Brother Jesse's Lamentations

[dave]

Imagination

I wouldn’t be the first religious brother or priest to have fallen for a girl, but I might be the first to fall for my guardian angel. And I sure as hell am the first to have my guardian angel parading around as a real estate broker.

I’m not kidding. It absolutely has to be her. I walked right up to her as she stood by her car and looked her in the eye. She quailed a little, but stood her ground and stared at me as if to dare me to say anything of our previous meeting. Or I suppose it’s possible she’s a human and she was just reacting like a strong young woman. But dammit, I’m sure it’s her. Pretty sure. How could it not be her? Even the same name! I’m not that batty. Pretty sure I’m not.

Women are a bother! Terd once said that if God had made a third sex, women would get far less attention.

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Most of us monks have been attracted to women, although a few didn’t care much for them in the first place. I hope it doesn’t surprise any readers that a quite normal religious Brother might have a heart that loves and falls and breaks just like other men. However, our vocation is usually more important to us than walking the path of marriage in conjugal bliss. There were only one or two women in my life that I remember with romantic fondness, and occasionally on a beautiful spring evening more than fondness. Then there are the few who existed only in my mind, like Sara. Not the real Sara, of course, but the Sara who would choose to fly fish on her honeymoon and who can tie a mean attractor fly while she stands in the middle of the stream. And yes, of course, the imaginary Sara who has all the standard equipment.

I think I mentioned that in our Order we renew our vows every five years. There have been times in the past when I thought about not renewing. Maybe I’d find a job somewhere and settle into the landscape. It’s possible my idea of being a confirmed bachelor might change when I found myself figuratively rubbing against a pleasant woman and …. well, you know.

Imagination

[dave]

Mushrooms

So, a few days ago Sally came to visit and have a look around the monastery. If indeed this Sally is my guardian angel, it is truly bizarre! Before Agnes set out with her on a tour of the facility, he asked me to round up everyone and assemble them in the Pit, where most of us were working anyway. Fifteen minutes later Agnes brought my angel to the top step overlooking ten quizzical monks. His introduction of Sally was perfunctory and short.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “I’d like to present Ms. Sally Prendel. She is a real estate broker and she will be working with us on our financial problems.”

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Waiting for more information, a few of us glanced at each other with looks that were just short of derisive. We waited to finally hear something about our future, which by now seemed more dark than ever. But Agnes quickly ushered Sally out from our presence. Still under the Rule until after supper, we remained quiet. We weren’t conscientiously keeping the silence. We were too shocked at being told nothing. I thought of my older brother’s term for this style of managing employees in his corporate world: Mushroom Management. “Keep ‘em in the dark and feed ‘em horsesh*t.”


Helplessness Blues

[dave]

Supper

Agnes gave me a look of concern when I later entered the breakfast room where we eat our meals. As the monks gathered for our supper of lima beans and rice, my abbot did not speak to me at length. He was brief. "Stay off the roof," he said to me. I knew my aborted take off would be discussed more fully at some future date.

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At the end of our wordless meal, Agnes began his pitch.

“The day's silence is over," he said, "and I'll explain what’s happening with our monastery. You may ask questions when I am done and I will try my best to answer them.”

He didn’t say much. Had we been a group of businessmen about to light up after-dinner cigars and top off our snifters with a bit more brandy, we would have settled back to find ourselves sorely disappointed with Agnes’ exceedingly brief foray into the world of our finances.

“You’re broke,” he said, and not a single person missed his distancing from us with the second person “you.” He continued, “The Brothers in Ireland are also facing dire financial straits and cannot continue to send money every 3 months. Our Lady’s Monastery at West Saugerties will close down in a few months. I have been sent here to figure out how to do that so that the welfare of each of you is considered.”

This was hardly news. We Brothers now waited to hear of the efforts to be performed for our welfare. Agnes said nothing. Finally, Harpo spoke up.

“And what is your plan for us, Agnes?”

“I’m not at liberty to say just yet,” replied Agnes

“Oh, for chrissakes,” I heard Bouncer say under his breath. We all heard him say it under his breath.

“But that lady … Sally … is she part of this plan?” Raiser asked, hoping to milk more information from Agnes.

Agnes smiled, “A lovely lass she is, yes. She will help us to get a good price for the property so that the creditors can be paid.”

I looked over my shoulder to where Terd normally sat. I wished he was here.

“We have creditors?” asked Bouncer.

“The money sent to us each month has been borrowed from a bank in Merchant’s Quay in Cork.” said Agnes. This was news to us, but it hardly mattered. We were going to be put out on the street, left penniless. Well, penniless is part of our vocation, of course, but it is nice to be penniless with a few sacks of beans and rice in the larder and a roof over your head.




Pennies From Heaven

[dave]

Nurse


Jesse is injured when his car goes off the road in a snowstorm. He's held overnight at the hospital. Although in pain, he insists on leaving the next morning when he finds that surprisingly he misses the rice and beans. Also, the staff wouldn't give him any Demerol.

My neck and head still hurt. I’ve been back at the monastery for almost a week, having spent only an overnight at the hospital. Everyone has been quite nice to me, volunteering to take my chores. (“What exactly is it that you do?” asked Izzy.) Agnes keeps looking at me as if he expects a head injury to turn into a head case. But it’s Tapioca who has been the most attentive, a surprise because she seldom comes to the cellar. The floor is probably uncomfortably cold to lie on.

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This morning I was working in the print shop and looked up from a typecase to see the dog staring at me. I wondered why. We have food out only at meal times … beans and rice at that. So I’m sure the dog wasn’t expecting a morsel to be thrown her way. A retriever can be annoying. Goldens pant almost constantly … the vet once told me they pant in the womb … giving Tapioca an aura of incessant need or anticipation. In short, to have a living being panting and staring at you is irritating. You want to be helpful but can never figure out what she wants.


Every Move You Make

[dave]

“Not dinner time yet, Tap,” I said. She continued to stand and pant. All the while her eyes fixed on me, staring.

“What’s bugging you, Tapioca? I don’t need constant observation. Or is someone in trouble and you’re trying to tell me? Did Bouncer get his robe stuck in the washer again?” Pant, pant, pant. In the old television show, Lassie was more mannerly. She sat breathing somewhat heavily … but not panting … punctuating her impatience with a gentle and occasional bark, while Timmy tried to guess which way the tornado was coming from and whether they had time for lunch.

“Tapioca,” I said sternly, “weren’t you taught sign language? Maybe you need to enunciate clearly. All that’s coming through is your anxiety.”
She briefly stopped panting to swallow.

“Maybe if you had paid more attention in puppy school …” But she had obviously missed too many classes.

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“You know, Tap, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but as a senior monk around here I have to say you’re really not measuring up to the accepted standards for a monastery dog.” I may have seen a little distress in her eyes at that announcement.

“Now don’t look dejected,” I told her. “It’s just that your predecessor would help with the chores, make beds, take the garbage out, answer the phone … simple things.”

“So what do you do? Wake me up at the wrong time, steal my food when I’m not looking, chew up my T-shirts. And you can’t even catch a ball very well! A turtle could play catch better than you! And now you can’t even talk when there is obviously a great deal on your mind. What the heck DO you do well, Tapioca?”

The dog stopped panting and hung her head. This surprised me. I always berate her with a cooing voice, assuming she doesn’t understand my actual words. I have no desire to make her feel bad. But she’s the only one in the house I can get away with insulting. Or so I thought.

I remembered the day Sparky, our recently deceased abbot, brought Tapioca home. The puppy was a constantly moving ball of fur. Sparky loved that dog. Come to think of it, the dog used to bark in Sparky’s face to wake him up. After he died, she began doing it to me.

I rose from my stool at the typesetting bench and grabbed a few flattened cardboard boxes stacked against a wall. While her eyes followed me, I lay the boxes flat on the floor to make an instant dog bed. Ruffling her hair behind the ears, I said, “There you go, Tap,” and returned to my bench.

She stood there panting, then took three steps forward to the mat and lowered her head to sniff it. She walked completely around it while eyeing her new comfortable dog bed. Then she walked away from it and plopped down on the cold floor, closed her eyes and went almost immediately to sleep.


You're going to have to click for this one, it wouldn't embed. But believe me, it's worth it!

Golden Retriever

!


But come back for this one.

[dave]

Harpo visits me regularly in the cellar and it's hard to get any work done. However, it's true I don't have any real work to do.

He shuffled across the cellar and headed toward the only chair, other than my stool.

"Not there,” I called to him, “you'll sit on my guardian angel."

Harpo did what I expected and sat right down anyway as I was saying, “Only kidding!”

“I don’t have a guardian angel,” he said in his Low Country drawl.

“Maybe I don’t, either,” I said. “Who knows?”

“Yes, you do,” he said. “Sally.”

“You remember?” I said, surprised he recalled the name, and wondering if he would connect it to our real estate sales woman. I had not mentioned to anyone that I believed they were one and the same.

“Of course I remember!” he said. “Who could forget that great story of you meeting a bra-less woman in the woods!”

“I certainly don’t know for sure about her underwear, Harpo,” I laughed, now uncomfortable. “That would seem irreverent.”

“…and far be it from you to be irreverent,” he said with a smile. “I don’t normally notice such things, of course,” he continued, “but she seemed to be wearing a bra when Agnes introduced her to us in the Pit.”

“Why would you think they’re the same Sally?” I asked, my eyes averting his as I looked down at my type bench and pretended to busy myself fishing an en quad out of the typecase.

“Do you mean,” he asked, “why would I suspect you thought so, just because you acted like there was a Martian in our midst? And you spent the rest of the day and evening staring into space, adrift in some other world.”



“Sally in the woods,” I said, “and Sally Prendel look and sound exactly alike, Harpo.”

“Jesse, your mind has been known to play tricks on you, as you know.”

“I know,” I admitted. “And it can’t be true, but it’s … it’s … it’s …”

“It’s a mystery,” Harpo said. “As a Catholic I’m sure you’ve heard that line before. We Jews don’t have such a concept. If it isn’t believable, we don’t believe it.”

“You’re not Jewish, Harpo,” I said, “your parents were.”

“If they were here they would convince you otherwise,” he said.

We were quiet for a few moments as I continued to set type and Harpo sat in the desk chair, twirling his fingers through Tapioca’s hair. The silly dog sat there and panted as if she was thinking of a steak dinner.


“I used to have,” Harpo continued, “what you call ‘a manifestation of God personalized for my feeble mind’ that I saw as my guardian angel.”

For some reason, I didn’t think it was a pretty girl. “What was she like?” I asked.

“I don’t know if it was a he or she,” said Harpo. “It was an animal.”

“Ah, you’re a closet Totemist!” I said. “Was it Ayla’s uncle, the Cave Bear?”

“No,” said Harpo. “It was the Easter Bunny.”


Easter Parade

[dave]

Dark Continent

I so dislike confronting people, especially when I’m losing. One of my basic character flaws, I guess. I have many, but I tell myself they have either lessened with age or I remember less of my misdeeds as I get older. I’ve taken my concern to Harpo, my spiritual director. He suggested I get in touch with the person inside me that is leading my life. Both the current version of him and the younger version where I feel I made a lot of mistakes.



I tend to want to present a complete picture when I speak of myself. Of course, it will be inaccurate because we hardly ever see our actions in any other light than that of self-love. Have you noticed that so far in this blog I’m most often correct in my opinions and decisions? And when I am occasionally wrong, I have a good excuse for my mistake? “Good ol’ Jesse, he’s not perfect but he has a good heart,” would be what I’d want you to say about me, I suppose. The process of self-justification takes place automatically in our brains, I think. There is evidently a naturally selected advantage to thinking well of ourselves.

I haven’t said much about my experiences in Africa because every time I write about those few years and read it back I am disappointed in myself. Short of creating a fictional piece with Jessse The Great as the hero, even my majestic ego cannot find a noble protagonist in my Dark Continent story. The short of it is I just don’t like the person I see when I write about him.


I Need a Hero

[dave]

Forty odd years later I can admit I was a dumb-ass kid who overestimated his physical and mental abilities, his capability of love for mankind, his ability to get along with others and just about every other meager talent in his inventory. And this many years later I still cringe when I remember some of my behaviors and how they affected others. I know, I know … I’m probably overestimating my importance in the scheme of things. But although I’ve learned in recent years that some of the people whose work or plans I upset don’t even remember me, I still have to live in judgment of myself. I could accede to the view of my confessor and spiritual director, Harpo, who has always told me I’m wasting time thinking about myself. (I wonder what Harpo would think if he knew I was writing a blog about myself!)

“Did you ever know a Brother with whom you often disagreed and who you did not appreciate?” Harpo asked me one afternoon when I asked him to hear my confession just so we could dispense with The Silence so I might talk about myself, my favorite topic.



“Sure,” I replied, “Zipper would come close to the bottom of my list of favorite pilgrims on the path.” Zipper had been with us for five years back in the early 1980’s. He earned his nickname from his habit of reinforcing The Silence by making a protracted and dramatic gesture of zipping his lips when anyone said anything before the evening dispensation. He left us and the Order of the Holy Varlet in 1986 to attend law school.

“Did you not pray for him?” continued Harpo.

“I think so, yes,” I answered, “but I cannot bring any specific memories to mind.”

Harpo laughed, “Okay, did you not know you should pray for him and wish him well?”

“Yes, I knew it. I really think I might have prayed for him. Probably. Maybe. Not sure,” I said.

“But you could. So if you can pray for a brother you don’t like, why can’t you pray for that person you were 40 years ago?” he asked. “Call him Jesse The Younger. Forgive him, love him … as you should have done for Zipper.”

“Can I yell at him, too?” I interjected.

“Sure,” said Harpo. “Bare your soul to him. Let it all out. But end by forgiving him.

“Okay,” I said, “I’ll do that if I ever meet Jesse The Younger again.”

“You will never “meet” him again,” said Harpo. “That’s why you should put all of this in a letter to him.”


Return To Sender

[dave]

I talk to myself all the time, but I seldom write to me. I was sure Harpo’s suggestion of a letter was meant to help me objectify my self-image so that I could better see my attributes, good and bad. However, on my first attempt, I kept mixing up Me Now and Me Then. Thinking about a realistic observation of myself, it occurred to me that a guardian angel would see the real me and would presumably care enough to be fair. And gentle, of course. Now my enthusiasm for this work began to grow as I thought of how Sally would write lovingly to me. And in the end, the imaginary Sally, the Guardian Angel, produced an imaginary account of what might be an imaginary Jesse.


The Letter


“Dear Brother Jesse the Younger,” she wrote. “I have to tell you that you were quite an asshole 40 years ago and although there has been slight improvement, it is not easily measured. Oh God! … literally … I was so scared when you boarded that Lufthansa Super Liner for the flight to … (Sally names the place, but for publication here I’ll call it the Republic of Tangeroo. That’s not its real name, of course, but I still have friends there I don’t wish to embarrass.) I knew only that a plane crash was in the future, but I had no details, so each time you boarded an airliner, I quaked with fear for you. When we touched down in RikiRiki, I finally relaxed with a great sigh.

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I knew you were not suited to this assignment. I had been listening to you speak with your spiritual director, your friends and counselor and I had even been inside your head and I couldn’t fathom why you thought it was time for you to give greatly of yourself so that others might live more abundant lives in better health. You were such a selfish young man! And naïve! Need I add illogical and often downright stupid? I have to admit I came close to breaking my vow as a Guardian and letting you walk in harm’s way. I felt that some of the people you were about to meet and minister to might be safer without your help. Don’t ever expect me to choose your welfare over that of large groups of your associates. Yes, He certainly loves you, but expect a little justice along with it.

But I have come to love you over the years. You may not often make sense, but you’ve got guts. Sometimes.
(signed)
Sally


Have I Told You Lately That I Love You

[dave]

“What do you think? Good, huh?” I said to Harpo after I handed him the letter and waited a minute or two for him to read it.

“This is terrible,” he said. “You can’t even show up in person to speak with your younger self? Instead you deputize and send in an imaginary young woman?”

“She’s my Guardian Angel, Harpo, not a fake,” I replied.

“Well, let’s just say she’s not a verifiable entity,” he said.

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“I verified her personally,” I said, knowing I was stepping out beyond the truth as well as the reasonable, a dangerous two strikes.

“Don’t you see what you did in this letter?” he asked. “You refused to speak with your old self. And you used an unrealistic notion to write a fairly innocent account of your behavior. Look, I’m not saying you should deal with Jesse if you’re not ready. Or that you’re to just pick on his faults. This shouldn’t be a guilt fest. But get the actors to play themselves before you go any farther.”

I’m not sure how long ago that took place, but I have not yet got around to trying another letter.

Here's an interesting song. The NRA might be interested.

Angel With A Shotgun

[dave]

I had not been sleeping well, fitfully tossing to and fro as my mind refused to leave the problem of how we would deal with leaving our home, if it came to that. As the new abbot I wasn’t making much headway toward a solution. I wriggled about in my sleeping bag and remembered a visit to Uncle Hank’s farm when I was a boy. Perhaps where I lay brought back the memory. Unable to sleep, I had dragged myself around the mostly empty summer resort half the night and finally stretched out on the large table in the center of the wash room in the old kitchen house that formed one side of our tiny back yard.

When I awoke, I was back in the Chapter House asleep at a desk in the Scriptorium, but didn’t remember walking back from the kitchen house. There were certainly enough beds upstairs and I wondered why I wasn't in one of them. Frankly, these memory lapses were beginning to bother me.

My Brothers would recall a discussion that I had no memory of, or I might have been into town, I was told, but couldn't bring to mind driving there or returning. At first when it occasionally happened I laughed it off, but now I worried about these lapses.



What I did remember … vividly … from the previous night was a dream I’d had when I finally fell asleep. It was very early morning and I was in the woods where I had met Sally. But in the spot where the picnic table had been were two large tree stumps instead. I remember one part of my mind in the dream was not surprised with this change, while another part of my mind was surprised the other part was not surprised. I know that’s confusing, but dreams are often like that. I pulled out Bouncer’s knife and began to carve something on the stump where I would have sat across from Sally, almost knee to knee, except I thought we were at a picnic table. Somehow I knew I was carving letters, but for some reason I couldn’t decipher the word. It just wouldn’t give itself up to me. It was then I awoke with a feeling of frustration. What was the word?


Ah ... let's do it again. What Were The Words




And a bonus ... Talking In Your Sleep.

[dave]

A Date

As for staying in touch with her customers, Sally did not impress me in her role of guardian angel or real estate agent. I don’t know how long it was after she visited the monastery that she called to ask for the deed, which sent me down to talk to Lance. And while it’s true I told her we were no longer for sale, I thought she might just call to check in from time to time. For some reason, I didn’t think she was using angelic powers for that task. A month or so after Lance told me how he came to own his property, I decided to call Sally. I wanted to know who she was.

I sat by the phone and felt as I did over fifty years ago when I called a girl to ask for my first date. Butterflies fluttered around in my stomach and I had to will my left hand to pick up the phone and my right hand to start punching in Sally’s telephone number.

“We need to talk,” I said when she came on the line.

“Brother Jesse,” she said, “how are you? I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch with you.”

“Not a very good guardian angel, are you?”


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I was sorry as soon as it passed my lips, but it just came out.

The comment was met by silence.

“Sally,” I said, getting right to it, “can I meet you somewhere so we can talk?”

The silence continued, then she said, “Sure, I guess. Anything to be of help. I’ll be in Saugerties tomorrow. I’ll meet you at the bookstore.”


Meet Me On The Equinox

[dave]

There are a number of small informal restaurants in the village of Saugerties. Most are sandwiched in between antique shops and used clothing stores, the latter not the type for poor people. I met Sally and we turned down Partition Street to search for a place to have coffee.

We found a tiny lunch room a few doors from the corner and settled ourselves in a booth, propping our elbows on a table that had come to town in a time machine from the 1950's, its yellow surface evidently designed to cheer up citizens from a half century ago by diluting their fear of an Atomic Bomb falling out of the blue sky on a perfectly lovely afternoon. A sunny disposition is always the best way to approach the end.



I began our conversation lightly and we noted our impressions of the weather until a waitress found her way to us. With all the surrounding décor dating to the 1950’s, I might have expected a woman in a white uniform with a tiny cap perched on her head and an order pad in her hand.

But here before us was a young girl with an impatient frown across her face. She wore a sweatshirt with probably nothing underneath and jeans that just about came up over her hips, leaving a wide belt of bare skin. She took our order for coffee and a slice of pie for me and without a word of acknowledgment walked away as I wondered how far the tattoo on the small of her back descended down her backside. I may be a monk, but I’m observant.

The teenager soon returned with our coffee, but no pie. I let her go without inquiring after my dessert, deciding to leave the situation up to God. He might decide I needed to skip sweets. I could overrule him and get up and ask for the pie. Of course, it's entirely possible that God couldn't care less about what I eat, but I like to involve the Almighty so I can blame him later if necessary.


It's All Your Fault

[dave]

"I never asked you about your car accident,” Sally said. “How do you feel?"

“Don’t you eternals know everything and have no need to ask?” I said.

Sally glanced at me with bit of annoyance across her face, but said nothing.

“Have you been walking in the woods lately?” I said.

She looked down at her coffee cup for a long while and didn’t answer me. I began to think she had found something floating in her coffee.

“Who are you, Jesse?” she asked.

“Who am I? I’m just a poor old monk,” I said. “The real question is Who are you?”

“How did you just appear in the woods like that?” she asked, her eyes coming up from the cup and now looking directly into mine.

“Wait a second,” I said. “Just wait a second ….”

“One minute I’m walking on the trail and I pass a moldy old tree stump,” she continued, “and then I turn around and you’re sitting on it. Just like that.”

“It won’t work, Sally,” I said. “This is probably some technique they taught you in angel school …”

“Stop it!” she almost shouted, slamming her hand down on the table with such force that the older couple across the aisle looked our way. We stared at our individual cups of coffee and said nothing for a moment.

Finally, I said, “It was a picnic table.”

“What was a picnic table?” she said.

“It wasn’t a stump,” I said, “It was a ….”

“They were stumps,” she said with deliberateness.

“Why did you kiss me?” I asked.

“It’s complicated,” she said.

“Not a good answer,” I replied. “That’s what Eve said when Adam asked her about the apple.”

“There was no apple,” she said.”



“You were probably there,” I said. “flirting with the serpent. How old do angels get to be, anyway?”

Sally resumed staring deeply into her coffee and now I wondered if orders from heaven were appearing down there in the cup.

“You knew my birth name,” I said.

“You knew everything about me,” she said, “that time in high school when I ….” She stopped abruptly.”

There you go with Angel Tricks 101 again,” I said. “Are you going to admit you’re my Guardian Angel?”

She looked up at me quickly as though the message in the coffee cup had surprised her. But just as quickly her face relaxed into a knowing scowl and she shook her head as if to agree with her last thought.

Sally sat back with a bemused look in her eye and didn’t answer. Then she looked down at the table again and said, “Jesse, we’re not …. “ and again she stopped abruptly. I hate it when women do that.


“We’re not getting anywhere … “ I began to say, but Sally stood abruptly, leaned over and once again kissed me on the lips, twirled around and left the restaurant.

Angel



I'm A One Woman Man

[dave]

She was right about there being no apple. Genesis says only the two were not to eat of the tree in the middle of the Garden. The fruit isn’t specified. Guess that was covered in her basic Angel coursework.



As I walked back to the SUV, I realized I already missed her. I took that to mean somewhere inside me was a sad awareness that I wouldn’t see her again.

The next day I was even more confused. I was not really sure things happened that day in the woods as I remembered them. I tossed and turned at night, going over all the details of our conversation and recalling as much detail as possible from the day in the woods. The answer surely was in one detail or another, if only I could find a key to unlock the puzzle.

I was reminded of the Ogalala Sioux Black Elk, an old Indian made famous in a 1930’s book in which the author took a lot of liberties when quoting the old warrior. Black Elck had been at Little Big Horn, so he said. The Indian would introduce a story or parable thus: "This is the way it happened. Or maybe it didn't, but it could have. And besides, this is what carries the truth." Maybe details are not important.

I sat up in bed in the middle of the night, struck by the realization that for the past hour I had lain there seeing Sally and myself on that golden afternoon in the woods … on two stumps! I couldn’t bring back the mental picture I’d had for so long of us at a moldy old picnic table. And I was dead sure the stumps were correct. Why had I thought we were at a picnic table?


Dizzy




You Make Me Dizzy Miss Lizzy