Kitchen at Nicky's Monastery


July 21st, 2008, a Monday

What is it with Mondays anyway?  They are so "Mondayish", aren't they?  I'm probably not telling you anything you don't already know.  Doesn't everyone feel that way about Mondays?  The obvious answer is, of course, the go back to work after the weekend thing.  Most people have a Monday through Friday work week, making Monday the first of the five days, the longest point from the next weekend.  But is it more than that?  I mean, if you have a vacation day, or something special to do that evening, or even a sick day, does Monday still feel like Monday?  If your birthday falls on a Monday (and at some point they usually do), will that make Monday less bad?  At least for that one time?  What about people who work on weekends and have Monday off?  Is their day off as good as the days everyone else has off?  I actually feel kind of sorry for Monday. 

But consider this.  I have a friend who had a really bad stroke.  He's only in his mid-fifties and it was his second one.  He is adjusting to all the things he can no longer do and having to work very, very hard to accomplish the simplest tasks, as he says, he just took for granted before.  Recently, on a Sunday, he was talking about how difficult and sad Mondays are for him now.  He spent a career working for the Smithsonian in a very high power, high stress job moving really valuable art all around the country, and sometimes the world.  There were never enough people to get the job done and the pressure to meet deadlines was intense.  Sometimes he would actually be kinda scared of an upcoming week and how hard it was going to be and he wouldn't sleep that well on Sunday nights worrying about what was to come.  So on Mondays he would get up very early to be the first one at the office.  He would take the beautiful Metro from his home in suburban Maryland down to the District and always stop at his favorite place for a cup of tea to take with him.  Knowing him, I am sure he would smile and visit with the guy behind the counter and probably knew where he was from and how many kids he had.  Once he arrived at the beautiful Museum of American Art when it was just waking up for the day, a building that he loves dearly, he would prioritize everything and plan out the week so when his staff came in at the usual time, everything would be ready to discuss and everyone could get right to work.  Turns out that was his special time, a ritual that even though cloaked in the heavy responsibility of a huge job, was very much loved by him.  Now when he wakes up on Monday morning, he still has a big job ahead of him only it is getting dressed, trying to figure out which way his shorts go on and how to get the shirt over his head or buttoned with the use of his only one good hand.  He still isn't driving but hopes to soon.  Twice a week he goes to therapy where progress is slow, very slow, but steady.  He doesn't know if he will get the use of his left arm back or if the simple tasks will get easier.  But he does know that he really misses his Monday ritual and is very envious of all the people who get up on Mondays and go to their jobs and get another stab at it.  Right now he would give just about anything to have another stab at it.  If he did, I would guess that he would not feel as stressed about things.  Instead he would throw himself into the work, do the best he could (which in itself would be very, very good),  and enjoy every part of it so much.  What I think he misses most are the people, those he saw every single day whether it be his co-workers or just other art people he saw in the hall or when he had to visit other museums or at lunch around town or for drinks after work at the spot where everyone hangs out.  He can't drink anymore but I think he has discovered that it isn't what you're drinking, it's that you are there with your friends, enjoying their company after a long day of work. 

We have to get better at being present in our own lives, understanding what makes up each moment in our day.  I am lucky because I have my boyfriend, Dominic (Nicky), to help me.  When he was a monk, he would spend hours and hours meditating and not talking (that vow of silence thing).  They had rituals at the monastery but I think they really loved and appreciated them more than we do ours.  They made their meals together, cleaned up together, prayed together, and took walks together.  A real brotherhood dedicated to the art of simple life tasks and a commitment to their faith.  When is the last time you really got inside the act of cleaning up the kitchen?  Seriously, one day you won't be able to because you will be sick or dead or missing somehow.  Then you will wish you could just have one more stab at cleaning up the kitchen.  Your kitchen, where you make your meals, where you visit with loved ones, and where you run your hands (both hands) under the warm water.  Even cleaning up the kitchen can be a joyful act.  If only we knew it while we could still do it.

GR