Secrets

#54—We all enjoy a little mystery.

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“You push your thumb down, something like this, but I don’t remember how it goes,” said Ken¹ as we stood in the doorway of the Masonic Lodge, the sunlight streaming down over our two hands with contorting thumbs unsuccessfully imitating the ‘secret handshake’.

Ken, a portly 70-year-old red-faced larrikin, gave up; his memory of how his Dad had once shook the hands of others sandpapered by time.

“So he never spoke about what went on inside?” I asked.

Ken shook his head.

“To be honest, I think it was just an excuse for a piss up.”

Funny he should say that because a few days before I had rolled a trolly of beer out of the Lodge’s public hall and into a corner near the Robing Room. And that was just the stuff that wouldn’t fit in the fridge, which was better stocked than a bottle-o. There was whiskey in the kitchen.

Near the door was a wall of photos of past Worshipful Masters, the highest rank at a Lodge of Unity. The men wore black suits and long slip-on sky-blue cuffs over their wrists. The once black and white photos had been artificially coloured, giving the rows of predominantly old white men Mar-a-Largo tans. Unadulterated, pleasantly, were the hand-drawn portraits dating back to the late 1800s.

“Some fine gentlemen up there,” said Ken. “And some real scoundrels, too.”

Ken wasn’t a Freemason, and I can’t tell you why we were inside the Masonic Lodge—that, I am contractually forbidden to speak about on the internet. But there’s nothing wrong with a little mystery and intrigue, is there?

Indeed, Masonic Lodges—the home of the mysterious medieval fraternities whose places of worship grace almost every town in Australia—had intrigued me for most of my life. I never saw anyone go in or come out. But here I was, having ducked into the local hardware store and, being directed to the key cutting section, presented with the keys to the Lodge’s most secret chamber by the Worshipful Master himself. How times had changed that I—a woman—had been let inside.

From the public hall, the key unlocked a set of double doors that opened into a windowless room. I flicked on the lights and a dim golden glow spread across a royal blue carpeted chamber. Timber chairs lined the walls, two rows that appeared for lower-ranked worshippers. In the middle of each west and south wall was a timber throne with a dais and a gravel that gave the room a court-like appearance, and yet, it had all the presence of a presbytery. On the eastern wall, raised by a step, was a throne that was larger than the rest and flanked by two smaller thrones of equal size to those on the west and south walls. There was a pyramid on a stand, and a number of staffs placed strategically around the room. But most intriguing, for me at least, was the room’s centre to which each chair diligently faced. Lying there was a rug of black and white chequers aligned on an angle like diamonds. It was framed with a yellow border with a hundred or more triangles lining its edges.

It struck me that I had unconsciously thought that seeing inside a Lodge of Unity would somehow reveal the secrets of what went on in these mysterious places. Looking at that rug-centric room, this 700-year-old fraternity with its code words, symbols and secret handshakes had grown more mysterious than ever.

I took Ken inside the Lodge and he shuddered in the dim light. He looked around and with half a smile, said it was scary then walked out. I watched him leave hurriedly like a child in his father’s presence, forbidden to know the room’s secrets.

Inside The Lodge, by Alia Parker

There’s a magnetism to not knowing. The mystery taunts the mind so much so that it can reach the point where we no longer wish to know.

In the same days as I was inside the Masonic Lodge, I finished reading Stone Yard Devotional by Charlotte Wood, a book in which an unnamed protagonist goes to live in a convent for reasons unsaid. The mystery surrounding this scenario is heightened by our quick realisation that our protagonist is not religious. It’s intriguing, and despite gaping holes in the character’s narrative, the plot remains strong. In fact, by omitting an explanation from the story, the reader is forced to focus on the psychology of what unfolds. The things left unsaid give our minds room to invent, guess and contemplate a backstory, and that’s part of the joy of reading this tale. It’s a thought-provoking book that earnt Wood a place on the 2024 Booker Prize shortlist.

As humans, we try to solve and rationalise, to understand the world that surrounds us and it’s tempting to pretend in literature that we have all the answers.

"I don’t know why people expect art to make sense,” the late filmmaker, artist, actor and musician David Lynch told the Los Angeles Times in 1989. “They accept the fact that life doesn’t make sense."

I thought of this as I Googled ‘black and white chequered rug in the middle of a Masonic Lodge’. The answer, I quickly found, was that it resembles the floor of King Solomon’s Temple and symbolises the balance between opposing forces, like good and evil or ignorance and knowledge. By placing it at the centre, it serves as a reminder that life consists of both positive and negative experiences, and that wisdom comes from navigating both. A rather satisfying answer, I thought. But I found myself not wanting to know more, not wanting to dig too deep, which for me, is a strange sensation.

I enjoyed the mystery too much to tear it down. And seeing what I had inside that room made the mystery all the more tantalising.

I did, of course, dig a little deeper. I am me, after all. The secrecy that once shrouded the Freemasons has largely been lifted and their ‘secrets’ are now splashed all over the internet. But I left before discovering too many of them, except the one I really wanted to know. Let’s just say that when I next bump into Ken, we’ll shake hands and the sandpapered dust of time will scatter in the wind to reveal a fine polish, and in that moment, he’ll remember. ♦

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Etymology Monday

For those who missed it on Substack Notes, the word of the week has something to do with two little ragamuffins who live in my house and enjoy doing creative things with crayons.

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1. Not his real name.