My sister, the youngest in the family, screamed, "You put the mental into judgemental" in the middle of one our many spats growing up. I thought that was rather clever and wore the slur like a badge of honour.
In March 2018, I booked myself into the three-day Easter Retreat which promised to follow the Passion of Christ in Glenstal Abbey in Co. Limerick. My friend, Mary McCarthy attends many of their retreats and raves about the wisdom of the brothers and their hospitality. On her recommendation, I undertook the retreat to complete the christian leg of my research on spirituality.
My bedroom was a 12 bed dormitory. There was another woman listed to share but she didn't show up. I took the bunk nearest the 12 foot long window. The door to my 'bedroom' was a 20 foot walk away as was the only light switch. I'm not afraid of the dark but when I needed to use the loo during the night, I was nervous. As a child I imagined bogey men under the bed waiting to grab my ankles and had perfected the long jump from door to bed only touching the floor once. That I could no longer do. I prayed furiously from bunk to door, 'Satan get thee hence.'
Mary knew just about everybody. She regards Glenstal as her home from home as did most of the 100+ people attending that weekend. From our table in the middle of the refectory, she remotely acquainted me with various people in the room. "Can you see that lady over there?" she said. I followed her line of vision and saw a small, round woman wearing a pale blue cardigan. "The rumour, " continued Mary, "is that she had sex with one of the brothers up in the tower." I looked at the woman again. She looked like a retired nun and didn't seem capable of climbing the stairs to the tower let alone engage in the gymnastics of passion. And why the tower I wondered, it's so cold up there and my thoughts trailed off.
After mass the first morning Mary asked, "Are you getting anything out of it yet?" I didn't want to be disrespectful to something she loved so I told her truthfully I thought the church beautiful yet modern painted as it was in bold colours and to hear chanting for the first time was unique but I wasn't moved. I find mass boring and since I find the priest's voice indistinct, I switch off. "Sorry no," I replied.
After lunch, we listened to a talk given by Br Christopher on John the Baptist or as his tutor in Rome used to refer to him as 'John the Dipper.' Mary and I roared with laughter.
After the talk, I used the loo and when I returned I could see Mary chatting to a man. I kept a respectful distance until I could see from Mary's body language she wasn't interested. I judged it safe to resume my seat. As I did, I overheard the man tell Mary he worked in the HSE compiling statistics. I'm sorry to say that once again, my face obviously betrayed my thoughts because the man then looked at me and said defensively, "And I have a Masters in Divinity." I noticed Mary took his distraction as an opportunity to slip away.
"What's that?" I said in a polite attempt to rescue the situation.
He told me and then said, "And now I am a coach in spirituality."
"What does that mean?"
"People come to me when they are having trouble connecting to the divine and I coach them through the process."
My brain lit up, "Wow, that that sounds so interesting."
"Yes it is," he said triumphantly and with that he got up and left. Inwardly I groaned and slapped myself mentally on the forehead, I f***ed up again.
That evening after yet another mass, Mary and I sat in refectory having tea and biscuits. The woman in the pale blue cardigan came to our table and sat down opposite us. Mary immediately announced she was tired and headed off to bed. I was trapped. I smiled politely at her. She smiled back and said, "You're from Cork aren't you?" I agreed that I was. She continued, "Cork has been very good to me. When I was 14 my father took me out of school saying education was wasted on girls and I got a job as a cleaner in Cork. In the evenings, I enrolled in the College of Commerce and did my Leaving Cert. I had a fabulous English teacher there and because of him I understood Hamlet better than my brother who was allowed to stay in school. I then moved to England and did nursing. When I retired, I was always interested in religion so I did a BA in Religion I then did a Masters in Contemporary Religious Studies and when I was writing up my thesis, I was advised by my supervisor to upgrade to a PhD."
The cogs in my brain jammed.
"And I got a first." she said with a modest smile.
Momentarily deafened by the rusty creakings in my head as I frantically attempted to reverse prejudices and crank into gear, I wondered was this her party piece to confound people like me. I struggled to say something. 'So you're not a nun' came to mind but I suppressed it.
Finally, I spoke, "What's your thesis in?"
"Spirituality." she said happily.
Well, God smite me with a cricket bat. I whispered humbly, "That's mine too."
She immediately perked up and said crisply, "Who are your authors?"
I named the nine books I had read up to that point desperately hoping to impress her.
"Too many," she said dismissively with a wave of her hand, "stick to four and..." and she then reeled off a list of splendid, magnificent, golden, fabulous nuggets of advice for idiots on academic-writing-made-easy. I had no pen. She handed me a pencil from her pocket and I frantically took notes on a napkin. I couldn't keep up.
"What is your email address?" I begged.
"Oh, I don't bother with that," she said. "Since I handed in my thesis, I'm allergic to technology. I don't even own a computer. You'll have to write to me in Galway."
I hardly slept that night. My brain felt like it had been been pecked apart by crows. Twice that day I judged. Actually, I probably judged all day but here in Glenstal fate presented me with two golden opportunities. The first I failed spectacularly. The second I grasped but so nearly missed. Her name is Una. She overcame my obvious prejudices and persevered in the face of my rudeness. I reeled at the nearly lost gold mine of information. Una and I write letters to each other every six weeks and twice a month we talk on the phone.
The next morning at breakfast as Mary and I lined up to collect our porridge from the hatch, I said, "You know the retired nun who had the sex up the tower?"
Mary looked at me alarmed, "Keep your voice down."
I whispered, "I was talking to her last night and..... look, here she's coming to join us."
Mary said sharply, "That's not her."
"It's not?"
Mary's eyes quickly scanned the dining room, "It's that blonde woman by the window in the red cardigan." I followed her gaze. The woman in the red cardigan looked to be in early 60s and was just then chatting happily with a priest. Not only was she blonde but was wearing full make-up including red lipstick. Yep, I could definitely see her climbing the tower alright. The slut.....
In March 2018, I booked myself into the three-day Easter Retreat which promised to follow the Passion of Christ in Glenstal Abbey in Co. Limerick. My friend, Mary McCarthy attends many of their retreats and raves about the wisdom of the brothers and their hospitality. On her recommendation, I undertook the retreat to complete the christian leg of my research on spirituality.
My bedroom was a 12 bed dormitory. There was another woman listed to share but she didn't show up. I took the bunk nearest the 12 foot long window. The door to my 'bedroom' was a 20 foot walk away as was the only light switch. I'm not afraid of the dark but when I needed to use the loo during the night, I was nervous. As a child I imagined bogey men under the bed waiting to grab my ankles and had perfected the long jump from door to bed only touching the floor once. That I could no longer do. I prayed furiously from bunk to door, 'Satan get thee hence.'
Mary knew just about everybody. She regards Glenstal as her home from home as did most of the 100+ people attending that weekend. From our table in the middle of the refectory, she remotely acquainted me with various people in the room. "Can you see that lady over there?" she said. I followed her line of vision and saw a small, round woman wearing a pale blue cardigan. "The rumour, " continued Mary, "is that she had sex with one of the brothers up in the tower." I looked at the woman again. She looked like a retired nun and didn't seem capable of climbing the stairs to the tower let alone engage in the gymnastics of passion. And why the tower I wondered, it's so cold up there and my thoughts trailed off.
After mass the first morning Mary asked, "Are you getting anything out of it yet?" I didn't want to be disrespectful to something she loved so I told her truthfully I thought the church beautiful yet modern painted as it was in bold colours and to hear chanting for the first time was unique but I wasn't moved. I find mass boring and since I find the priest's voice indistinct, I switch off. "Sorry no," I replied.
After lunch, we listened to a talk given by Br Christopher on John the Baptist or as his tutor in Rome used to refer to him as 'John the Dipper.' Mary and I roared with laughter.
After the talk, I used the loo and when I returned I could see Mary chatting to a man. I kept a respectful distance until I could see from Mary's body language she wasn't interested. I judged it safe to resume my seat. As I did, I overheard the man tell Mary he worked in the HSE compiling statistics. I'm sorry to say that once again, my face obviously betrayed my thoughts because the man then looked at me and said defensively, "And I have a Masters in Divinity." I noticed Mary took his distraction as an opportunity to slip away.
"What's that?" I said in a polite attempt to rescue the situation.
He told me and then said, "And now I am a coach in spirituality."
"What does that mean?"
"People come to me when they are having trouble connecting to the divine and I coach them through the process."
My brain lit up, "Wow, that that sounds so interesting."
"Yes it is," he said triumphantly and with that he got up and left. Inwardly I groaned and slapped myself mentally on the forehead, I f***ed up again.
That evening after yet another mass, Mary and I sat in refectory having tea and biscuits. The woman in the pale blue cardigan came to our table and sat down opposite us. Mary immediately announced she was tired and headed off to bed. I was trapped. I smiled politely at her. She smiled back and said, "You're from Cork aren't you?" I agreed that I was. She continued, "Cork has been very good to me. When I was 14 my father took me out of school saying education was wasted on girls and I got a job as a cleaner in Cork. In the evenings, I enrolled in the College of Commerce and did my Leaving Cert. I had a fabulous English teacher there and because of him I understood Hamlet better than my brother who was allowed to stay in school. I then moved to England and did nursing. When I retired, I was always interested in religion so I did a BA in Religion I then did a Masters in Contemporary Religious Studies and when I was writing up my thesis, I was advised by my supervisor to upgrade to a PhD."
The cogs in my brain jammed.
"And I got a first." she said with a modest smile.
Momentarily deafened by the rusty creakings in my head as I frantically attempted to reverse prejudices and crank into gear, I wondered was this her party piece to confound people like me. I struggled to say something. 'So you're not a nun' came to mind but I suppressed it.
Finally, I spoke, "What's your thesis in?"
"Spirituality." she said happily.
Well, God smite me with a cricket bat. I whispered humbly, "That's mine too."
She immediately perked up and said crisply, "Who are your authors?"
I named the nine books I had read up to that point desperately hoping to impress her.
"Too many," she said dismissively with a wave of her hand, "stick to four and..." and she then reeled off a list of splendid, magnificent, golden, fabulous nuggets of advice for idiots on academic-writing-made-easy. I had no pen. She handed me a pencil from her pocket and I frantically took notes on a napkin. I couldn't keep up.
"What is your email address?" I begged.
"Oh, I don't bother with that," she said. "Since I handed in my thesis, I'm allergic to technology. I don't even own a computer. You'll have to write to me in Galway."
I hardly slept that night. My brain felt like it had been been pecked apart by crows. Twice that day I judged. Actually, I probably judged all day but here in Glenstal fate presented me with two golden opportunities. The first I failed spectacularly. The second I grasped but so nearly missed. Her name is Una. She overcame my obvious prejudices and persevered in the face of my rudeness. I reeled at the nearly lost gold mine of information. Una and I write letters to each other every six weeks and twice a month we talk on the phone.
The next morning at breakfast as Mary and I lined up to collect our porridge from the hatch, I said, "You know the retired nun who had the sex up the tower?"
Mary looked at me alarmed, "Keep your voice down."
I whispered, "I was talking to her last night and..... look, here she's coming to join us."
Mary said sharply, "That's not her."
"It's not?"
Mary's eyes quickly scanned the dining room, "It's that blonde woman by the window in the red cardigan." I followed her gaze. The woman in the red cardigan looked to be in early 60s and was just then chatting happily with a priest. Not only was she blonde but was wearing full make-up including red lipstick. Yep, I could definitely see her climbing the tower alright. The slut.....
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