In that small class of English as a Second Language students that semester, Sister Maria wasn't the only nun. Sister Juliana who hailed from Korea was also a very active and eager member who as you might have guessed it, also religiously did her homework. Sister Juliana, who had once run a hospital in Seoul, yes that's right, ran a hospital, was both educated in Eastern Medicine as well as had gone to Medical School. Needless to say, the textbooks geared towards apathetic teenagers learning English for the hopes of finding some cultural social exchange during a holiday in New York City a hopeful job in London, seemed well, dated and not quite applicable. Try telling nuns to pretend they are at a bar, "just small talk you know, speak casually." Small talk in the minds of those who dedicate their lives to poverty and wear wedding rings bound in holy matrimony to God, well, small talk is hard to convincingly model. So I had to adapt a lot of exercises to seem not only relevant, but also relatable.
But truth be known, I may have helped these women increase their TOEFL scores and gave them endless exercises on the present perfect, but really, they taught me more than I could have asked for that semester. It was late fall and I had been riding my mountain bike into the golden dales around the Upper Peninsula where autumn color rusted out the grey sky. Spent late afternoons riding after teaching in towns named Negaunee, Ishpeming and as far as the Keewanaw. Pushing my body to memorize trails, to ride faster and sometimes more reckless that I would ever tell the nuns or anyone for that matter. Fond memories of that semester include riding into the night with a headlamp as if the cold air pressured your lungs as if you were riding under water into the cold, the cold off Superior Lake which for those who know, don't ever forget it's power. It's terrible cold beauty.
And one late October day, I was riding with a group of friends, mostly males younger than myself by a decade. Sure, call me stupid or just determined. If you want to get really good at a sport, ride with people better and stronger and spend your time watching what they do and always keep up. Which I could apply to the nuns that semester as well. If you want to ask challenging questions of your own self, spend some time with a group of Asian nuns who have not only dedicated their lives to Christianity, but culturally and interpersonally understand Buddhism well. Want to spend some time working your head around the terrible beauties of your soul? Hang out with a South Korean Nun who reads people's energies, palms and looks into your retinas for answers from her readings of both the Bible and the Buddha.
And so one day, I came to class with a broken left ring finger. I had been on a mountain bike ride and navigated through a rocky knoll and fell. Brushed off the gravel and dirt to see my finger deformed and without hesitation tried to set the finger back. Later having gone for x-rays and to find nothing broken, the pain would still not subside. At first, the nuns shook their heads, "Why so busy on your bike Emilee?" To which I told them that it was my way of prayer, but a bit more active than sitting in a pew. I prefer to sweat out my existential questions. But the pain in my finger did not go away even after almost two months.
I was rubbing my finger during break one day and Sister Juliana came over. She sat down very close so as no one could hear her and said, "Emily, your finger has been broken long before you fell on bicycle" (Don't worry we worked on the definite article and prepositions a lot). She continued, "Emily, I see you. Your left finger is connected to your heart. And your heart has been broken for very long time. Long before. You need to feed your heart Emiliee, you need to give food, meat, some power, you know, Emilee, yes?" But really, I didn't. Our break was up and Sister Juliana shook her head, not in frustration, but rather due to a loss in translation. "No worries, tomorrow I bring."
And sure enough, the next day, Sister Juliana brought in what we might consider a Bento box of some fresh venison. "Only 24 hours old, killed by the man who fixes lightbulbs, male deer, more power Emilee. You must eat it today. Must only cook three minutes, each side." After our lesson, I put the Bento box in my bag and peddled home as I always did, up 3rd street, up and towards the wind that is always in my mind and felt on my face off of that Great Lake. My cat meowing, the wood floor echoed from my steps and my absence. My cat jumped on the counter and then shook his head as I uncovered the dark steak under perfectly folded wax paper, drips of blood and even a few wisps of hair. My cat jumped away. Cast iron pan readied with a bit of olive oil and my eyes on my wrist watch. I seared the steak as followed and placed on a white plate and watched the color bleed. Watched as for the first time I sat with the smell of something more alive than butchered. More beating than bled.
I'd love to tell you I ate that steak with wild abandon. Love to tell you I walked out of that kitchen, steak in my stomach and myself placed in this world. Heart set back in place like my crooked finger. Love to tell you I went back to Sister Juliana with clear retinas and a new sense of self clarity that only being in the wilderness can give you. Sure, no matter how much I had felt like a deer in the woods, riding all hours and temperatures, had walked those woods alone and unafraid, no matter the good nun's intension, I didn't feel different. I wanted to, wanted to tell Sister Juliana she was right. But I cannot. I cannot lie as much as I wish I could. Spend enough time in the wilderness and with the spirit of nuns, and your soul is about as beveled as any glass window will ever be. You are forced, open. I sat with that venison and the smell forcing myself to chew. Chewed it all. And nothing changed.
Or so I thought. It didn't happen the next day, or even the next month and I cannot fully tell you it happened the following year either. But I can tell you now, now after all these years and broken layers of my heart later, something has changed. I can feed myself. Sure, it might not always be or need to be venison, might just be an apple with cheese standing in my galleyed kitchen or a bowl of salmon chowder at a table by myself, or a pear and sausage pie for someone I love, regardless of the meal, I make something. I make sure I am fed. And as my good friend says, who is not a nun, but has the resident status of soulful understanding as someone holy would say, "And so you learn to mother yourself, when you are broken, feed yourself like a mother would." And so Sister Juliana you were right.
Here's a revised version of a poem,
nun sponsored with love.
Atrium
I stopped believing in birds for awhile.
A nun said my heart was broken, before
I started dating. Even a sparrow
in an unlocked cage waits to start singing.
To mimic off-key is song, but not song
of yourself. Before the cross of Romans,
men followed the flight of swallows
to build temples as nests for their gods.
But I cannot live in city gardens, more poppy
along train tracks in Poland. To field yourself
in countries where orchard is season, is to rejoice
the potato as pigeon. Use your tongue as dove.
Divorce yourself from the body
as burden. You're an atrium of love.
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