In the pool with fishes

Shergil arrived in Tbilisi, a great joy for me. Shergil has a calming, simple presence about him, a great love of God, and a love of singing and beautiful artwork. I aspire to his humility, we are kindred spirits.

On Wednesday we went down to Sioni Cathedral, the old Cathedral of Tbilisi. Luarsab and Simon greeted us, and I spent time hanging out with some of the guys who were gathered to sing a short service for the Saint Day of Ekvtime Kereselidze. Luarsab brought an original icon of Kereselidze from the Patriarchate, and after we all sang several songs, we lined up each to kiss the icon, and receive a small postcard of his image. Kereselidze became a saint just two or three years ago, and Luarsab and I preparing to write his biography because of his role in saving Georgian chants at the turn of the last century.

I am fasting today, so Shergil and Luarsab also decided to fast with me. Instead of going for lunch, we sang Kereselidze chants in the Patriarchate with Simon. Then Shergil and I walked back to JvarisMama, ‘Cross of the Father’ Church, where we sang in the church vault. As my friends, -most of them singers- slowly gathered, some at 3pm, some at 4pm, and others coming and going waiting for Father Tariel who eventually showed up at around 5:30, Shergil and I commissioned each to chant hymns with us.

We sang in the church, in the baptism grotto which had amazing acoustics, and outside, stomping around in the mildly chilly afternoon. Luarsab’s Nino, Lela, and my chanting nun friend sang some chants together in the higher women’s range, what a beautiful sound.


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Father Tariel greeted me, asked me to change clothing. I was shown upstairs to his priests office, where I slowly stripped away my suit and under clothes, placing them neatly on the couch. I looked at the rippling of the light in the curtain. I unfolded the clean white cloth robe made for this baptism, easily guiding it over my head. It fell loosely around my body, a mere covering from visibility; what a fragile form we have, I felt my nakedness.

As I waited for summons, I gazed at the icons on the wall, saw them seeing me, a child about to be born.

Father Tariel gave me his slippers at the top of the stairs, and I slowly walked down to the baptism vault. The walls and ceiling are brick, musty and old but of solid form in the candlelight. The feeling is not unlike going into an eighteenth century spring house in rural Pennsylvania. A pool foor feet deep with fish swimming around is in the corner of the lower level, stone stairs ascending to the upper level where all of my Orthodox friends are standing expectantly. I felt their beaming faces as they gazed at me, ecstatic that I would soon experience the most miraculous of events: all of my life sins were to be forgiven, a fresh unburdened soul would be born today!

One priest read at a lecturn in a fast drown his eyes intent on the candle-illumined book before him, his bushy beard flaring at the corners, black robes hardly concealing a huge frame and belly. The officiating priest, Father Tariel, dipped a small bottle in the water, and with a small brush painted the cross on my forehead, my cheeks, my nose chin, ears, both sides of my hands, and my feet.

Chanting began and all of my friends sallied forth. I stood facing the pool and the priests, my friends and their families above and behind me, their breath and excitement tangible.

I don’t remember the details, my mind was distant, my imagination active. Deep ritual has this power to transform consciousness. I was present, a sentient being with thoughts, but my soul was more alive, my attention beating with my heart in a feeling world without thought. Strange for me, because my mind usually dominates my experience of the world.

Father Tariel placed a beautiful tall simple beezwax candle in my hand, I was a floating being. He looked kindly in my face and said, ‘Ioane, mogts’ons?’ ‘Will Ioane be your name?’ I nodded assent, having long since decided to accept whatever might come to me on this day, without my desires or interventions playing a role.

And then the anticipated moment arrived; Father Tariel lead me step by step into the pool. The water was not warm, and as the breath rushed up through my body fleeing the cold shock, my chest gasped, the hair on my head stiffened, my ears tingled. We stepped carefully down a rough arrangement of stone steps into the water, finally stepping into the deep end where we stood side by side, waste deep.

Signs of the cross, and then his hand on my head; I went under, one, two, three times with the fish. And then I was walking out of the pool, pulling the white gown away from my body, beaming at my attendance, they beaming back. Chanting began anew.

Apparently at this moment, I am almost lighter than air, my sins having been forgiven, my material weight lifted. From this moment on, I create new sins, which will be forgiven by Christ through the Orthodox tradition.

I was annointed with holy oil crosses all over my body again, and turning slightly, my godfathers repeated a series of prayers from the priest, each placing a cross round my head, Nika putting a large icon of Christ in my hands.

Nika Memanishvili is a composer in Tbilisi, a young man, but already famous. He has recently taken the post of being the State Orchestra and Chorus director, and became a friend of mine in November. We went to Davit Garegi together, recorded an album with Wes and Aurelia while they were here, and took part in our Thanksgiving supra. He is close to the church, and it is an honor to be his godson and close friend.

Shergil and Luarsab are also my godfathers, three seems to be my number this year. Three voices, three siblings, three godfathers, three crosses.

Shergil carved a cross of holy wood; a simple, finely worked cross with slightly flaring arms made of light yellowish wood. Luarsab and Nino chose a magnificent, finely worked small cross with the inscription of an ancient carving on it: four angels in the arms of the cross holding a circle in the middle with a small equal-armed ‘Bolnisi cross’ or ‘Maltese cross’ as I have sometimes heard it referred to.

Nika gave me a large Bolnisi cross in a circle, silver with ebony highlighting. This cross has similarities to the Celtic cross, and my father, as a scholar of Celtic Christianity and a lover of deep faiths, is surely enjoying this moment with me.

Turning towards the pool, I saw out of the corner of my eye the flying body of Father Tariel, a man in his fifties, in full priestly gowns, leaping headfirst into the pool! A tremendous splash erupted in our acoustic vault, amid cries of astonishment and laughter from the attendance. In bewilderment, I followed his summons and again descended into the pool, via the stairs, where he washed away the holy oil, praying and laughing the while.

We emerged again, and I followed him outside and upstairs, to change again into my new clothes.


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I changed slowly, my fingers stiff. I looked at my hands, marveled at their coordination, reminded by their clumsiness of how privileged I am to have hands, a body, a working organism that is healthy and alive.

Suddenly, I heard my friends start singing a magnificent Mravalzhamier, ‘Long Life!’ outside. I beamed and hurried. I wondered, what are the expectations for me? Is there some way in which I am supposed to act? I quickly dissolved the idea and decided I could only be myself, whatever the cultural differences would be. Just as the song was finishing, I emerged from the door, came down the stairs to many congratulations, kisses on the cheek, presents, and smiling faces.

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We piled into cars, drove to the restaurant, and set to table. I was in a blissful daze, and could barely speak to people. I could not be social, I was distant, unthinking, awash in water, my Pisces nature pulling me strongly to be part of a water collective. No individual droplets here, the sea envelops, homogenizes all; drifting, clinging, rushing, obeying laws precisely as gravity plays its games with waves and tides.

The sun pulled me from the depths of the sea. I drank of his power, of his light, and as I again rose to land, descended to earth, I became festive, alive with friends and singing. The sun’s energy is collected in the vine fruit, bringing light, strength, vigor, stamina, and earthliness. I was again a human, alive, individual, standing tall.

One person only knew me. She was the singing nun from Guria, visiting Tbilisi for just three days, but here to see my baptism. I caught her eyes several times during our Supra, beaming light and clarity at me. Not uncomfortably, she seemed to understand more than I what processes churned within me. Perhaps her smiles came out of her strong Orthodox image of the baptism event, but to me her smiles were of love and understanding.

Her eyes were of true joy, of longtime joy, the joy of grace, of beauty, and love, all flowing through as God. Her habit did not so much influence my experience as her eyes, which seemed to give me courage to sit calmly by as the life of the world revolved spinning around me, the waves washing gently ashore.