Tonight, at the pilgrims mass in Carrion de los Condes, we played Simon Says, only we could not understand Simon, so we followed along with the crowd.  The procession began, for us becasue we were late, in song, broken by the slow and prolonged creaking of a door.

Earlier in the day, Brian and I had been inside and I knew there was a beautiful organ perched in the eve behind us.  They decided instead to go with the 90’s Keyboard chiming and buzzing its way through an organ setting.  Next to it were three members of the congregation singing around each thin note, beautifully though I must add.

The priest, who was the only one with a microphone, out-volumed and underwhelmed the congregation.  He would start phrases and not finish them, or drone in part way through.

Two girls, maybe eight years of age, walked between the rows asking for offerings.  Girl number 1, down the opposing row, finished quickly.  Girl number 2, however, took much longer.  The expression on her face as she passed the pew covered in nuns brought me to silent laughter.  They did not acknowledge the young girl.

Behind us walked an older man with keys shaking in his hand at every step.  It was unclear whether he was the maintenance man or not, or why his keys were not it his pocket or at least held tightly.   But maybe it doesn’t matter.  Churches were places made for hearing and under that roof were some pilgrims, but mostly people of the town, people of Carrion de los Condes.

Brian, Tracie and I left and walked to a nearby bar.  In it were more townspeople, mostly older men, watching a matador in a ring dancing around a wounded bull.  I ordered a beer and slowly more people from the congregation trickled in.  The dancer, wearing an eyepatch, plunged a curved blade into the charging animals back and it fell to its knees with its tongue wagging from side to side.  He removed the sword and the beast collapsed to its side, crowd roaring.  Tradition is steeped in blood.  I hated it, but could not turn away.  I was reminded of the wild boar I killed years ago when hunting, one of my only regrets.

I hear its a Jubilee year.

I’ve long had a grudge against Catholicism for its dogma and rigidity, but you know, I can’t deny the beauty of its tradition.  Who really cares about the cheesey Korg, or the keys clanking?  There is beauty in the standing, the sitting, the kneeling, or when we all seem to be improvising one of the three.  The beautiful thing is being there with those people of that town whos families have known one another for generations and still continue to praise in the company of one another.

Tradition #bloodybeautiful