Monastery Reflection: 10

Monastery reflections from my time there last April


 Prayer is five times a day. I only go to three. But I add up times, and it comes to the exact amount of church services that I've missed in the last full year of not attending church at all. God gets last laugh.

Monastery Reflections: 5

Monastery reflections from my time there last April.

What a charming little old kindly looking weathered priest, visiting for the weekend. He's simply lovely looking - round face, wrinkled eyes. But I think that I’m gotten too attached to silence. I’m irritated out of all reason when he laughs aloud to his lunch book - during our daily silent lunch (all meals are silent at the monastery - like pretty much everything else). Today after chapel, he walked behind me back to the cells, singing pleasantly some hymn or other. And I was supremely pissed. As I’m writing this, I hear him in the room next door, blowing his nose with a lot of gusto. 

Maybe acclimating back to society after a month here will be harder than I thought.

Monastery Reflections: 4

Monastery Reflections from last April


It's hard not to get the giggles in services sometimes. Examples:

- when the we pray to the "Adorable Holy Spirit." I know we're using the ancient sense of adorable. But... the image is stuck. I'm trapped with a cozy, cutesy third person of the Trinity.

- the old monk struggles with his hearing aid and everyone just plunges on through the Eucharist with abandon - "tick tick tick tick!" - his hand wiggling in his ear, it's whining and ticking at intervals, and Brother P. is rolling his great and mighty voice onward.

- Easter week we're inundated with guests unused to our diet at the monastery, and chapel is interrupted, intermittently, by airplanes overhead and the guest's stomachs growling. Loudly.

Monastery Reflections: 3

The monks look so different outside of chapel. In services Brother P. is majestic, with a deep, strong, mighty voice inside a beat up and lame body. The lines of his body are sharp and defined. He looks and sounds regal. When he's in the role of priest at services, he's so intentional: hands lifted, bread up, never a smile, chants faster and with more purpose than the other monks.

I bump into him outside the kitchen and didn't recognize him. He has little glasses that I didn't see before. I’m taller than him. He speaks really low and mutters, and I can’t understand him at all. He has a sad, needy sort of smile all the time that's asking for to me to smile back. In the chapel, he is Christ to us. At the kitchen, he’s the cook. He's wringing his hands, twitchy, can’t meet my eye. He's very pleasant, soft-spoken, looks a little lost and like he’s trying to remember something that he’s forgotten. 

Roles.

Monastery Reflections: 2

During the Eucharist we pass the peace. I am next to the ancient monk today, bent up double in his chair. I reach for his hand to shake it and he pulls me down, just beaming through all his wrinkles – then KISSES me, smack, smack, on each cheek. 

“Christ is in our midst,” 

“He is and always will be.” 

I hold on to how old and silky smooth and thin his cheek felt for the rest of Eucharist. Christ is in our midst.

Monastery Reflections: 1

I found all my writing from the monastery, and I'm going to post a few thoughts a day for the Christmas season to get these out. They're pretty short. Hopefully they give a taste of my time there.

“You don’t mind the silent work?” Brother A inquires.

I am still finding the silence really restful.

“Good. The usual procedure, is to talk, only when necessary for work, and as briefly as possible.” Brother A's voice falls every few words, and draws out the last word – “as briefly as possiblllllllle.”

When he leaves me at the hen coup to get supplies, I indulge in a little breaking of the Lesser Silence to have a chat with the hens. “Heyo, little ladies,” I cluck, “How’s it goin’? Ready for dinner?” I feel a little bit guilty and I keep an eye out for Brother A.

It turns out that the urge to chat to hens in irresistible. “Hey hey hye, biddies,” he murmurs, “time for dinner! Time for walkies!” Then, sheepishly, “I always let them ouuuuut, give them a chaaaaaance, to stretch their winnnnnnnngs!”

I’m not sure if this talk is strictly necessary for work. (Maybe just necessary for sanity?)

winter

it's snowing, just a little bit, at the job site. when i'm sawing wood, i can't tell if it's sawdust or snowflakes that are blowing all around everywhere. it's freezing cold. i'm wearing seven layers (count them - long underwear, t-shirt, plaid cotton, plaid flannel, wooly sweater, plaid lined jacket, windbreaker) but it's so windy and so freeking damp that you just feel chilled all the time.

---

noisy day. steve is running the circular saw; t is whamming at the nail gun; there's a dirt bike flying by on the road; dogs somewhere are barking. the truck radio is running christmas tunes (it's not really christmas until you sing along to the christmas shoes!) and that makes it totally ok that... it's just started to rain.

--- 

there's a thick frost on everything this morning. it's 23 degrees (eight layer day) but it's a bright blue sky and very sharp cold - not the awful lingering damp that seeps into your gloves and socks. everything is glittering. i want to shake all the trees on the hills because i think that they'd tinkle like bells. even when the sun hits everything, it melts really slowly. when it does start to melt, you can hear the water start to move everywhere, little trickles at a time. we have the studs up for the walls of our new house, and the sun is melting the frost in stripes across the floor.

---

christmas is coming!

coffee shop at christmas

nobody is in the coffee shop yet this morning. it smells delightfully like pine trees and coffee and weed. the guys behind the counter are swapping stories about finals preparation. the christmas music is slow and jazzy and i am cuddled up on a squishy leather couch pretending to write another Statement of Intent but really soaking in a warm bubble bath of smells and sounds and tastes.

i love coffee shops and i love christmas and if only it was snowing!

dear jesus,

they should have an AA equivalent for spiritual things.

love, me


dear you,

they do, hon. we call it church.

even more love, jesus

Guttering and Baseboarding

Why do some days seem so long and others so short?

Today went by soooo slooooowly! We got a lot done, but it just seemed to really drag. T and I started to go all crazy at 3ish (highlight: T telling me "lean on her!" and then when I did... dropping me, and herself. Quote: "That wasn't leaning! That was your whole weight!")

There was another day, too, that was even worse. We all wanted to eat lunch at 10am, and by 2pm, it felt like we had been in Mrs. Sandra L's kitchen for at least a week. When you're so disconnected from time that the morning of the same day seems like it happened at least three days ago, it's a bad day.

But today wasn't really a bad day. We put up gutters around the whole house, just in time for it to start raining, and for us to get to see if they worked (they mostly did. More leaks than were anticipated.). We ate at DQ for lunch, which was a super exciting adventure (also hard to tone ourselves down for going out in public - we laugh a whole heck of a lot at work, and when we get around people, we have to remember to Get Normal for them). And then we put in baseboard everywhere. Kitchen, living room, hallways, bedroom - and I got to caulk a lot of things. I'm covered in white goo still. So we got a lot done, and felt productive, but - oh my, we were putting up gutters and putting down baseboard for a long, long, long time. A couple years, at least.

Ode to Kentucky Mud: A Journal

We're building a new house! I'm super duper excited. This is what I wanted to do in Kentucky - learn to build houses. So here is how we lay a foundation in Kentucky.

Monday: We ripped up the old foundation with a backhoe, then dug out the new one. I got to use the little thingy that checks if you're level, and use my thumb to tell Steve, on the backhoe, whether the hole should go deeper or stay put. So we hacked out the footer and went home, tired and happy.

Thursday: We got to the footer and the sides had sort of collapsed. So we dug out the collapsed dirt, which wasn't much, and then put in the rebar - long round metal pipe-things that you put in a pair all around the inside of the footer. We also put in rebar stakes in every corner, and spent a lot of time hammering them down, pulling them up, and then doing it again, trying to get every single one exactly level with every other one. We got sort of muddy, but enjoyed ourselves. Next up - call the inspectors, get inspected, then pour the concrete!

Monday: The inspector couldn't come before Friday, and it rained over the whole weekend. The footer has a foot of water in one side, and the other side is filled with collapsed, fine Kentucky mud. This is less fun than the first time. It's heavy, caught up in the rebar we had planted so studiously. The mud is so deep and thick that it keeps pulling our boots off when we move. Spleltch, spleltch, spletlch. My neck hurts, T's back hurts, and Steve is still good humored (is he ever not good humored? A question) but has started complaining - good humoredly. Plus, the rebar is getting in the way, and the stakes are sinking deeper (all that careful measuring!) and it's just a mess. But it's DONE!

Tuesday: Inspector comes. He says that we need to "get the mud out of the footer." But we did that! We did it yesterday! Waaaah....

Wednesday: We dig more mud out of the footer. This is REALLY not fun. Also, I notice that the station that plays "Hits from the 60's, 70's, and 80's!" has never played a Simon and Garfunkle song! What's with that? Bigots! Small-minded Stones fans! Lennon-lovers!

Thursday:I wash my pair of jeans from yesterday twice, and they still crackle when I bend them. It looks like Kentucky mud is in this relationship for the long haul. (No comment on my boots. I think I'll have to toss them. Now accepting: Boot donations!)

Friday: Cement arrives. Cement truck gets stuck in the mud on the side of the hill. How many wheelbarrow loads does it take to fill half a house foundation? Seven hours worth.

Tuesday: Show up to level out the dirt around the outside of the footer, and guess what? The sides had collapsed into the cement foundation! Shocking! Guess what we did? Shoveled Kentucky mud out of the footer.

Wheeee!

fragility

"how do you keep from being preachy?" - rolling stone

"the key is not to contrive it - don't bring the same level of indignation to things you don't feel. as long as you keep it as honest as you can to your own feeling, then you hope it doesn't become a pure parlor trick" - jon stewart

it's hard to be loving towards people when you are very concerned with your own identity. in particular when you are keeping careful track of what offends you, so that you can be offended at the right time and show everyone how clever and deep you are. you can be offended about equal rights or discrimination or animal rights or logging or pot legislation or actually pretty much anything.

so then you are offended, and get to defend something, and feel really good about how indignant you are. but everyone sees that you aren't really indignant, and everyone knows you're just being self-righteous (or at least, everyone that matters).

the alternative sometimes feels like being not human. the alternative means only being indignant when you actually are indignant (i got this from jon stewart so it must be true), which means that you only get to be righteously angry when you actually feel angry, righteously, not just when you know you ought to feel angry because this is a righteous cause. so if you aren't a very nice person, or a very righteous person in general, nothing evil will make you indignant. but if you're also a smart person, this will make you veeeeery uncomfortable, because you'll realize holy crap evil doesn't make me angry i must be evil too. so rather than live honestly with your own emotions, you cue yourself up to be offended when you know you should be offended.

everyone (me) is very fragile it seems like. easily breakable, easily offended, easily induced into a coma of apoplectic indignation. this makes it very complicated to love people, because people that we're supposed to love end up saying things, accidently, that cause us to be offended, and then we chose our own identity (as a righteous condemnationer) over being nice to a nice person.

danny-from-l'abri said that "growing up" meant being more solid and less fragile. this is hard.

A Little Pentecostal Lovin'

Sometimes it seems like the curtain between spiritual reality and physical reality gets pulled back a little bit, and you're allowed to dance in the sunbeams before it falters down again. Last Sunday, before church, Jesus found me at BC&T, while I downed soy chai tea lattes and read old journals. Ideas that I'd been mulling over for months suddenly connected to each other, too quickly for me to record and leaving me chicken scratching concepts on napkins and making little triangular diagrams - "LOVE - TRUST - JESUS -> SPECIAL GRACE!" - which is like drawing a stick figure to try and express "Psyche Revived by Cupid's Kiss".

I bundle up and head out to my new Pentecostal church family. I bounce up to church so enthusiastically that I fell down a small set of stairs in my new heels (Lesson: Spiritual revelations should not be combined with high heels). I even make it through all of the hugging and introducing and the overwhelming touching of the South with grace and good spirits.

I have always pictured worship and prayer as a kind of dance. Dancing can communicate love without language being necessary; dancing also has this sameness of purpose and direction that seems to unify more than anything else. I read somewhere that "dancing is the music of the body;" I think that worship is the dancing of the soul. So through all this, I'm still, futily, trying to get my beautiful spiritual ideas down in triangular diagrams, when one of my absolute favorite songs starts to play. This is a song to dance to! (Metaphorically: I am a New Englander, still.) So I close up all my diagrams and stand up, super pumped about worship...

A hand on my back.

"Jesus told me to pray for you, sweetheart."

Eh?

"I felt, ever since we said hello this morning, that Jesus wants to tell you something!"

A kindly, grey-haired lady is kneeling next to me now.

"He feels your pain, baby, and I'm gonna pray that He re-leases you!"

Wha'? My pain? What pain? Jesus, are you telling this lady something about my unconscious pain that you aren't telling me?

"Jeeeesus, I pray for my sister! She's sad! She's suffering! She's empty! Her heart is broken and bleeding, Lord! It is broken! It is bleeding! May she know that YOU answer her prayers, that YOU hear her cry, that YOU will heal her brokenness! Re-lease her! Re-lease her! Jeeeeee-sus!"

So on, so forth. And then, that was that. Worship wrapped up, The lady gave me a weepy hug. I sort of patted her politely on the shoulder.

We don't do this in New England.

At first I was cranky. Interrupting worship, to me, is like interrupting a dance right in the middle. And not just any dance - it's like trying to tap out the groom on his wedding day: "I know you just got married, but I sure would like to dance with the bride... right - now!"

But the metaphor didn't help me stay cranky, because if Jesus is the groom here, then he knows that this isn't such a big deal, and I'm just overreacting. And then I had this picture of Jesus, in a tux, standing by the potted plants in the corner of the patio at the reception, watching my desperate face as I get sucked into a wild polka with a well intentioned Southern lady ("1 and 2 and! 1 and 2 and!") ... and he keeps catching my eye and grinning, because the sort of person that I give my whole life up to in a Divine Romance is also the sort of person that thinks that things like that are sort of silly, in a good, get-the-giggles kind of way. And knows that this nice lady doing the polka so vigorously really does mean well, and loves Jesus just as much as me - just in a different way. There'll be plenty of time to dance. But this sure has been a hoot, right, Laura?

Right.

Go, Dog, Go!

I am going to die by dog. I know it. It might be while I'm going running down Sand Lick Road, and one of the crazed, bloodthirsty coon dogs breaks the chain off its doghouse and rips to me little bitty shreds. It might be from a deadly virus that I pick up cuddling participants' dogs while they wash my face with their disease infested tongues. It might be from careening off a cliff trying to avoid a dog sitting - sitting! - in the middle of the road.

The long and short of it is, there are so many dogs in Kentucky. There are mean dogs chained to porches, hunting dogs chained to barns, big white snowy dogs at the dump, little half-starved beagle dogs at our storage barn, and adorable flea infested puppy-dogs at our volunteer house. There are dogs with the body of a Basset hound and the head of a German shepherd like a surreal mythological beast, and there are dogs with no front legs that walk upright on their back legs like a creepy dog-person. There are old dogs by the side of the road, and hungry dogs outside the tobacco drive-through, and tired dogs under rusty tractors, and lost dogs in fields, and mommy-dogs with unlimited supplies of puppies, and dogs that are lame, and dogs that smell funny. This post is just inches away from morphing into a children's book ("The red dog is in. The blue dog is out.")

Moral of the story: If you need a dog, please come to Kentucky and take some of our dogs away.
Moral of the story #2: Spay and neuter your dog. Please.

Elvis Resurrected!

Mrs. Mary J was my absolutist favorite participant. We were at her house working for about three weeks, and while we were there we blew insulation into her roof, replaced a huge picture window in her living room, and built an 8x10 porch with a roof for the back door. It was my favorite kind of work - fast-paced, interesting, pretty easy to figure out but sometimes pretty challenging to implement (I have a great memory of my coworker T lying on her back on the house roof, trying to screw things in under the overlap of the porch roof, while I stood on the ladder under her holding her feet up because if I didn't, she'd slide right off the metal roof that was totally covered in sawdust - and of course, both of us giggling and snorting up sawdust and coughing and commenting that "this would be a super interesting way to die!"). Leaving Mrs. Mary J's house was a little heartbreaking. Back to slow, boring jobs - back to grumpy participants - back to groups (oh BOY.)

I'd like to try and paint a picture of Mrs. Mary J, but I think that I'll probably fail. She was a short, stoutish lady with wispy grey hair and wee little spindly glasses. She rocked out Kentucky fashion better than anyone I've met here, with her denim skirt, baseball hat, and her husband's camo t-shirt. She made it look classy and practical. Probably the greatest thing about her was how often she said "well." Except she said it "way-uhl!" And she used it for everything. It could be a question, or a statement, an expression of shock, disapproval or pleasure, or just a filler word to let you know that she saw still listening, depending on her intonation.

Most of what made Mrs. Mary J so delightful was how  un-self-conscious she was, and how simply she saw the world and herself. Very trusting of all of us (sometimes I had to retract a joke that I made, because she widened her eyes and said "WAY-uhl!" and I knew that she thought it was true... oops), deeply genuine, super kind, really joyful, hospitable (let me tell you about her delicious venison that we got to eat for lunch several times!) and grateful for everything that happened to her house. She was like a kid on Christmas morning, every single day - "Wah-uhl, these here windows you'uns are puttin' in are like $500,000 dollar house windows!"

This is my favorite story about Mrs. Mary J. We're putting up gutters on the side of the house, and she comes out to tell us that there is a festival coming up soon that Elvis will be playing at. (Impersonators are sort of everywhere in Kentucky - Elvis and Michael Jackson were both in Berea a few weekends ago).

So she gives us the news of the festival, then wanders back inside and we keep up working. Ten minutes go by. Then - the door bangs open! Mrs. Mary J flies out of it! Her eyes are wide and her mouth is open!

"Way-uhl!" she gasps, "Elvis is dead!"

Oh my goodness me, the look on Steve's face.

What I'm really curious about is the first thing that went through her mind when she realized that Elvis is dead AND that Elvis was playing at the festival. Oh, lovely.

I really miss Mrs. Mary J.

grad school better be worth this

Here's what it looks like to write an essay for graduate school:

Google:
"How to write a personal statement"
"Yale statistics"
"Yale GRE scores"
"Notre Dame GRE scores"

open word document. read 11 pages of drafting. cut. paste. read opening paragraph. read it again.

Google:
"catchy opening statements graduate school"
"gradcafe.com MDiv personal statement"
"Boston College admissions"
"Boston Museum of Fine Arts"
"bus Boston-NH"
"Portsmouth NH shows"

bullet points: what makes me unique. why i am special. why you should accept me into your school and then give me 40,000 a year. 

... i like jesus. also i like ... philosophy... and ... the color... green ...

Google:
"why graduate school"
"WWOOFing in Italy"
"culinary schools"
"massage therapy"
"spas in lexington ky"

open a new word document. (entitled "Another Statement of Intent" in order to distinguish it from documents "Statement of Intent" and "New Statement of Intent") catchy opening statement: "i have been worrying over Truth since...".

Google:
"worrying definition"
"What the Bible Says About Worry"
     -> "What the Bible Says about Women in Ministry"
          -> Wikipedia: Famous Female Philosophers
               -> Simone de Beauvoir
                    >-existentialism
                        -> Monty Python
                             -> Fawlty Towers "The Germans'
Youtube: "fawlty towers the germans"


hahahahhaaaaaa ooooh nooooo. Open Another Statement of Intent. WRITE! SOMETHING! YOU ARE SPECIAL! YOU ARE UNIQUE! COMMUNICATE! COMMUNICATE!

"I want to get a Masters of Divinity because I love to write. It's easy for me, and I enjoy it. I can write for hours and hours at a time without noticing the outside world at all. In fact, sometimes I get lost in language to the extent that I forget to eat, or cease to notice people around me."

Google:
"do writers really like writing"
"Stephen King: 7 Tips for Becoming a Better Writer"

eat a muffin. make some coffee. stretch.

Blogger: New Post.

cheap thrills

so i went to get contacts this morning, and they're all adjusted to my astigmatism, which means that everything is weird. driving was a little wonky. i kept blinking really slowly and moving my head baaaack and fooooward. Things just seemed off.

things got weirder at the used bookstore, because i spent a lot of time thinking that i was in the large print, large bound section, and trying to find the real books that were a normal size. finally i put my hand up to the rows of books and was shocked that my hand was "large print."

i think that the lady behind the counter thought that i wasn't quite myself. wandering through the store, muttering to myself, tipping my head, holding my hand up to books, then pulling it back.... soooo sloooowly....

Flashback: Monastery Week 1

April 2011. The last week of Lent before Holy Week begins.

A monastery in the South of England. 

I've been here for a week and will be here for three more.

Today John cornered me after chapel.

“Are you doin’ all right?” I’m not so great at UK accents, but he’s either from Northern England or Scottland (later I’m confirmed that yes, he is from the north of England). “Because ah I keep seein’ you and hopin’ you’re doin’ all right.”

I hope I don’t like lost, confused, and overwhelmed. I am trying exude “peace,” but I guess that I’m not doing so well.

John follows me to the cells, keeping up conversation. The monastery is observing its daily “Greater Silence,” from 5pm at night until 9am tomorrow morning, and I know that I’m supposed to make a graceful and polite escape from any conversation, but it’s nice to hear a voice that isn’t chanting. Honestly, it’s nice to hear my own voice as well. Even in the Lesser Silence, from 9am-5pm, only necessary speaking is permitted.

John has been here since January – a long term visitor like Susan and that “tubby” guy who is identified by everyone, even Brother Peter, by his roundedness. It seemed rude at first, but I think that the nickname stems from simple amazement rather than meanness. Food here is healthy - but scarce.

“How about the food,” John asks, “how about 2 slices of bread for breakfast?” I’m fine with the food, but “there’s a village just 15 minutes away,” John whispers, “over the wire fence in that direction,” gesturing through the woods. I must look shocked, because he reassures me that “we all go out for food, even Susan!” Susan is a lovely middle-aged lady who has been here a year, and Brother Lewis tells me that they have “hopes” for her permanent residency.

“How about these hours!” he presses on. “God, I never get used to these hours! Have you been to vigils yet?” I set my alarm for 4:50 this morning, but shut it off and went back to sleep. “God! It’s not natural! Psalm after Psalm after Psalm! Seven Psalms or more! They say there’s something in the Bible about praying 6 times a day. But I tell you, I look at these old men, standing in the cold, hour after hour – times change!” He won’t stop shaking his head. He’s still whispering.

“If you need anything, you let me know. The password for the internet computer in the library is 'one great tradition.'” I really do look shocked now. “Oh, this whole place is rigged with wireless, too” he assures me. “They’ve got it everywhere. And if you need to get into the library after they lock it,” at night and early morning, “just ask Susan, she’s got a key”.

I feel vaguely like I’m hearing a teenager at a restrictive boarding school share his secrets. I guess if you’re here for six months, you could go stir crazy. Six days in for me, and the spoken word has already turned into a novelty. So why is John here? And for half a year? Questions.

Kentucky Driving

Kentucky road are like New England roads except younger and more confused. I feel like New England roads are curvy in a much more peaceful, old sort of way. I guess that I get the vibe that NH curves make sense.   They seem more gracious to the average driver. Kentucky curves never made it out of adolescence. They just JERK and LEAP and go BACKFORTHBACKBACKFORTH like they just can't. make. up. their. MIND! "I wanna go RIGHT nonono LEFT OH! NO! I MADE A MISTAKE RIGHT RIGHT RIGHT!!!" The roads are incredibly hysterical. Also, all speed limits are 55mph, so the roads demand that you careen across them, while they screech at you to GO RIGHT MORE RIGHT MORE MORE MORE WATCH THE RAVEEEEEN!

And also there are a lot of stray dogs in Kentucky and they have their cool kid parties right in the middle of blind curves on the edge of mountains. Yeah.

Besides this, the people that drive on Kentucky roads (trans: Kentucky drivers) also do the darndest things. Last week, T and I got all jammed up behind the funniest motorcade. It's pretty normal to get stuck behind someone who has been intimidated by the berserk highways and is plugging along at 25mpg, but the line was getting super long and we were going super slow. Finally we see that there are some cop cars, with their lights flashing, somewhere near the front of the line. How exciting! Something really thrilling must be going on!

As the road straightens out, we see that there are four cop cars, and they're surrounding a school bus driving at about 15mph. Now speculation is really running high. My bet was that some kid pulled a knife on the bus, and was holding the bus driver hostage until Jackson County succumbed to his demands. Why else would there be four police cars trailing along with this bus?

Well, we finally we see what's going on. The full-size school bus, well covered by its police escort, was empty and being towed.

By a Jeep Grand Cherokee.

This place is really weird sometimes. Awesome, amazing, funny, fabulous... but really, really weird.

Green Wool Coat

I found a winter coat that I really wanted a few weekends ago. It was a beautiful dark green wool coat, and it fit perfectly. When I tried it on, I felt like Audrey Hepburn, and I should have moved to New York and worn cute vintage heels and had a real job doing something that required showering before work instead of after work, and wearing purple eye shadow, and also getting a paycheck.

Unfortunately, a paycheck was exactly what I needed to afford the coat, which, despite being ON SALE 50% OFF! rang in at $119.99. The little green coat was not to be. Neither was the little blue dress for contra dancing, or the previously mentioned vintage heels.

I'm mopy that I can't be super wealthy, and buy delicious fresh produce every day, and look fabulous, and have a new car that doesn't shake, rattle, and roll over 50mph. I'm really, legitimately frustrated that I can't just apply to graduate schools like Yale or Boston College and know that all I have to worry about is whether I'm smart enough, not whether I'm rich enough. I'm pouty that I can't just be a Harvard-type Zooey Deschanel vegan living in a gorgeous in-town loft, a walk away from an ocean somewhere.

So here's my pep talk that I give myself when those particular voices in my head get really loud.

You, Laura, live in Jackson county, the 33rd poorest county in the United States. You work in Owsley county, the poorest county in the entirety of the United States. (By annual median household income). The state of Kentucky contains 29 of the top 100 poorest counties, trailed by Mississippi at 13 and Texas at 10. Fully a third of the poorest counties in the country are in your state.

Last week you put flooring into a house that had holes in the bedroom floor and snakes in the walls and one wall that was a foot lower than the other one because the wood had rotted out.

You put a wheelchair ramp on a house with no doors inside, with a sheet hung between the toilet and the living room.

You have walked around dog poo on a living room rug.

You dismantled a front porch and discovered the seven full trash bags stuffed underneath.

You've jammed yourself into a 8 inch gap to drill on porch railings while an able-bodied homeowner watched and provided commentary, and you've nailed on siding next to a well-dressed, high heeled homeowner, who wielded a hammer better than you (even with her manicured nails) before she ran off to work for the day.

You've met Mrs. L, who keeps hinting at all the other work we could be doing; and you've met Mrs. Mary J, who feeds us and bandaids us and takes pictures of us.

You worked for Mrs. H, who called the office every day to see when we would come back and "finish up what we started here." And you've worked for people like Mrs. Julia D.

Mrs. D's house had burned down a month ago, and her husband and her had built the new one, by themselves, in 24 days. When they ran out of insurance money, they were short a porch, siding, and insulation under the house. CAP was there for three week with church groups, working next to Mr. and Mrs. D. when they weren't at their jobs. The house was decorated completely from Goodwill and yard sales, but was still color-coordinated and shiny-new looking. She made us baked beans and mac 'n cheese for lunch, and when she found out that you were living with 9 other people on a budget, she sent all the leftovers home with you. Oh, and she also taught you how to make little flowers for cakes out of frosting.

You have seen some poverty and despair, and some poverty and ingratitude, but mostly - mostly - you have seen poverty and thankfulness, and toughness, and generosity.

So, Ms. Zooey Deschanel wannabe. What do you really want the world to hand over to you? Who do you really want to be at the far end of life?

I'd rather eat Mrs. D.'s baked beans and climb roofs in ratty jeans than eat organic and wear Audrey Hepburn coats to an office job. I'd rather be like Mrs. D. than Audrey Hepburn, anyway.

Sometimes I just forget.