At about nine pm, we got on a mini bus- half filled with other russians, and as our four hour journey progressed, picked up more on the way- until every seat was full. The journey there was pretty uneventful, icy windows meant itwas cold enough to keep every layer of your many layers on, and we watched a flip down screen; some russian comedy. I drifted between consciousness and unconsciousness, battling to remain wakeful enough to savour everysecond. There is something so great about long bus rides, when you dont need to be concerned with when to get off, where you are going, but just sit there in blissful ignorance and acceptance, because its all already been arranged. Darina's mother had booked the bus, and im under the impression that the other thirty or so Russians were family friends, or relatives.
Half way through the four hour journey we stopped in a town for ten minutes; for a 'smoking' break,Artur cracked open the shampagne he had brought, and insisted on carrying it through the streets as we wondered along. There was nothing particularly noteworthy about that little expedition, except how cold it got. We hoppedback on the bus, continued for a few more hours, and eventually arrived in the town or village of Diveyvo. I had some vague impression of Diveyvo's spiritual importance, but was to later discover that it is one of four Russian Orthodox 'Dowers' on earth. There is one in Georgia, Ukraine and Greece (I think). In Russia, it is a spiritual centreof the Orthodox Church, and believed to be one of the Virgin Mary's favourite places- as she told the nun whom she appeared to, in a dream-that later went on to build the first of four beautiful churches. We walked around taking pictures,the churches really are beautiful. Especially in the snow. They are really pristine.
Following a group of Russians, we slipped into the hall of a church, and then eventually, into mass. As we entered a small frail shrivelled looking, but very smiley old woman conveyed that she wanted to tie aprons around our waists. I was scolded by some man for holding a camera (which i then hid), and then we shuffled into a space in the crowd. inside the church was exquisite; scented candles burned, the walls depicted saints and biblical scenes; all painted in pastels and gold. Huge golden chandeleers hung from the high spire ceilings, and a priest (or bishop?) was chanting melodically. Every now and then a chorus of women would pipe up angelically. it was so serene and reverenced. and filled. Hundreds of russians stood crossing themselves and bowing at certain words or phrases, women stood with their eyes closed, and lips moving. A child lit a candle and prayed. The only other encounter i have had with the Russian Orthodox Church since i have been here, was in a museum. I was wondering curiously between displays,when i came across these primitive looking, wooden biblical scenes. A crucifix crudely cut out, four wise men with long beards etc. etc. but there was this one figure, a bearded fatherly looking man, with his arms wide open- coming outof the sky; that made my heart start. Honestly the symbol of the cross doesnt really do anything for me, i know what it represents- but its like trying to reflect all the glory and wonder of the sun by drawing a circle with some lines sticking out. How could you even imagine that it might capture all the intensity and feriocity of that bubbling sphere of molten heat? And worse; by putting sun glasses on it?! The plain symbol is good because it doesnt mislead or imply or dwell on anything, but its also crap because it doesnt. Ive never seen an artistic representation of God that struck me so emotively. And at a time, when feeling particularly vulnerable and insecure, the image of a Father with his arms outstretched in longing and love, was enough to make me stand at that particular exhibition for thirty minutes.
Although i stood in the church, thinking all the things a protestant who attends a charismatic church would think,that there was so much gold and embroidery seperating these individuals around me from an intimate communion with God, at the same time, i stood thinking, was it even enough? Is the ornate chandeleers and solemn prayars even enough? When did the concept of worship become so reduced that its ok for me to come before God without my best? in my muddy shoes and preoccupied, or sleepy. and singing generally quite meaningless songs comprised of one syllabled words? There was such a reverence in that room, in the physical demonstration of grown men bowing their heads, acknowleding the God of Heaven. Its easy to forget that im in a christian state. But I just think of Tolstoy or Dostoevsky, and how much they wrote, at least, about God. And as i have been told, politically they have always demanded one central power. I think even the racism is a backlash against the spread of Muslim communities. When i walk down the streets i will pass women crossing themselves constantly, because i think they want charity for the church. Its wierd that a people so different to my own, with such different habits and logic, at least acknowledge the same God. I dont want to join the Russian Orthodox Church, or become a Catholic; but there is such an appealing timelessness about it, the miracles and visions and ancient legacy that fills you with a sense of security and anchor. Like the prayers the bishop and choir hummed are the same prayers worshippers have whispered for centuries- despite seemingly, the impact of communism.
after we finally worked up the courage to whisper out of mass, we walked back to the bus, stopping along the way to look in a souvenir shop. Where i bought my first icon, a picture of Jesus in a field, looking ponderously toward heaven, with some Russian inscription that Darina translated feebly as 'thinking about the cup'. I guess it has something to do with the Garden of Gethsemane. When we got back on the bus a friendly looking blonde middle aged woman attempted to comunicate with me; offering "ruskee chie", like i havent already tasted russian blacktea about six hundred times. it was very kind though, and very appreciated.
The bus jolted down the street and around a bend, parking in the middle of this giant plain of ice. I think we were on top of the lake. We followed Darina and a couple other women into this little wooden changing room, where we hastily changed into pyjamas, and then took it in turns to climb down the icy stairs and 'dip three times' into the water. Having spent summers in the Irish Sea, i didnt find the water exceptionally freezing, the frozen steps were worse. It was a shock submerging yourself so quickly, but not unbearable. Apart from Darina, her 'siberian mother', Magda and I, maybe only two other women took the plunge. We left triumphant, and 'strong'- with a story to tell our grandchildren. It was minus twenty degrees.
The journey home was an experience, food was shared around the bus, and a steel mug of vodka passed between seats; and man i have never been so glad of it! The warmth running down my throat into my belly was such a relief, as i sat with my hood up, gloves on and zipped up; snug in the cold. sometimes i think you just need alcohol here, when its so cold. The back seat passengers, having been relatively quiet on the way up, were drunk; someone produced a russian balalaika (three stringed guitar), and they sung passionately from 2am until we arrived back in Nizhny; dramatic wailing interspersed with triumpant cries of 'Opa!' and hand clapping. Out of amusement, i sat criminally recording it on my camera.
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