Graveyard Dirt: Two Worlds and In-between

Sviata Vechera, 2010

It's Christmas Eve tonight in Ukraine, which means I have blood relations sitting communally around a kolach-decorated table celebrating Sviata Vechera only a time zone away. (If you've been following Graveyard Dirt since early December you already know that we celebrated Holy Supper on Winter Solstice's evening.) And even though I SHOULD be in the motherfucking kitchen getting a new batch of pyrohy ready (we decided to informally observe today's Julian calendar date as well) I thought I'd take a few minutes to share the pictures I took of the ritualized evening.

I'd be lying like a fucking dog if I didn't admit that this was my most ambitious Holy Supper to date. A huge part of the pressure I experienced came from intimately sharing the custom with folks who read this journal; I shared, I educated and in doing so I provoked some major enthusiasm which ultimately meant I had to fucking deliver, and I had to fucking deliver spectacularly because I knew people would be watching.

Our Winter Solstice celebrations began with a total lunar eclipse, and as the rest of Scotland was rising for the day ahead both Italics and I were getting ready for bed. (We've spent a significant amount of November and December in nocturnal mode.) We waited until the full moon's luminous, rounded body was swallowed by shadow, and then in that morning's night we crawled into bed and solstice spooned ourselves to sleep. (And in doing so we actually missed ALL of the 21's light; we went to bed in darkness, and we woke up in darkness. <- Longest night or what?)

Before we could even contemplate celebrating anything the entire house had to be cleaned, the kitchen table had to be set, the hay had to be scattered, the ancestors' setting needed fine tuning, the animals needed to be fed, the house had to be fumigated with frankincense, we had to ritually bathe, Light needed to be brought into the house and our ancestors had to be formally invited for the ancient Midwinter feast. And until we welcomed that single flame indoors we kept the house as dark as possible - no Christmas lights were turned on, and only the most fucking crucial lamps were switched on (to their dimmest settings).

In an apron, gold earrings and crowned with traditional Slavic braids I carefully followed Italics' slow and even pace as he lead us through the pitch black house - room by room, starting with the backroom's open patio door and finishing at the same spot - holding a solitary candle, the tiny, burning flame our only illumination as we welcomed Light back into the house with incense and fire as the Russian Orthodox Church's Christmas mass service played eerily in the darkened background. (Inviting our collective ancestors, relatives and friends was a little less solemn and involved carols, ringing bells and blowing through a cow horn.)

Sviata Vechera officially began with a toast of homemade plum liqueur (since Italics can't eat wheat I performed the kutia ceremony privately with my Ukrainian ancestors), and it was when our solstice-chilled drinks clinked together (I decanted some of our homemade hooch into a fancy pants container and partially buried it in the snow on the 20th) I knew we had created something really fucking special together. Holy Supper 2010 was a tre-fucking-mendous success, and I've never felt more in tune with my past, present and future. It was the sort've experience that seconds, thirds, fourths and fifths the motion that you're doing the right fucking thing, even if you're essentially making up shit as you go along.

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The Sviata Vechera altar on my kitchen window ledge seems a little naked because it should've had some evergreen filling up the empty spaces. We were hit with two fucking monumental blizzards in early and mid-December, so the insane amount of effing snow kept us from being able to clip fresh foliage to bring indoors for Midwinter decoration. (We did eventually manage to bring greenery into the house, but that wasn't until New Year's Eve when I built a 2010 altar on top of the threadbare Sviata Vechera altar.)

The long, tapered golden candle in the middle of the ledge was the one that Italics carefully carried throughout the house to bring Light back indoors. It doubled as an invitational beacon for the Wandering Traveler (both living and dead, mortal and divine) to show that we practice(d) the old ways, and that anyone without a home or meal that night was welcome to join us for food, warmth and companionship. (I'm amazingly bad for feeding strays. Even the unsavory sort that isn't welcomed into this house still get a plate and lit candle placed outside on the patio step. <- Sometimes all it takes is a single act of kindness, y'know?)

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It's customary to feed the dead on Sviata Vechera, whether you fix a plate/setting specifically for them or leave the Holy Supper table dressed with all of the traditional courses all night long. We do both in this house, but the ancestor setting is a semi-permanent set-up in the lounge (where the Christmas tree is, where our stockings are hung and where our Winter altar is located) and our invited guests are continuously feed throughout the Yuletide season, not just on Holy Supper.

I use Ukrainian linens to create the table setting, some which I inherited from my mother when she passed on, some which I created and some which I scored off of Ebay for crazy cheap prices. The seed pot featured in this photo is actually Native American in origin, but it has special value because my mother, a professional potter, created it. (We're Ukrainian AND Native American; my Mom went the Indian route and I ended up embracing my Eastern European roots.) When the place isn't set with a plate of food her handmade pot sits in the center of the ancestral altar acting like a bridge between the world I live in and the world she - and the rest of my family - resides in.

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Sviata Vechera is dictated by the evening sky, the meal isn't allowed to start until the first star of the night - representing the bright light that guided the three wise men to Bethlehem - has been spotted. (That's usually the job of the kids; I still remember rushing into my grandparents' house in southeast Wisconsin to announce the arrival of the star.)

Back in the old days you didn't just sit around and wait for the star, though. There were a lot of agricultural rites and rituals that needed to be exercised before your ass settled down at the dinner table. For starters, you had to ensure that all of your animals were generously fed (I've even read that it was customary to mix in everything you ate that evening in the animals' feed), and the table holding the festive spread had to be decorated a certain way.

Holy Supper's table is meant to be decked out with your finest. A hand embroidered cloth with traditional designs is set down, the ritual bread - the kolach - is placed in the center on fresh-cut evergreen and the braided loaf is meant to be flanked by a pair of candles.

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You're supposed to scatter hay beneath the table to remind everyone of the humble setting of Christ's birth, but I like to think of the hay as an offering to all of the animals we've eaten or consumed the products of throughout the year to ensure we never forget how crucial their presence is to not only our life, but the lives of our ancestors.

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Sviata Vechera usually consists of twelve dishes spread out through four courses: kutia, borsht with pickled condiments and bread, the main dishes and then dessert - and they're always eaten in that order. It's considered very bad form not to have a token amount of everything, but because Italics has coeliac disease he's got super special permission not to take part in the annual kutia (which is a glorified cereal made out of whole wheat kernels) ceremony. Which, you know, is sort've fitting since wheat, for me, is a representation of the divine male; it's my job to grow it, nurture it, harvest it and then keep the sacred seeds safe until it's time to plant again.

The serious shit happens right at the start with the first course, where blessings, prayers and ritual divination takes place using the kutia. After the semi-solemn ceremony the head of the house booms "Khrystos Rodyvsya!" (Christ is born!) and all of the peons (heh) joyously respond with "Slavim Yoho!" (Let us glorify Him!). It's at that moment when everyone finally relaxes and begins enjoying the long evening ahead of them.

This year's Sviata Vechera menu followed the traditional Ukrainian Holy Supper formula - 12 dishes (18, in total, this year (it was supposed to be 19 but I couldn't get my hands on any pickled herring), and 15 of those had to be made from scratch) spread through 4 courses, but it also paid homage to Italics' ancestors and the last course (dessert, aka "the only course that REALLY counts") reflected our addition to the annual feast.

(A proper dessert was never really presented to the family after dinner, and it always seemed a little anticlimactic. On our first Christmas "alone" (the in-laws take off for two weeks to Spain so the 21st, 24th, 25th, 31st and 1st are very quiet, intimate affairs between Italics and I) we baked ourselves a chocolate-chestnut Yule Log, and we've made one every year since.)

Pictured above: kolach (ritual bread centerpiece), kutia (wheat-based cereal), borsht (beet soup), bread (gluten-free and sauerkraut'n'rye), dill pickles, pickled mushrooms, holubtsi (stuffed cabbage leaves), kapusta (sauerkraut), kartoplyanyky (potato pancakes), mashed potatoes, mushroom sauce, pyrohy (pierogies), skirlie (toasted oats), swede and a homegrown garlic bulb (my grandfather fucking LOVED raw garlic). For more in-depth information about any of the food be sure to read my Sviata Vechera Menu, 2010 journal entry which breaks down the menu dish by dish.

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We toasted longer days and the return of the sun with a homemade liqueur made from our backyard plums. I decanted a small amount from our maturing reserves into a decorative glass container and buried it outside in the snow where Stone Cock once proudly stood. It sat outside for the duration of the full moon and total lunar eclipse, and by the time it was brought indoors for Holy Supper it was deliciously winter-chilled.

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Ignore Wuzza, she just wants attention. (Trust me on this one.)

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Our Winter altar (which I still need to take proper pictures of). We traditionally exchange a gift on Midwinter, so those've been tucked near the altar's black rabbits. My mother's seed pot was carefully relocated on top of our new church hassocks ("KNEEL TO PRAY") since the ancestor setting had begun steadily filling with offerings of food and drink.

One aspect of Sviata Vechera I haven't had the time to explain is the ceremonial procession of the didukhy (decorated wheat bundle) indoors for the festive season. The didukhy is the last bundle of wheat to be cut during harvest, and the solemn ritual is executed gravely. The bundle represents our ancestors, whom we invite into our homes for the Yuletide season.

Much like my Ukrainian ancestors I also perform a reaping ritual during Harvest, although my personal rendition is slightly more pagan than the already unsubtle pagan practice. After marrying and nurturing the King throughout spring and summer I sacrifice him in fall for the better good, mourn his death and safekeep his divine seed until spring when I resurrect and remarry him which heralds a new agricultural year.

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Because I view our Christmas tree as one of the major Midwinter altars we have a custom of placing all of our spirit dolls - or dolls at least representing spirits/companions/helpers we work and live with - beneath the tree amongst our presents and non-perishable food bought especially for the Yuletide season.

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To formally invite our ancestors over for Sviata Vechera we threw open the backroom's patio door and made an inconsiderate amount of noise (we weren't ready to celebrate until near midnight) to provide a noisy path to the house.

We both took turns on a cow horn fitted with a silver mouthpiece (which makes the most exquisitely bizarre sound since it doesn't have the length to make the trumpeting bellow deep and grand), and I played a beloved Ukrainian carol that would've been recognized by both Christian and pagan ancestors while enthusiastically ringing a bell. (The infamous Christmas classic "Carol of the Bells" is actually based on an ancient pre-Christian Ukrainian chant.)

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...and one fantastically blurred picture of 2010's edible Yule Log just before we cut into our annual chocolate and chestnut tradition, marking the end of another Eastern Orthodox-themed evening of witchcraft and the celebration of Light, family and ancient customs that've never died.