My grandmother was an Episcopalian and I loved going to church with her. The rituals were so calming and soothing to me. I’d watch Gram in her blue choir robes, pick her rich alto voice out of the group and wait for her to catch me watching and wink at me. Some of my most precious memories are from Sundays with Gram.
One part of the weekly service was Eucharist, which most churches call Communion. I was ten and they gave me wine! It felt unbelievably mature to me. And now my youngest daughter has taken up the mantle by creating her own religion, the High Holy Church of Pook. Pookarist is part of not just Sunday, but every day. It requires Pook to give you a big ole lick upside your face while she cackles like a maniac. Slurp. I baptize you in the name of the Mother, the other Mother and the Unholy Spirit of Phlegm.
Maybe I should be glad she’s found religion – if any of my five were to become moon-howling semi-feral pagans, I’d put my money on Pook. All kids are weird, but Pook is a singular, unapologetic kind of weird. She eats apples and spits out the chewed up skin. She will smack you alongside the head for no reason. She will not go anywhere without her bunny, her bankie and her milko, aka her favorite stuffed animal, blanket and bottle. Yesterday, she slurped all over my chin, then used her own spit to draw stars on my face. Pook is the High Priestess of Weird. I’m gonna bet her robes are blood red and trimmed in chicken feathers. WEIRD.
You can join the High Holy Church of Pook with very little trouble. Simply submit to Pookarist every day (sometimes twice), howl like a dying calf every time someone ticks you off and poop in every public place you visit. Be loud and proud of your weirdness – you’re a representative of Pook now. We could all use a bit more self-acceptance, just maybe without all the saliva.
To quote Tiny Tim: Pookarize us, every one.
My Five Ring Circus 