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Re: [orthodox-synod] Clean Monday

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  • Theodora Wright
    Bless Father have been waiting !!!! :-)))))))))) Sorta a tradition now. Thank you and a blessed Clean Monday to all Theodora in The Mountains
    Message 1 of 6 , Feb 23, 2004
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      Bless Father have been waiting !!!! :-)))))))))) Sorta a tradition now.
      Thank you and a blessed Clean Monday to all

      Theodora in The Mountains
    • Theodora Wright
      ... go
      Message 2 of 6 , Feb 17, 2007
      • 0 Attachment
        > Subject: Clean Monday
        >
        >
        > >
        > > It's time to post this though I doubt very seriously that I will
        go
        > > outside and clean screens and windows and yards this time! Too
        > cold!
        > > We start so early this year that all I am doing is the inside and
        > > teaching hubby about Clean Monday :>)))))) To all I ask
        > forgiveness
        > > and want you all to know that I consider you all a gift . May God
        > > bless and keep all and may the Lord bless us with a fruitful Fast
        > and
        > > Joyous Feast to come.
        > >
        > > Theodora in The Mountains
        > >
        > > Subject: Clean Monday
        > >
        > >
        > > > http://jennelou.tripod.com/Update20050423/Pillow/index.html
        >
        >
        >
        >
        >
      • Rev Fr Mark Gilstrap
        http://roca.org/OA/47/47g.htm A Child s Lent Remembered An excerpt from Ivan Shmelyov s Anno Domini , a wistful recollection of life in his pious,
        Message 3 of 6 , Feb 18, 2007
        • 0 Attachment
          http://roca.org/OA/47/47g.htm

          "A Child's Lent Remembered"

          An excerpt from Ivan Shmelyov's "Anno Domini", a wistful recollection
          of life in his pious, old-fashioned, well-to-do home in
          pre-Revolutionary Moscow.

          translated from the Russian by Maria Belaeff and published in
          "Orthodox America", v5, #7, February 1985. Posted with permission of
          the editors.

          +++++++++++++++++++++++

          Clean Monday

          I waken from harsh light in my room: a bare kind of light,
          cold dismal. Yes, it's Great Lent today. The pink curtains, with
          their hunters and their ducks, have already been taken down while
          I slept, and that's why it's so bare and dismal in the room. It's
          Clean Monday today for us, and everything in our house is being
          scrubbed.

          Greyish weather, the thaw. The dripping beyond the window is
          like weeping. Our old carpenter - Gorkin, "the panel man" - said
          yesterday that when Lady Shrovetide leaves, she'll weep. And so
          she is - drip...drip...drip... There she goes!

          I look at the paper flowers reduced to shreds, at the gold-
          glazed "Shrovetide" sweetcake - a toy, brought back from the baths
          yesterday; gone are the little bears, gone are the little hills -
          vanished, the joy. And a joyous something begins to fuss in my
          heart; now everything is new, different. Now it'll be "the soul
          beginning" - Gorkin told me all about it yesterday. "It's time to
          ready the soul." To prepare for Communion, to keep the fast, to
          make ready for the Bright Day.

          "Send One-eye in to see me!" I hear Father's angry shouting.

          Father has not gone out on business; it's a special day today,
          very strict. Father rarely shouts. Something important has
          happened. But after all, he forgave the man for drinking; he
          cancelled all his sins; yesterday was the day of Forgiveness. And
          Vasil-Vasillich forgave us all too, that's exactly what he said in
          the dining room, kneeling: "I forgive you all!" So why is father
          shouting then?

          The door opens, Gorkin comes in with a gleaming copper basin.
          Oh, yes, to smoke out Lady Shrovetide! There's a hot brick in the
          basin, and mint, and they pour vinegar over them. My old nurse,
          Domnushka, follows Gorkin around and does the pouring; it hisses in
          the basin and a tart steam rises - a sacred steam. I can smell it
          even now, across the distance of the years. Sacred... that's what
          Gorkin calls it. He goes to all the corners and gently swirls the
          basin. And then he swirls it over me.

          "Get up dearie, don't pamper yourself," he speaks lovingly to
          me, sliding the basin under the skirt of the bed. "Where's she hid
          herself in your room, fat old Lady Shrovetide... We'll drive her
          out! Lent has arrived... We'll be going to the Lenten market, the
          choir from St. Basil's will be singing 'My soul, my soul arise;'
          you won't be able to tear yourself away."

          That unforgettable, that sacred smell. The smell of Great
          Lent. And Gorkin himself, completely special - as if he were kind
          of sacred too. Way before light, he had already gone to the bath,
          steamed himself thouroughly, put on everything clean. Clean Monday
          today! Only the kazakin is old; today only the most workaday
          clothes may be worn, that's "the law."

          And it's a sin to laugh, and you have to rub a bit of oil on
          your head, like Gorkin. He'll be eating without oil now, but you
          have to oil the head, it's the law, "for the prayer's sake."
          There's a glow about him, from his little grey beard, all silver
          really, from the neatly combed head. I know for a fact that he's
          a saint. They're like that, God's people, that please Him. And
          his face is pink, like a cherubim's, from the cleanness. I know
          that he's dried himself bits of black braed with salt, and all Lent
          long he'll take them with his tea, "instead of sugar."

          But why is Daddy angry... with Vasil-Vasillich, like that?

          "Oh, sinfulness..." says Gorkin with a sigh. "It's hard to
          break habits, and now everything is strict, Lent. And, well, they
          get angry. But you hold fast now, think about your soul. It's the
          season, all the same as if the latter days were come... that's the
          law! You just recite, "O Lord and Master of my life..." and be
          cheerful."

          And I begin silently reciting the recently memorized Lenten
          prayer.

          The rooms are quiet and deserted, full of that sacred smell.
          In the front room, before the reddish icon of the Crucifixion, a
          very old one, from our sainted great-grandmother who was an Old
          Believer; a "lenten" lampada of clear glass has been lit, and now
          it will burn unextinguished until Pascha. When Father lights it -
          on Saturdays he lights all the lampadas himself - he always sings
          softly, in a pleasant-sad way: "Before Thy Cross, we bow down, O
          Master," and I would sing softly after him, that wonderful refrain:

          "And Thy ho-ly.. Re-sur-re-e-ec-tion, we glo-ri-fy!"

          A joy-to-tears beats inside my soul, shining from these words.
          And I behold it, behind the long file of lenten days - the Holy
          Resurrection, in lights. A joyful little prayer! It casts a
          kindly beam of light upon these sad days of Lent.

          I begin to imagine that now the old life is coming to an end,
          and it's time to prepare for that other life, which will be...
          where? Somewhere, in the heavens. You have to cleanse the soul of
          all sinfulness, and that's why everything around you is different.
          And something special is at our side, invisible and fearful.
          Gorkin told me that now, "it's like when the soul is parting from
          the body." THEY keep watch, to snatch away the soul, and all the
          while the soul trembles and wails: "Woe is me, I am cursed!" They
          read about it in church now, at the Standings.

          "Because they can sense that their end is coming near, that
          Christ will rise! And that's why we're a-given Lent for, to keep
          close to church, to live to see the Bright Day. And not to
          reflect, you understand. About earthly things, do not reflect!
          And they'll be ringing everywhere: 'Think back!... Think back!..."
          He made the words boom inside him nicely.

          Throughout the house the window vents are open, and you can
          hear the mournful cry and summons of the bells, ringing before the
          services: think-back.. think-back. That's the piteous bell, crying
          for the soul. It's called the Lenten peal.

          They've taken the shutters down from the widows, and it'll be
          that way, poor-looking, clear until Pascha. In the drawing-room
          there are grey slip-covers on the furniture; the lamps are bundled
          up into cocoons, and even the one painting, "The Beauty at the
          Feast," is draped over with a sheet. That was the suggestion of
          His Eminence. Shook his head sadly and said: "A sinful and
          tempting picture!" But Father likes it a lot - such class! Also
          draped is the engraving which Father for some reason calls "the
          sweetcake one", it shows a little old man dancing, and an old woman
          hitting him with a broom. That one His Eminence liked a great
          deal, even laughed.

          All the housefolk are very serious, in workday clothes with
          patches, and I was told also to put on the jacket with the worn-
          through elbows. The rugs have been taken out; it's such a lark now
          to skate across the parquet. Only it's scary to try - Great Lent:
          skate hard and you'll break a leg. Not a crumb left over from
          Shrovetide, mustn't be so much as a trace of it in the air. Even
          the sturgeon in aspic was passed down to the kitchen yesterday.
          Only the very plainest dishes are left in the sideboard, the ones
          with the dun spots and the cracks... for Great Lent.

          In the front room there are bowls of yellow pickles, little
          umbrellas of dill sticking out of them, and chopped cabbage, tart
          and thickly dusted with anise - a delight. I grab pinches of it -
          how it crunches! And I vow to myself to eat only lenten foods for
          the duration of the fast. Why send my soul to perdition, since
          everything tastes so good anyway! There'll be stewed fruit, potato
          pancakes with prunes, "crosses" on the Week of the Cross... frozen
          cranberries with sugar, candied nuts... And what about roast
          buckwheat kasha with onions, washed down with kvass! And then
          lenten pasties with milk-mushrooms, and then buckwheat pancakes
          with onions on Saturdays... and the boiled wheat with marmalade on
          the first Saturday... and almond milk with white kissel, and the
          cranberry one with vanilla, and the grand kuliebiak on
          Annunciation... Can it be that THERE, where everyone goes to from
          this life, ther will be such lenten fare!

          And why is everyone so dull-looking? Why, everything is so...
          so different, and there is much, so much that is joyous. Today
          they'll bring the first ice and begin to line the cellars - the
          whole yard will be stacked with it. We'll go to the "Lenten
          Market," where I've never been... I begin jumping up and down with
          joy, but they stop me: "It's Lent, don't dare! Just wait and see,
          you'll break your leg!"

          Fear comes over me. I look at the Crucifixion. He suffers,
          the Son of God! But how is it that God... How did He allow it?...

          I have the sense that herein lies the great mystery itself -
          GOD.
        • Fr Mark Gilstrap
          http://roca.org/OA/47/47g.htm A Child s Lent Remembered An excerpt from Ivan Shmelyov s Anno Domini , a wistful recollection of life in his pious,
          Message 4 of 6 , Mar 10, 2008
          • 0 Attachment
            http://roca.org/OA/47/47g.htm

            "A Child's Lent Remembered"

            An excerpt from Ivan Shmelyov's "Anno Domini", a wistful recollection of
            life in his pious, old-fashioned, well-to-do home in pre-Revolutionary
            Moscow.

            translated from the Russian by Maria Belaeff and published in "Orthodox
            America", v5, #7, February 1985. Posted with permission of the editors.

            +++++++++++++++++++++++

            Clean Monday

            I waken from harsh light in my room: a bare kind of light,
            cold dismal. Yes, it's Great Lent today. The pink curtains, with
            their hunters and their ducks, have already been taken down while
            I slept, and that's why it's so bare and dismal in the room. It's
            Clean Monday today for us, and everything in our house is being
            scrubbed.

            Greyish weather, the thaw. The dripping beyond the window is
            like weeping. Our old carpenter - Gorkin, "the panel man" - said
            yesterday that when Lady Shrovetide leaves, she'll weep. And so
            she is - drip...drip...drip... There she goes!

            I look at the paper flowers reduced to shreds, at the gold-
            glazed "Shrovetide" sweetcake - a toy, brought back from the baths
            yesterday; gone are the little bears, gone are the little hills -
            vanished, the joy. And a joyous something begins to fuss in my
            heart; now everything is new, different. Now it'll be "the soul
            beginning" - Gorkin told me all about it yesterday. "It's time to
            ready the soul." To prepare for Communion, to keep the fast, to
            make ready for the Bright Day.

            "Send One-eye in to see me!" I hear Father's angry shouting.

            Father has not gone out on business; it's a special day today,
            very strict. Father rarely shouts. Something important has
            happened. But after all, he forgave the man for drinking; he
            cancelled all his sins; yesterday was the day of Forgiveness. And
            Vasil-Vasillich forgave us all too, that's exactly what he said in
            the dining room, kneeling: "I forgive you all!" So why is father
            shouting then?

            The door opens, Gorkin comes in with a gleaming copper basin.
            Oh, yes, to smoke out Lady Shrovetide! There's a hot brick in the
            basin, and mint, and they pour vinegar over them. My old nurse,
            Domnushka, follows Gorkin around and does the pouring; it hisses in
            the basin and a tart steam rises - a sacred steam. I can smell it
            even now, across the distance of the years. Sacred... that's what
            Gorkin calls it. He goes to all the corners and gently swirls the
            basin. And then he swirls it over me.

            "Get up dearie, don't pamper yourself," he speaks lovingly to
            me, sliding the basin under the skirt of the bed. "Where's she hid
            herself in your room, fat old Lady Shrovetide... We'll drive her
            out! Lent has arrived... We'll be going to the Lenten market, the
            choir from St. Basil's will be singing 'My soul, my soul arise;'
            you won't be able to tear yourself away."

            That unforgettable, that sacred smell. The smell of Great
            Lent. And Gorkin himself, completely special - as if he were kind
            of sacred too. Way before light, he had already gone to the bath,
            steamed himself thouroughly, put on everything clean. Clean Monday
            today! Only the kazakin is old; today only the most workaday
            clothes may be worn, that's "the law."

            And it's a sin to laugh, and you have to rub a bit of oil on
            your head, like Gorkin. He'll be eating without oil now, but you
            have to oil the head, it's the law, "for the prayer's sake."
            There's a glow about him, from his little grey beard, all silver
            really, from the neatly combed head. I know for a fact that he's
            a saint. They're like that, God's people, that please Him. And
            his face is pink, like a cherubim's, from the cleanness. I know
            that he's dried himself bits of black braed with salt, and all Lent
            long he'll take them with his tea, "instead of sugar."

            But why is Daddy angry... with Vasil-Vasillich, like that?

            "Oh, sinfulness..." says Gorkin with a sigh. "It's hard to
            break habits, and now everything is strict, Lent. And, well, they
            get angry. But you hold fast now, think about your soul. It's the
            season, all the same as if the latter days were come... that's the
            law! You just recite, "O Lord and Master of my life..." and be
            cheerful."

            And I begin silently reciting the recently memorized Lenten
            prayer.

            The rooms are quiet and deserted, full of that sacred smell.
            In the front room, before the reddish icon of the Crucifixion, a
            very old one, from our sainted great-grandmother who was an Old
            Believer; a "lenten" lampada of clear glass has been lit, and now
            it will burn unextinguished until Pascha. When Father lights it -
            on Saturdays he lights all the lampadas himself - he always sings
            softly, in a pleasant-sad way: "Before Thy Cross, we bow down, O
            Master," and I would sing softly after him, that wonderful refrain:

            "And Thy ho-ly.. Re-sur-re-e-ec-tion, we glo-ri-fy!"

            A joy-to-tears beats inside my soul, shining from these words.
            And I behold it, behind the long file of lenten days - the Holy
            Resurrection, in lights. A joyful little prayer! It casts a
            kindly beam of light upon these sad days of Lent.

            I begin to imagine that now the old life is coming to an end,
            and it's time to prepare for that other life, which will be...
            where? Somewhere, in the heavens. You have to cleanse the soul of
            all sinfulness, and that's why everything around you is different.
            And something special is at our side, invisible and fearful.
            Gorkin told me that now, "it's like when the soul is parting from
            the body." THEY keep watch, to snatch away the soul, and all the
            while the soul trembles and wails: "Woe is me, I am cursed!" They
            read about it in church now, at the Standings.

            "Because they can sense that their end is coming near, that
            Christ will rise! And that's why we're a-given Lent for, to keep
            close to church, to live to see the Bright Day. And not to
            reflect, you understand. About earthly things, do not reflect!
            And they'll be ringing everywhere: 'Think back!... Think back!..."
            He made the words boom inside him nicely.

            Throughout the house the window vents are open, and you can
            hear the mournful cry and summons of the bells, ringing before the
            services: think-back.. think-back. That's the piteous bell, crying
            for the soul. It's called the Lenten peal.

            They've taken the shutters down from the widows, and it'll be
            that way, poor-looking, clear until Pascha. In the drawing-room
            there are grey slip-covers on the furniture; the lamps are bundled
            up into cocoons, and even the one painting, "The Beauty at the
            Feast," is draped over with a sheet. That was the suggestion of
            His Eminence. Shook his head sadly and said: "A sinful and
            tempting picture!" But Father likes it a lot - such class! Also
            draped is the engraving which Father for some reason calls "the
            sweetcake one", it shows a little old man dancing, and an old woman
            hitting him with a broom. That one His Eminence liked a great
            deal, even laughed.

            All the housefolk are very serious, in workday clothes with
            patches, and I was told also to put on the jacket with the worn-
            through elbows. The rugs have been taken out; it's such a lark now
            to skate across the parquet. Only it's scary to try - Great Lent:
            skate hard and you'll break a leg. Not a crumb left over from
            Shrovetide, mustn't be so much as a trace of it in the air. Even
            the sturgeon in aspic was passed down to the kitchen yesterday.
            Only the very plainest dishes are left in the sideboard, the ones
            with the dun spots and the cracks... for Great Lent.

            In the front room there are bowls of yellow pickles, little
            umbrellas of dill sticking out of them, and chopped cabbage, tart
            and thickly dusted with anise - a delight. I grab pinches of it -
            how it crunches! And I vow to myself to eat only lenten foods for
            the duration of the fast. Why send my soul to perdition, since
            everything tastes so good anyway! There'll be stewed fruit, potato
            pancakes with prunes, "crosses" on the Week of the Cross... frozen
            cranberries with sugar, candied nuts... And what about roast
            buckwheat kasha with onions, washed down with kvass! And then
            lenten pasties with milk-mushrooms, and then buckwheat pancakes
            with onions on Saturdays... and the boiled wheat with marmalade on
            the first Saturday... and almond milk with white kissel, and the
            cranberry one with vanilla, and the grand kuliebiak on
            Annunciation... Can it be that THERE, where everyone goes to from
            this life, ther will be such lenten fare!

            And why is everyone so dull-looking? Why, everything is so...
            so different, and there is much, so much that is joyous. Today
            they'll bring the first ice and begin to line the cellars - the
            whole yard will be stacked with it. We'll go to the "Lenten
            Market," where I've never been... I begin jumping up and down with
            joy, but they stop me: "It's Lent, don't dare! Just wait and see,
            you'll break your leg!"

            Fear comes over me. I look at the Crucifixion. He suffers,
            the Son of God! But how is it that God... How did He allow it?...

            I have the sense that herein lies the great mystery itself -
            GOD.
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