All creatures great and small

petey-christmas-2007They wanted to have their dogs blessed, so they went to the blessing of the animals. It was a cold day in early October, and the sun shone down on the beasts and their humans gathered at the foot of the wide stone steps of the cathedral.

Their dogs, one silky brown and black and tan and white and one curly black, were on leashes, one blue and one red. The silky one leaped from the car, knowing something special was up, and pulled ahead, busy with first one bush, then another, drunk on the unfamiliar air of the cathedral neighborhood.  Black curls trotted quietly at the heels of his human.

Priests flung open the doors to the huge cathedral and welcomed the animals in. All manner of dogs entered at the sides of their people, jumping onto the pews or hiding underneath. Cats in carriers or baby slings entered also.

They chose seats halfway down the long expanse of marble floor and arching ceiling. She looked up and wondered how the long chandeliers, shedding their soft light, had been hung.

Was it possible that a ladder existed long enough to reach that high? No, it was not possible. Was it possible that an unseen catwalk skirted the entire perimeter of the domed ceiling? She had climbed the Duomo in Firenze; such things were possible.

But here, in Minneapolis? Was there an invisible world contained between the gilded frescoed ceiling of this heavenly dome and the crisp October air above?

Down in the majestic cavern of the cathedral, dogs and their people were listening to the words of the priest, reading from the book of Genesis. The choir sang hymns, old and new, about the beauty of all creatures, great and small.

At the far end of the pew was a short, plump woman in a bright blue nylon jacket,  with a small clear plastic box next to her, the sort of cheap clear plastic box that a small girl would keep her beads and barrettes in. Inside the box was a shell and a tiny box.

The short plump woman was birdlike, glancing back and forth, chattering to all those sitting near her, gesturing excitedly at the small plastic box with the shell and the tiny box.

What was the small woman saying? What could be in that box?

The small woman was one of those people – you know the kind of person – instinctively you sense them, how they live their lives on the borderland, the margins. You might picture them in junior high,  eating lunch to the side, alone at a table.

Now the priests were beginning their walk down the long marble aisles between pews, swinging the incense and shaking holy water over the animals.

Next to her the black curly dog rested  his head on her lap. The silky one sat straight up in the pew, alert, gazing in all directions, following the progress of the priests.

Down at the end of the pew, a tiny sand-colored claw reached out from under the shell in the clear plastic box and as quickly retracted itself. The small woman turned to see her gazing curiously.

“They’re hermit crabs!” she said. “They’re hermit crabs!”

They were hermit crabs. Tiny crabs, huddled under a foreign shell and a tiny box. Hermit crabs carried to the cathedral in the arms of the small plump woman so that they could be blessed.

The priest came near, and the small woman held her plastic box up high. The priest sprinkled holy water on the hermit crabs and smiled at the small woman, who was now crying.

Holy water was sprinkled on the black curly dog, and on the silky dog.

On down the aisles went the priests, and all the animals in the cathedral were blessed. High above, the ropes that held the chandeliers were straight and steady, anchoring light.

On his way back to the altar the priest stopped at the end of the pew and sprinkled extra holy water on the hermit crabs. The small woman shook her head in gratitude and hugged the clear plastic box.

Blessed are those who endure in peace.

In answer to a question posed by Padgett Powell in his book of many questions

the-god-tyr“If you could assign colors to the days of the week, what color would you assign Tuesday?”

This is an odd question. It implies that you – anyone – have a choice in Tuesday’s color, when in fact you don’t. At least, in your world you don’t.

Tuesday comes with its own color, as do all the days of the week.  Tuesday is a muted mustard-dun, solid color, no pattern. There’s a smooth feel to the color of Tuesday, like old chamois.

Wednesday? A clear blue. Slightly darker than robin’s egg, but on the bright light spectrum of blue. No navy, no dark. Another smooth-textured day.

Thursday is dark, similar to the ocean on a cloudy day. It’s a changeable color within that narrow realm. It can shift from dark gray to forest green, and there’s sometimes a dark honeycomb lace pattern within those dark shades. There can also be a bar of metal in Thursday, a rounded bar that occasionally emerges from within the dark, silent colors. Thursday is a beautiful day. It’s your favorite day of the week.

Friday is a patterned green, a mix of greens: the green of maple leaves in mid-summer and also the green of those leaves when darkened by rain. The pattern that shifts on the surface of Friday is the same sort of leafy light that plays across your skin when you’re lying in your treehouse. Friday is shades of green with shadows.

Saturday is gray-blue, light and porous, especially Saturday mornings. As the day wears on, Saturday darkens in shade but never solidifies; it is a day that retains its foaminess.

Sunday? Yellow, of course, although a yellow that doesn’t take its shade from the sun of its namesake. Sunday is an unchanging shade, a buttery yellow but a shade less dense than implied by the word ‘buttery.’ Sunday is an evaporating sort of day and so is its color.

Monday is dark gray but see-through. Monday is a color like looking through a fine-mesh screen window. Monday is an early color day and it stays dark screen gray until midnight, when it turns into Tuesday, and the chamois mustard-dun returns.

These are the way the days of the week appear to you. They’ve appeared this way all your life, each with its own color and texture and solid or diffuse light and patterns. You never thought about it before, but had you thought about it, you would have assumed that everyone lived their days out with the same sense of color and texture.

Now Mr. Powell is making you re-think that assumption. Is it false? Have you been laboring under a delusion of universal days-of-the-week color your whole life long? Are you, in reality, alone in your life of colored days? How long will you consider these questions? Until you go to bed and wake into the ordained color of a new day?