We all woke at 5am for sunrise service at Ukrainian Orthodox Church of St George in Victoria. Unmistakable aroma of incense brought me back to midnight mass with my grandma. Hours of chanting, prayer and blessings in Ukrainian is an experience so foreign to our modern day. Being so far removed from faith-based religion, I instead got lost in the melodic hum of the devout. Not that it didn't mean anything to me; rather it just meant something inherently different. A morning meditation, on a beautiful serene spring solstice. I picture the generations of rural Ukrainians grasping at such ritual to understand and bring purpose in their hard lives. And generations more of immigrants preserving such tradition. Every movement is seen. Every movement, every being, every notion has deep significance. Rigid regulation and self governance, with infallible grace and redemption. Hours of worship seems to make perfect sense among these conditions. Its not my belief, but find honor in its preservation, of the place it holds in my family's heritage. If life is simply stated a collection of experiences, it seems like a gift for both she and I alike.