Godly Humor Part IV

Soon after Dad died, and Gram was transferred to a nursing home, I moved upstairs. My cousin and his son helped move my computer and a huge computer desk upstairs, and move one of the beds out into the garage. I thus used one bedroom as such, and turned the other into an office.

I used the computer a great deal, although I only used it as a word processor. I found that if I took notes as I read, sitting in front of the computer and typing in, I really retained the material well, and since so much of my class work involved writing papers of various lengths, it proved quite useful indeed.

I had a lovely male cat, called Kit would would sleep in a basket on top of the desk, overlooking a window to the backyard. He would sleep away the afternoon as I sat typing and reading away the same. I was content and in my element. I realized most clearly that the scholarly life was one I was well suited to, as hours went by with nary a recognition on my part.

Of course, I had a good many other things to do. I was volunteering at the a local Catholic hospital, mostly oncology patients, but also rocking sick babies and working in the ER. I of course was seeing a spiritual adviser monthly, and a congregational adviser monthly. There were numerous other engagements, dinners with sisters around the area, social events, and other Dominican meetings and retreats. I was almost always on the go, never having a weekend to myself. Of course I was at school at least three days a week as well, and usually spent the better part of the day there.

In June, I took a trip. No ordinary trip though. The Dominicans offered interested Catholics the opportunity to work for some weeks in missions across the country and sometimes outside. I had spent some time researching liberation theology and had developed an interest in migrant workers. Although this was not on point, I saw a mission involving working with Navajo kids in New Mexico that looked interesting.

I applied and got my directions. I was required to pay my own traveling expenses, but the Sister from the parish could put me up for the two weeks I would be working. In fact an older sister came from Colorado to also help out. We were to set up and run a daily “bible” camp for the children in the parish. This entailed quite a huge area in square miles. You have to know New Mexico to understand. A lot of it is spread out in the foothills to the mountains. The Native Americans there are mostly Navajo but there are other tribes as well, such as Zuni and Apache.

I flew into Albuquerque and Sister picked me up and we drove two hours to our parish, a church which was a large double wide trailer, and two houses, one for Father and one for Sister. We had to box up a garage (more like a warehouse in size) of clothing gathered from contributions. That was where the major part of the camp would be held. After doing that we worked on getting projects together for the week. Basically we worked from 7 am until about 10 pm each day.

Sister was kind and took me sightseeing a bit. I certainly think she went out of her way to show me around and I enjoyed all the parishioners I met. But the work and the hours were far beyond what I was used to. I began to yearn for home. I missed my time of reflection and time with God. I was so busy most days, I had little time. The fault was mine of course. I was less than versed in making work a service to God. We had mass every morning, but after that it was off to work. I think that this when the doubt began to creep in. Was I suited to this life?

When I returned to Flint, I dropped right back into the swing of my regular schedule. The meetings with the Dominicans regionally was starting to concern me. I saw women who were joyous certainly and full of purpose and talent. Yet I also saw women who were tired, worn out by too many duties, too may board meetings and not enough time to simply sit. I saw women sometimes nearly reduced to tears as they begged not to be considered for yet another post that would entail more meetings and traveling. This weighed heavy on my mind.

I am a lazy person. I have developed a fine sense of delayed gratification to deal with my propensity to slack off. It is the only way I get things done. If I don’t want to do something, you can be sure that it will be the first thing I will tackle in the morning. Get ‘er done, and then you can do what you want.

I began to be troubled by all that I saw among the Sisters that I was associated with. They all seemed run by calendars. It was often hard to find a date wherein everyone could actually get together. I had yearned for the contemplative life, believing that I was more suited for that, but that was not acceptable so I was told. I was too old to make such a drastic transition. Well, I was beginning to wonder if I could be suited to this overly hectic lifestyle of the average nun either. They thought nothing of traveling two hours to spend six hours at some event and then spending another two hours driving home. ‘

It was into this emotional turmoil that I got my first modem. It sounds like my first car, or my first checking account of something major. It was major. My cousin’s son had a friend who was computer savvy and they drove down one day with modem in tow and installed it. I of course found the whole thing mysterious. Slowly I negotiated my way around the “Internet” that strange beast I had heard so much about.

I recall in some literature about something or other, I think from my new ISP provider, I was told about this place called MIRC, or Internet Relay Chat. I figured it out after a bit of trial and error. I have no idea what I thought I would find. Perhaps  I expected to chat with other religious? I have no recollection. But once I arrived, I surveyed a dizzying array of “rooms” with descriptive titles. I entered a “bar”  and watched as people chatted about everything and anything.

Fascinated I kept coming back, finally talking and asking questions. I was told that I had landed into pretty much a private room, where a small group of close friends met, and I was told of other rooms I might enjoy. I moved around. Of course, I ended up in singles rooms where the discussions were flirtatious and down right sexual. I cannot explain the attraction. I truly can’t. I had thought that my sexual life was over. I didn’t seem to have any regrets. I was content. Yet, I had a gift of gab, and soon I was being flirted with, and a lot.

I admit that I succumbed totally. I was flattered, and I began to flirt as shamelessly as the others did. I starting having so much fun that I was having time concentrating on all my other responsibilities. I became invested in the lives of people I had never met. I witnessed “relationships” and weird online “marriages.” People told tales of people who made up personas, of visits to meet “girlfriends” who ended up having husbands, and so forth. Women masquaraded as men, and vice versa. Yet a band of “us” became great friends.

There was a room and subject matter for every thing you could imagine. There were gay rooms and straight rooms and bissexual rooms. There was public sex, there was religious chat, and kids, and teens and older adults. There were quilters and model car fanatics. The lists were endless.

As  a woman of 45, whose closest friend was a woman of 24 also interested in entering the convent, and whose days were usually spent with much older women, I simply found this world of the internet a place to express myself in ways that I had long forgotten existed within me. I was captured and became prisoner of the machine, spending hours and hours chatting. I learned how to do all sorts of things with code, I became a favorite among my peers inside the world of instant talk. I had a knack for making people laugh and I had dozens of “friends” and wannabe boyfriends.

I began to struggle with who I was, what I was doing, and what I should do next. I could barely stand to be in class, I hurried back to Flint and my lover, the Internet. I quit the volunteer work, I regretted the time I spent helping with RCIA activities. I was ashamed, yet I was not able to stop. I was in a word addicted. And I was in love. And he was 25.

Next: Love, and more love, and disaster.