Hymn

The limiting boxes we draw around ourselves amaze me. My religious box was apathetic atheistic agnosticism or some such thing, in true Canadian spirit. The apathetic part overruled any real attempts at definition, and I still have difficulty overcoming apathy in the philosophical realms. My family went for bruising swims in the shallow, rock-filled river on Sundays. Since that building along the gravel road towards the community center wasn’t on the way to the river, it was no more than a barn with a strange roof. Apathetic parents didn’t let me know its use, nor did I ask. Earlier asking had been scolded, “You ask too many questions!” So I stopped, which lead to an extended childhood of naive ignorance, not that that is a bad thing.
My friends from India have a box that doesn’t allow for apathetic atheistic agnosticism. “Not possible!” they exclaim. “You can’t live without some sort of faith.” My bad … sigh.
Somewhere nearing adulthood, being beholden to “Who is my favourite nephew?” syndrome of an extended family, I was coerced into accompanying my aunt, who was neither apathetic nor agnostic, to that barn with a strange roof. Besides, the recent heavy rains upstream had the muddied up.
I might as well have been on pilgrimage to India, so foreign was the culture, albeit only three miles afar. My eyes popped forward as we approached. Cars were parked all around the barn!
You’d a thunk I was a black man as I entered, dragged along by Auntie. The ball players, classmates, some other relatives, cursers of renown, and nearly everyone formerly known only as neighbours were all there! As the end of an old worn fancy bench welcomed me, my head went down and remained that way for two whole hours. The ears still performed their duty.
But I can’t say for sure it was all for nought, because it was the day I learned the difference between ‘song’ and ‘hymn’.