Yes, you read it right: the nuns and me. Me-and the nuns.
Last week I went to a Benedictine abbey in Kent. One of my yoga acquaintances-Mary-told me about this place a few weeks ago, and I had a free week (what? Wonders will never cease), so I decided to go along. What an experience!
I sang in the church choir (Presbyterian. Not a nun in sight) when I was growing up, and that was about all I wanted when it came to religion. As soon as I got my little backside out the door to go off to college, I stopped the whole Sunday church thing. What a relief that was! I couldn't justify all the things going on in the world with the church teachings-neither could any of my college friends, so everyone rejected Western religion and crossed over to Buddhism.
Then I decided that any kind of religion was just a means of someone trying to control everyone who bought into the dogma, and I rejected Buddhism, too. I decided that when I want to talk to God, I don't need some middle man. I dial direct.
With this in mind, I went to the abbey with Mary. And there they were: the nuns. And here I was: a heathen. It only got a little tricky when it came to going to all the services. There were a lot of services. I went to one, and that was enough. I don't know psalms, or hymns, or when to stand, when to bow, when to sit...so I followed everyone else. Oh, boy, it was really awful. We were in the guest chapel, and all the nuns were around the corner in the main chapel, so I did what the other guests did. And when I left the chapel, I felt like I'd been granted a parole.
The nuns I met were lovely. Honestly, we had tea together, and they wanted to find out a little about us-and I wanted to find out a little about them, too. Some things you just don't ask (like sex, for example), but I was very careful. And no swearing, obviously. I wonder if nuns ever swear? What do they do when they just don't like each other? Nobody likes-or is liked by-everyone. Perhaps next time. This was a missed opportunity for me to find out about a nun's life-if any of them would tell me. We all kept it impersonal.
So that was my week last week. And Mary, whom I now call "motor mouth", never stopped talking. Ever. Even in the guests' lounge, a place where you weren't supposed to talk, she talked non stop. About nothing. Verbal diarrhea-terminal, with her. It drove me around the bend. I had to walk into the little village to get away from her-and spent a lot of time in my room, just for some peace and quiet. The only time she shut up was during prayers; I looked forward to those because I knew I would get some peace.
Am I going back? Yes-in August, but by myself. I'm not telling Mary that I'm going. She did ask if I would be coming back-and I'd already booked, and the booking sister was sitting with us, but what a star: she said nothing when I said that perhaps I'd be back in the autumn.
Still, I recommend going on a retreat-by yourself!- to a place like an abbey, where nobody pushes you to go to prayers, where the grounds are beautiful, the buildings around 400 years old (the guest quarters were renovated around 2 years ago, so that was pretty great), and it's so quiet and peaceful that you can meditate, unwind, relax, and recover from the pace of the city.
And I still don't know one psalm from another. But I do know my Kettle Chips. I got back and knocked back a flat white from Starbucks, and scarfed an entire bag of salt and balsamic vinegar Kettles in one sitting. I'll probably be damned.
Friday, 22 June 2018
Wednesday, 6 June 2018
The Curious Case of the Organ Grinder's Monkey-the Dressmaker's Dummy
Ah, the organ grinder's monkey. In this case, I called him the dressmaker's dummy. Same thing, really.
I do remember advising you to always bypass the monkey and go straight to the organ grinder if you want to ever get anything done. Even the middle-aged malady I like to call CRS (Can't Remember Shit) hasn't touched that one- and last week was a prime example.
Some neighbors came up to me and asked for my help. Now, my ex used to call me "Muggins"-meaning that I was always a soft touch for anyone who wanted anything (until I divorced him. Then he called me a lot of names that I won't repeat here). It's possible that I have always been a softie-or, rather, a sucker-for a hard luck story.
I went around to my neighbor's place and heard the most unbelievable story about drug dealing and drug taking just outside their back window. There are two flats with windows facing a fence, and the area is very secluded. So local addicts and dealers jump a low fence and go out there and do their thing. My neighbor has been trying to get a better fence to stop this from happening. And I saw all the documented evidence that showed me how many times both neighbors have contacted the police, the landlord-anyone who would help. But nobody helped. And now comes the good part...
My next door neighbor is called Terry. I call him Two-faced Terry (or, two-faced tattooed Terry), because he kept pestering me to do all his computer work (no please. No thank you. No nothing. Just demands, as if he was entitled to all my work), and when I finally told him that he needed to learn how to do it all himself, he demanded to know why he should, since I would do it all for him. So I stopped. I said no. And then he stopped talking to me, and spent a lot of time saying a lot of very nasty things about me. Now, Terry has a personality disorder, which he tells everyone who will listen is caused by brain damage, which in turn is caused by someone putting an axe in his skull. Ummm...seriously? And he tried it on for years: let's go to the cafe for a cup of tea, or how about a walk in the park..whatever. Eww...he's got no teeth, he's ugly, not very bright, and just-yuck. You know what they say: shit happens. Sometimes it lives next door...
Terry, because he desperately wants attention, and wants everyone to suck up to him, took it upon himself to try to ingratiate himself to everyone in this little community. He decided to go to the housing manager-then to the local councillor-to get this fence for his friends. So he finally got the fence built: a horizontal wooden fence in the wrong place, making it easy for anyone to climb over the thing. Horizontal. Like a climbing frame with wood thick enough for the addicts to rest their drugs on while they shoot up.
Well-Ray and Tanya asked me if there is anything I can do to start the process going; they would carry on afterwards themselves. I said that I would see what I could do, but I would see the whole thing to the end, because I don't start things and not finish them. Activist for life, I guess...
I emailed the CEO of the local authority, and the Director of Properties, and I got a very nice email back. I had suggested that the management come down to the community to see exactly where the problems were. I got a return email several hours later, and we emailed each other a few times to set up a meeting. This was on Monday.
On Friday morning the management-and the police-arrived to see the problems I mentioned. All I had to say was "drugs"-plus "disabled people" and "lawsuit" and they all sprinted down on Friday to have a look. Unfortunately, Two-Face Brain Damage nearly hijacked the meeting, by trying to tell the managers how wonderful he is, and how he trained 30 gardeners (numbers raised exponentially from the two he told me about when I first met him. A baby boom, perhaps. Or delusions-more likely).
I had pre-warned the managers just before Terry burst out of his front door to take over, so they knew what was going on. Long, sad story that I'll just leave you to imagine.
The outcome? The fence will be torn down, the area will be secured by the kind of fence (metal, vertical, hard to climb over) that should have been put there in the first place, and there will be CCTV to ensure the safety of all the residents.
The managers thanked me. Ray (the neighbor) thanked me. Terry cursed at me-as if I care. Terry gets my nomination for dressmaker's dummy-monkeys are too cute and too intelligent for me to insult them, even though they aren't organ grinders.
So that brings you up to date. I was unwell, but I haven't been bone idle. And when the whole thing is settled and all the work has been done, I'm just going to walk away. I didn't do all the work for thanks (good thing, because I didn't get much), I did it to help everyone. I won't be feeling a sense of accomplishment until everything that has been promised has been delivered.
Sometimes you just have to get off your little ass and take a stand, and put up a fight for your rights-and your safety. But you also need to know when to walk away.
I think that this will be my last attack of jumping in and protecting people's rights (and safety). I'll just live my life, and reward myself with Kettle Chips and Starbucks. Speaking of which....
I do remember advising you to always bypass the monkey and go straight to the organ grinder if you want to ever get anything done. Even the middle-aged malady I like to call CRS (Can't Remember Shit) hasn't touched that one- and last week was a prime example.
Some neighbors came up to me and asked for my help. Now, my ex used to call me "Muggins"-meaning that I was always a soft touch for anyone who wanted anything (until I divorced him. Then he called me a lot of names that I won't repeat here). It's possible that I have always been a softie-or, rather, a sucker-for a hard luck story.
I went around to my neighbor's place and heard the most unbelievable story about drug dealing and drug taking just outside their back window. There are two flats with windows facing a fence, and the area is very secluded. So local addicts and dealers jump a low fence and go out there and do their thing. My neighbor has been trying to get a better fence to stop this from happening. And I saw all the documented evidence that showed me how many times both neighbors have contacted the police, the landlord-anyone who would help. But nobody helped. And now comes the good part...
My next door neighbor is called Terry. I call him Two-faced Terry (or, two-faced tattooed Terry), because he kept pestering me to do all his computer work (no please. No thank you. No nothing. Just demands, as if he was entitled to all my work), and when I finally told him that he needed to learn how to do it all himself, he demanded to know why he should, since I would do it all for him. So I stopped. I said no. And then he stopped talking to me, and spent a lot of time saying a lot of very nasty things about me. Now, Terry has a personality disorder, which he tells everyone who will listen is caused by brain damage, which in turn is caused by someone putting an axe in his skull. Ummm...seriously? And he tried it on for years: let's go to the cafe for a cup of tea, or how about a walk in the park..whatever. Eww...he's got no teeth, he's ugly, not very bright, and just-yuck. You know what they say: shit happens. Sometimes it lives next door...
Terry, because he desperately wants attention, and wants everyone to suck up to him, took it upon himself to try to ingratiate himself to everyone in this little community. He decided to go to the housing manager-then to the local councillor-to get this fence for his friends. So he finally got the fence built: a horizontal wooden fence in the wrong place, making it easy for anyone to climb over the thing. Horizontal. Like a climbing frame with wood thick enough for the addicts to rest their drugs on while they shoot up.
Well-Ray and Tanya asked me if there is anything I can do to start the process going; they would carry on afterwards themselves. I said that I would see what I could do, but I would see the whole thing to the end, because I don't start things and not finish them. Activist for life, I guess...
I emailed the CEO of the local authority, and the Director of Properties, and I got a very nice email back. I had suggested that the management come down to the community to see exactly where the problems were. I got a return email several hours later, and we emailed each other a few times to set up a meeting. This was on Monday.
On Friday morning the management-and the police-arrived to see the problems I mentioned. All I had to say was "drugs"-plus "disabled people" and "lawsuit" and they all sprinted down on Friday to have a look. Unfortunately, Two-Face Brain Damage nearly hijacked the meeting, by trying to tell the managers how wonderful he is, and how he trained 30 gardeners (numbers raised exponentially from the two he told me about when I first met him. A baby boom, perhaps. Or delusions-more likely).
I had pre-warned the managers just before Terry burst out of his front door to take over, so they knew what was going on. Long, sad story that I'll just leave you to imagine.
The outcome? The fence will be torn down, the area will be secured by the kind of fence (metal, vertical, hard to climb over) that should have been put there in the first place, and there will be CCTV to ensure the safety of all the residents.
The managers thanked me. Ray (the neighbor) thanked me. Terry cursed at me-as if I care. Terry gets my nomination for dressmaker's dummy-monkeys are too cute and too intelligent for me to insult them, even though they aren't organ grinders.
So that brings you up to date. I was unwell, but I haven't been bone idle. And when the whole thing is settled and all the work has been done, I'm just going to walk away. I didn't do all the work for thanks (good thing, because I didn't get much), I did it to help everyone. I won't be feeling a sense of accomplishment until everything that has been promised has been delivered.
Sometimes you just have to get off your little ass and take a stand, and put up a fight for your rights-and your safety. But you also need to know when to walk away.
I think that this will be my last attack of jumping in and protecting people's rights (and safety). I'll just live my life, and reward myself with Kettle Chips and Starbucks. Speaking of which....
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