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Ani Dorje needs a rest.
Jul. 17th, 2012 04:04 amAni Dorje needs a rest.
The nuns are getting older.
I'm in my 40s. I try not to think about it, I glance in the mirror and worry about the gray hairs, feel grateful my face still looks (relatively) young. I look young, but I know that I'm not. I'm 44.
I forget that it means the nuns I knew when I was in my 20s have also aged. They were 40 when I met them, and I tend to think of them as forever 40 (does that mean I think I'm forever 20?).
Ani Dorje is a high energy person with a DIY can-do attitude. Gray hair, blue eyes, and a thin, wiry build, she's always been surprisingly strong, competent, and the sort of person who could run a homestead. She doesn't just tell people, "I notice that lightbulb needs to be changed." She goes out, buys light bulbs (on sale), gets the ladder, changes the bulb ... and then fixes the wiring and dusts while she's up there.
And then she'll apologize she doesn't have time to fill the hairline crack and paint the ceiling today as well, but she promises to get to it next week: "No, wait. I have to do X, Y, Z, L and D next week, but if I rearrange--" She tends to think out loud, and conversations with her can be a dizzying experience, kind of like standing in a busy intersection.
She's so spunky, I forget she's in her early-to-mid 60s. She's forever-40 in my mind.
Until last Thursday.
We were moving a coffee table together. "One-two-three--lift!" she said. And she staggered.
I've never, ever seen her stagger.
"You're tired," I said, worried.
Oh, she had a late night prayer shift (we have a 24 hour prayer vigil) because she was prayer chart caretaker (the caretakers cover the shifts they can't convince others to fill, and those are usually in the middle of the night), plus she had pet sitting, plus this, and something else, and the other thing -- the list went on. She's overbooked herself.
Except she's always done that. She was a friend of the family before she was a nun, and I used to babysit her daughters in high school. I've never seen her stagger before. She's in her 60s, I remembered.
"Get some rest," I made her promise.
An hour later, one of the other nuns (in her 70s) needed a ride home (both Ani Drolkar and her car are too old to drive; she'll say it's the car, I'm sure the car would say it's her). She asked Ani Dorje, but I misunderstood, and thought she was asking me.
"Sure!" I said. Ani Dorje looked nonplussed. Then relieved.
I can't repaint the ceiling today (or next week), nor am I going to fill that hairline crack, pet sit, or any of the other dozens of things Ani Dorje has going. But at least right then she could get some rest.
The nuns are getting older.
I'm in my 40s. I try not to think about it, I glance in the mirror and worry about the gray hairs, feel grateful my face still looks (relatively) young. I look young, but I know that I'm not. I'm 44.
I forget that it means the nuns I knew when I was in my 20s have also aged. They were 40 when I met them, and I tend to think of them as forever 40 (does that mean I think I'm forever 20?).
Ani Dorje is a high energy person with a DIY can-do attitude. Gray hair, blue eyes, and a thin, wiry build, she's always been surprisingly strong, competent, and the sort of person who could run a homestead. She doesn't just tell people, "I notice that lightbulb needs to be changed." She goes out, buys light bulbs (on sale), gets the ladder, changes the bulb ... and then fixes the wiring and dusts while she's up there.
And then she'll apologize she doesn't have time to fill the hairline crack and paint the ceiling today as well, but she promises to get to it next week: "No, wait. I have to do X, Y, Z, L and D next week, but if I rearrange--" She tends to think out loud, and conversations with her can be a dizzying experience, kind of like standing in a busy intersection.
She's so spunky, I forget she's in her early-to-mid 60s. She's forever-40 in my mind.
Until last Thursday.
We were moving a coffee table together. "One-two-three--lift!" she said. And she staggered.
I've never, ever seen her stagger.
"You're tired," I said, worried.
Oh, she had a late night prayer shift (we have a 24 hour prayer vigil) because she was prayer chart caretaker (the caretakers cover the shifts they can't convince others to fill, and those are usually in the middle of the night), plus she had pet sitting, plus this, and something else, and the other thing -- the list went on. She's overbooked herself.
Except she's always done that. She was a friend of the family before she was a nun, and I used to babysit her daughters in high school. I've never seen her stagger before. She's in her 60s, I remembered.
"Get some rest," I made her promise.
An hour later, one of the other nuns (in her 70s) needed a ride home (both Ani Drolkar and her car are too old to drive; she'll say it's the car, I'm sure the car would say it's her). She asked Ani Dorje, but I misunderstood, and thought she was asking me.
"Sure!" I said. Ani Dorje looked nonplussed. Then relieved.
I can't repaint the ceiling today (or next week), nor am I going to fill that hairline crack, pet sit, or any of the other dozens of things Ani Dorje has going. But at least right then she could get some rest.