OF CONSONANTS AND COINCIDENCES

Sometimes, something as seemingly inconsequential as an innocently omitted consonant can call up meditation when least expected. This happened to me last Friday in my little corner of Cork, Ireland, when Noel and I were in the village market, picking up a few items for the coming weekend. At the checkout, I noticed that the current issue of the local newsletter was on sale. Noel deposited 25 cent (yes, “cent,” not “cents” here in Ireland) into the “honour box” and we made our way out to the van with our purchases. I scanned the front page as we walked out of the market, and I hadn’t cleared the door before I noticed a typo headlining the last paragraph in the right lower-hand corner of the front page. As its full meaning overtook me, it got me to laughing so hard that I could scarcely make my way across the lane and, by the time we were in the van, tears were streaming down my face… Noel asked me what in the world was so funny, and I could only point to the headline while gasping for my next breath… soon we were both laughing uncontrollably and continued to do so halfway to Cork City…

The brief advert that caught my eye had to do with what is commonly known as “Fat Tuesday” in America, but which the Irish commonly reference as “Pancake Tuesday” or, in religious circles, “Shrove Tuesday.” For those not In The Know (which included me before I did a little research into the subject), this is the day before the Catholic Lent, where fasting and penitence is undertaken in the 40 days preceding Easter. Pancakes, and the butter and sweet toppings associated with them have come to symbolize the fats and sugars in local larders that would be used up in order to meet the rigors of such self-denial further down the line.

The rationing of sensual delights has never been my forte, but not for lack of self-control. I’ve just never seen the point to it, pure and simple. I am the first to delight in the unexpected warmth of sunlight through a bay window, simultaneously releasing my shoulder muscles while it also works to free the peppery perfume of potted geraniums nestled on the sill above the window seat; night music lifted on the warmth of a garlic and jasmine-infused seaside breeze; the sticky pudge of a grandchild's hands in mine following the juicy enjoyment of a late-summer stone fruit, or the startle of sweet, sour and savory on slumbering taste buds; the full awareness of well-worn wood in one's hands, whether it is in the form of a well-employed kitchen whisk or an equally work-hardened rowing oar. It is my humble opinion that these gifts of the senses are, indeed, gifts… as such, they are to be rejoiced in, rather than restricted. Add to this an uneasy alliance with organized religion that dates back to childhood and, in me, you have an unabashed heathen (by definition, “a person of the heath,” or, “of the earth”), who celebrates the immediacy of the gravid sensuality in every aspect of every day. Life is for The Living. Each moment is here and gone in a heartbeat, moments for us to maximize and ultimately memorize. So, for a variety of reasons all my own, I choose to eschew the rigorous rejection of all things sensual in favor of the rowdy rejoicing in same.

Please do not mistake my own choice for a lack of respect for those who do gain a sense of accomplishment, atonement and/or self-defined spiritual sustenance from the practice of self-denial and/or self-discipline. Literally, more Power to you, and good on ya for adherence to a personal structure that works for you. We all have our own path to follow. My personal way forward is mine alone, and it is framed in the support and encouragement of the beliefs of others, as long as the practice of that belief is at no expense or pain to anyone else. Moderation in all things, overall. But I also personally believe wholeheartedly in letting the scales tip in favor of pure, unabashed and unbridled Joy wherever Joy presents itself in our lives, and to share that Joy willingly and without reservation with others.

Thus, when I saw the typo in the previously-mentioned headline, it somehow summarized my inability and unwillingness to embrace self-imposed restriction on sensuality in a beautifully simplistic way. With the omission of a well-placed "r" under flying fingers on a harried volunteer's keyboard as publishing deadline approached, and with the aid of an innocently ignorant electronic Spell-Check, "Shrove Tuesday" hilariously took on new life in laughter as "Shove Tuesday." I couldn't have said it better myself.

So, for some of you, by all means, praise the Lord.... and for the rest of us, please... pass the pancakes... Blessings abound.