Unarmed & Unorthodox Pt. One

Part One: Erika The No-Sock Nun

 

I showed up at a Greek Monastery last night, dressed head-to-toe in what I’d like to call my “Monday-Night-At-The-Monastery” best. I had my head scarf, long sleeves, closed toe shoes and long skirt all ready to go. I even threw some leggings on underneath, just in case a calf-length skirt wasn’t modest enough. I caught a glimpse of myself as I was getting out of my car, “So much for female empowerment,” I thought, “Just call me Head-Scarved Holum.” I made a face at my reflection before turning toward the dirt path that led through the tall pine trees into another world.

The thing about just showing up at a monastery with little to no notice is that there is almost never a good time to show up at a monastery with little to no notice. For living in utter solitude, these women seem to always be busy with something. A big festival, a pregnant goat, or some big-shot spiritual leader from Arizona coming to visit, the nuns always seem to be scattered about.  In my case, it was all of the above.

So my arrival for the nuns was pretty much on par with tending to a stray cat, relative to all the other things happening about. Walking up the path toward the beautiful Grecian pair of house and the church I vouched for the attention of one woman, thinking she was a nun. She turned away from feeding a presumably stray dog and directed her attention toward me. She started speaking very loudly in her thick Greek accent, “TO WHOM MAY I SAY YOU ARE.”

 “Uh, who am I? Or who is expecting me?” I asked, trying to clarify.

I stared racking my brain for the name of the nun I talked to on the phone a few days before. I’m awfully terrible with English sounding names, so the thought of trying to remember a very, very Greek sounding name was a lost cause.

“I’m Erika?” I was hoping that answered whatever question she was asking.

“OKAY, PLEASE SIT.” She made a slight gesture toward a couple benches clustered 40 feet or so away, made an even slighter gesture at a smile, and finally turned on her heel, leaving me among the rest of stray animals.

I began to wonder what all of my friends were doing on their spring break. I guess most girls my age tie string bikinis over their bodies for their week at the beach basking in the sun. Which is kind of the same thing as spending a few days at a monastery, except the word hot just takes a slightly different meaning. All the other girls showing little to no skin, my wardrobe consisted of showing nothing but my hands, ankles, and face.

Bow-chicka-wow-wow.

I was finally ushered toward the house where the nuns stayed. I would not even dare the attempt at entering in yet, a few of the Sisters came out to say hi briefly in passing. Each nun that I began to encounter took one look at me, smiled, and then glanced straight down toward my moccasined feet. “Oh, shoot.” I scream in my head, “I am such goner, I forgot to put on knee-high socks! Get me out of here. I guess when I knew I was meant to be covered from head to toe, I should have literally been covered head-to-toe!”

My guess is that the incredibly distinct tan line encircling my ankles would make anyone take a second glance, and the supreme stark contrast between my tanned legs and starch white feet was a sure attention getter, even for the Sisters at the monastery. I felt my sock-less-ness was just another red flag to alert the Sisters of spiritually inept and unkempt vagrant before them. Even though I had to ignore my instincts to flee, I overcame the brief moment of fear of being judged by some of the notoriously nonjudgmental clans one could possibly run with. Despite my own personal horror with my unorthodoxly uncovered feet, not a single nun said anything. So I decided to just go with it. No lightning bolts seemed to shoot out from the fingertips of neither Zeus nor the Judeo-Christian God so I thought I might be in the clear. I’ll have to ask later about a confession, just to be safe.