you usin’ that!!”

“Okay! I’m finishing the armor, I’ll be authorized soon!!”

He was dumbfounded. “What?! I thought you said he was authorized!!”
Gnaeus was giggling helplessly at this. “I said he was nice!”

Aliquis turned back to me. “I’d...better take that back. Yeah.”

So that was the night Aliquis indian-gave me a spear. He said when I DID get authorized to come back and talk to him. You bet I will. I’m coming for you, R████.

It was late. Everyone was leaving the following day. For some reason us and a few others were staying an extra day and leaving the day after, and in retrospect I wish we hadn’t, it’s a special kind of hurt to see a place so full of life have that energy depart. Compared to the rest of the event, the story of waiting a day and then going home is completely unremarkable, and I’m ending my tale here tonight with one last journey of the spirit.

Knowing it was all about to be over, I visited the longhall for the last time.

Apparently sometimes people sleep in here. It makes sense. There were two people outlined in the dim light of the low fire, dead away, oblivious to me as I glided past them to the back and stood before the relics and mementos hanging there. The banner. The plastic skull I’d been invited to drink beer out of. Two jawbones. A random candle. A helmet of some significance I’m not privy to. A plastic crow. Another random candle.

And there in the light of the fire, alone but for two sleeping Vikings, I tossed out the tails of my vestments and knelt down in the dust of the stone floor and put my hands together.

And I prayed.

I’ve never told anyone this.
I didn’t say a word. I wasn’t praying to anyone in particular. For the first time in about a decade and a half, I was in prayer. For the first time in my whole life, I meant it. I wasn’t asking forgiveness, begging for mercy or demanding a sign. I knelt in silence because I felt blessed. Not because I felt I owed thanks to anyone, but I felt what I knew was the sublime peace, the oneness with everything and the sense of belonging that all pious men seek. Not necessarily in the SCA, not in wearing a silly costume or watching people hit each other. I don’t think anyone else would be able to walk the same path and find the same truth as I had. It’s not the kind of lesson you can teach. I’d found good people, really genuinely good people. I’d found purpose, gained knowledge, had stories, and stolen a heart. I’d been forgiven. My tragedies ceased to matter. I had been healed.

I was saved.