I am with my neighbour, Deborah, who is driving me to the hospital for some routine bloodwork proceedure. On the way there, we pass a church. There is some sort of a procession involving the priest, who is carrying a heavy ornate book (The Bible?); the altar boys with tall candles, and some women dressed in ivory robes with light brown hooded tabards. They all march slowly around the perimeter of the church, and are chanting. It's interesting but understandable that such processions take place every once in a while. However, I am struck by the fact that the procession does not go back in through the door. Instead, there appears to be a hole in the wall, as though it's been bashed in by a sledgehammer, forming a crude window, and it is through there that they all enter, crawling through it in the most undignified manner. I catch up with the last woman and ask her about it. She replies that it's "tradition" and that's the way it always has been done.
We continue on our way, and finally reach the hospital. Deborah drives carefully along the path to the parking lot, which is covered with snow. She waits for me in the car while I quickly go in and complete my procedure.
Things and events kind of blur here, and indicate a passage of time. Once again, we are on the road going back to the hospital and again we pass the same procession. The woman whom I stopped to talk to before is there and looks at me with recognition. Coming up to the hospital entrance, we are very surprised to see a man dressed in a very elaborate Santa Clause costume walk by. It's not the usual red and white outfit, but more vintage - gold robes trimmed with ermine fur and garlands of holly and ivy about his head. As we drive further I see more people dressed in very elaborate costumes. As I get out of the car, I am suddenly aware that I too am wearing a costume, a beautiful 17th century gown of pale blue with ivory lace. I pass another woman wearing a gown of the same era, but in rosy peach colour, and we both curtsy to each other. Her face looks very odd, as though she has two noses, but I realize that it's because she's wearing a mask.
The follow-up procedure is done and I'm going back to the car. My garb disappears and I am dressed in regular street clothes again. Before I actually get to the car, I see a woman. She has short spiky steel-gray hair and very hard dark eyes. I know she's a writer of some sort and I stop to speak to her about this. At that moment I also recognize her as the woman I spoke to in the procession.
She tells me that she writes religious material and is very proud of exposing the "evil pagans" to the Church. She is very intent on her work and doesn't even realize that she's holding me tightly by my left arm. I almost laugh in her face, but decide to gently disengage myself from her first. After I do so, and am safely in the car, I tell her she better go back and check her facts on paganism again. "I will be very happy to help you with that", I continue, "because, you see, I am Pagan and very proud of it!"
Her face becomes the very image of hatred and anger as we drive away. Quickly, I forget about her, and instead delight in seeing Santa Clause again, in his sumptuous gold robes...
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