I was talking with a couple yesterday about writing a ceremony that honoured nature and our place in the world, and that got me to thinking. When my wife and I got around to getting married, ten years ago, we wanted to do something similar. My wife has a real feeling for the natural world, and the level of despoliation we have visited upon it drives her bonkers.
I’m a city boy myself, and though I do sense what she feels, the industrial slum is what I grew up with. Like anyone, I’m moved by the beauty of the natural world, or what’s left of it, but I don’t have a pristine woodland childhood to mourn, like she does. Anyway, we wanted to do something to try to help. To make a difference, as they say.
So we made up a nature-based, God-free religion, which we called Coresain, and we wrote our wedding as a Coresandrian ritual.
It was a very odd ceremony, involving a certain amount of gardening and compost. There was a ceremonial compost turning centrepiece to the service. We planted a green ash sapling that we’d rescued from a patch of land which used to be home for wild thyme and rabbits, now buried beneath Costco and its massive car park. Sadly, because we aren’t skilled evangelists, we completely failed to attract converts to Coresain, and over the years, it kind of withered away.
However, some small things do still remain, including this song, the world’s one and only surviving Coresandrian hymn, which I wrote and still love, and which we made our bemused guests sing. You’ll need to make up a tune if you want to sing it. It’s in relentlessly jolly amateur 4/4.