When I was a child, Sunday mornings were sacred. Not necessarily in a religious sense, although there was that as well, but sacred in a way that we celebrated the experience of a peaceful morning. We did go to 9 a.m. mass every week, and it was mandatory and never questioned. At that time, I didn’t appreciate that hour sitting in the church or listening to the priest’s sermon. I sat on the hard wooden pew trying to concentrate on what was being said as my mother encouraged me to “listen to the message”; my mind raced on thoughts of anything but. My little body felt like there was a ping pong ball being paddled from one end of it to the other as I tried to “sit still” like my sisters did.
I remember looking over at my father as he sat quiet, stoic, with his hands folded one on top of the other and his eyes closed. I wondered why he was allowed to sleep while I had to listen to the man in the robe. I challenged my mother on this one time, and she told me that my father was not sleeping, but that he found having his eyes closed allowed him to listen better; she never did mention whether or not the snoring helped his listening skills as well. I did my best as the minutes ticked away because my reward was stopping at the local “Mister Donut” on the way home for those amazing Long Johns with whipped cream.
Once home, we all sat in the living room in our Sunday best and engaged in reading the newspaper or a good book while we discussed current events and intricate plots while savouring our dessert. Having already sat for most of the morning and needing to burn off some energy, the sugar intake took over and prompted me to yearn for a change of stimulation. My mother took my cue of endless shifting on the couch, and gathered the 5 albums we owned and placed them on the stereo turn table. The dynamics in the room quickly shifted as my mother and I listened and sang to Dean Martin, Doris Day, Bobby Darin, Frank Sinatra and Tony Bennett. My father and sisters were amazingly focused as they continued to read and disregarded the background music. I often wondered why they so opposed having fun. I was always astounded at how long they could hold out and ignore us.
After singing through Dean and Doris, I was usually ready to move my body. We owned a foot ottoman that served me well as a small stage and a wooden pill crusher (brought over from Indonesia long ago by my father) as a microphone. Bobby Darin’s “Artificial Flowers” was my favourite as it had an upbeat tempo and it made me feel joyful (it wasn’t until later in life that I realized how sad the story that he sang was). As I sit here, I envision a young girl dancing and singing with abandon. She has no cares, and she is living in the moment; so care free and so happy; so filled with joy.
Yesterday, I sat working at my computer which faces our sitting room, and I saw my daughter and her dad reading the paper and drinking coffee together. I was filled with memories of this piece of my childhood, and I reflected on how traditions, rituals, and our nature are, unconsciously, passed down through the generations. It wasn’t long before my daughter’s need do move prompted her dad to put Michael Jackson on the ipod dock. I closed my computer, and my husband put his newspaper aside. I could feel my body wanting to move to the music, and I went with it. There was that familiar feeling of joy again.
We didn’t go to mass that morning, and we didn’t eat any donuts, but we all started the day with our own unique family rituals; our own "feel-goods". Our feeling of belonging, our feeling of comfort, our feeling of joy; that is what I know is our feeling of family.
