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Mission
Trip
New Orleans, July 2007
On Retreat in New Orleans
Sweat.
I am bathed in sweat.
I am slimy. I smell very, very bad.
This morning I chose my outfit thoughtfully--long, basketball-style gym
shorts, lightweight cotton tank top, cushy athletic socks, high-top leather
hiking boots.
My fashion standards --though never high-- have hit an all-time low. I don’t
even care. I march off in a double file line with 50 other poorly dressed
"volunteers." We are on a mission. Though I would like to report I am experiencing
a higher spiritual calling, the focus of my morning mission is breakfast.
I am hungry. The line shuffles forward sleepily. There is little talk.
The atmosphere is heavy. My nose leaves the air conditioned "warehouse"
style dormitory anticipating "fresh morning" air--but I am greeted instead
by a scent of stagnant water and formerly live organisms (plants?) caught
in the act of decaying. I think of unopened gym lockers, dirty socks (and
more) over long weekends and school breaks. The scent is subtle, but inescapable.
90 minutes later I am bathed in sweat. Though the temperature has gone up
10 degrees since breakfast, I have put on more clothes: a long sleeved "Haz-Mat"
suit (as in "Hazardous Materials") zipped up to my neck, huge stretchy rubber
"overshoe" boots (the kind we had as kids with a button on the side to close
the flap), three pairs of gloves (stretchy nitrile medical gloves, covered
by long dishwashing style gloves, covered by bulky leather work gloves). To
complete my look, I have added some lovely (also functional and required)
accessories: a large double filter respirator that covers my nose, mouth,
cheeks and jaw; clear plastic goggles over my glasses. The straps for each
criss-cross my head; my hair (like weeds pushing through a cracked sidewalk)
sprouts up and out of the elastic web in any and every direction. Every breath
through the respirator smells and tastes like old tire inner tubes. The stale
moisture from my lungs accumulates inside. My glasses fog. Time to move.
To manage these giant boots I learn to pick up each foot a little higher,
I take smaller steps. I walk slowly, conscious of each step as I lumber through
this too empty house, feeling a bit like Herman Munster.
The crotch of my jumpsuit goes down halfway to my knees. The legs are too
long and the body of the suit is way too big and loose. Sitting, kneeling
down--and especially getting back up--require mental planning as I gather
and work with this new excessively large, bunchy layer. Climbing a step ladder
in floppy boots and baggy suit is a brand new exercise. I almost fall once,
trying to descend the ladder too quickly, thinking I am only in my "old" familiar
body. I catch myself, slow down, regroup, and take it one small step at a
time. I make sure both feet are on the floor before I attempt to pivot or
walk.
Three layers of gloves make my fingers practically useless and my hands
clumsy. There is new meaning to the "fine" in "fine motor." My tools are
a hammer and a short pry bar. I find that I am able to wrap my thickly gloved
fingers around these-- and within a short time, I have adapted and can even
make useful movements with them to perform “work.”
I am in New Orleans in July. Inside my Haz-Mat suit and boots and triple
gloves, I am like the Wicked Witch from The Wizard of Oz.
I am melting.
But somehow, surprisingly, I am okay. I am not nauseous. I have no headache.
I do not feel weak. There is no migraine aura. Yes, I am really okay.
I am working with a team of eight or ten people--adults and high school
youth. We are "gutting" a house. Our instructions are simple: all of the
paneling and sheetrock and tile and molding and doors and insulation and
floor coverings must go. We must find and pull every nail that fastened these
materials--that kept the trim and walls and ceilings in place. All that can
remain is the two-by-four studs and subfloor.
Three of us adults begin in what was a small bedroom. We learn in a short
time how to negotiate this shared work and coordinate our clumsy movements
in the confined space. We work without talking, silenced by our bulky respirators.
Everywhere I turn, I notice the water stains on the walls—about twenty four
inches above the floor. This marks the peak-- where the floodwaters crested
and stood after filling this family’s home. As I pull sheetrock from interior
closet walls I find a barrette, and a Barbie doll shoe. I think of my daughters
and the bedroom they shared until they were 11 and 8. This barren space was,
at one time, a little girl’s room. I picture her, like my daughters, playing
with her Barbies (with a big or little sister?), trying to sit still while
her mother does her hair, and sleeping snugly in her "big girl" bed.
It is hot. We take a break about once every hour. A protocol emerges. When
one of us decides to take a break, we tell the others—adults and teens, working
upstairs and down. We all lay down our tools, remove our respirators and gloves,
and gather in the backyard. Some unzip their jumpsuits and let them hang
from the waist. We pull ice cold water bottles from the cooler and pass them
around. We sit under a little pop up shade—on coolers and storage boxes. (We
don’t trust the lawn—we were warned about fire ants.) As we sit and drink
what tastes like the best water we have ever had, we notice each other and
little things around us. There is a gentle breeze. We are fully aware of this,
and are ever so grateful. Among our little group are partners who know each
other well, and for all of us, new acquaintances. Here we sit, bound by our
shared effort on this little empty, water-stained house. As the days pass,
I notice a quality to our breaks and lunches as we huddle in the only meager
shade our tent “pavilion” offers. I am struck by what I experience with these,
my newfound teammates and friends.
Our talk (and surprisingly, also our silence) plays out easily and naturally.
There is no need to fill the space with anxious comments and jokes and gossip.
We can talk. We can listen. We can be still. Talk or silence: Somehow it almost
always feels just right.
Back inside, back to work.
I noticed even on my first day, after a few hours, that I found a rhythm
and unfamiliar satisfaction as I plugged along. It was a lesson from the trim
carpenter who finished this house 40 or 50 or more years ago. The old walls
gave up sheetrock easily—except for the six-eight inches near the floor. Real
wood baseboard—four inches high-- was snugly fastened all around the room’s
perimeter. I tried prying the baseboard from the studs. It barely budged.
I got down and looked closer. Oh great—at the bottom of the baseboard was
quarter round. I placed the short end of my prybar between the quarter round
and baseboard and hammered down. I wedged the prybar, but the quarter round
stayed put. A closer look—carpet strip—a thin flat strip of wood butted up
against the quarter round. It was this little strip that had held the edges
of the room’s wall-to-wall carpet.
I sat down. I settled in. After some experimentation, I found how to get
under one end of the carpet strip. I used the straight end of my prybar and
hammered in short strokes, budging the strip free three or four inches at
a time. I proceeded, focused only on carpet strip, sliding slowly from one
corner to another, along one whole wall. Then I would return to my starting
place. I would position my pry bar (the curved end this time) on top of the
quarter round, on the seam near the base board. I hammer down on the curve
of the bar with short strokes. It gives. I found that working in 10-12 inch
sections seemed best, slowing freeing the full length of quarter round along
the length of the wall. Then and only then, did I approach the solid wood
baseboard. I moved from one two by four stud to the next, (curved end again)
hammering (down) then prying (up), hammering and prying, hammering and prying.
Long sections of baseboard came loose.
After several steady, successful rounds, I actually took a liking to this
task. I developed my own steady pace. At one point I realized how different
this felt from my usual mindstates. I was focused, I was fully present. Not
daydreaming or racing or trying to set or reach some artificial goal. Occasionally,
my mind wandered to the future. I thought about an unfinished pile of work
for a summer contract that awaited me at home--the deadline loomed near upon
my return. But I didn’t dwell there, catching my thoughts early and letting
go, coming back. There was nothing I could do about that work. I would give
it my full attention when I got home. I realized, perhaps for the first time
in my life, I was fully engaged with the task at hand—for consecutive moments
and hours. I was, it seemed, able to be just here, with little effort—hammering
and prying and sliding along. I found myself not fighting the repetitive work
and slow progress, but sliding into a friendly, steady pace. I worked with,
not against this modest old house, coaxing her along, as she slowly surrendered
her handsome wood trim, bit by bit.
After experiencing this with the baseboard and other wood trim, I began
to settle into other tasks. Closets were tedious, with small pieces of sheetrock
and lots of baseboard and trim in tight spaces. Everything was extra strong.
But I inched along, seeking to hold my focus. One day, as we pulled sheetrock
from the ceiling in the kitchen, we discovered what seemed like miles of “corner
bead,” stong metal trim that forms and sustains the outside corner joints
where sheetrock comes together. Working overhead on a shaky stepladder, it
presented a new kind of challenge. I changed my method, breaking and pulling
all of the sheetrock I could to expose the corner bead. Then I turned my attention
to this twisted metal. I tried force. I tried pulling. Finally, I conceded
to its strength and found its pattern. The corner bead was nailed every three
inches, meaning I could free only three inches at a time. Once I accepted
this and focused on one nail at a time, it was no big deal. I used my claw
hammer—insert at the point of the nail and pushed away. One by one, the nails
came free, usually with a single push. As with the baseboard, I found my
rhythm, and was right there, nail after nail, foot after foot of corner bead
--like me-- just letting go.
Recently, I was thinking about a plan I had made with a friend that I had
to cancel. I was supposed to go on a silent weekend retreat early in the summer.
We had made reservations months ahead, in the late winter months. It would
have been my first experience on a silent retreat, and my first visit to
this rather famous retreat center. About a month before the retreat, changes
in my family and work schedules prompted me to reconsider this plan. I cancelled.
My friend went without me. It was a little disappointing, but I knew it was
the right decision. I told myself there would be other retreats, though I
did not know when or where.
In New Orleans, in the house of a woman I will never meet, I discovered
long, silent hours to be with myself, working mindfully, staying present.
I was surprised and pleased that in this place, my mind did little wandering
to the past or future, but tuned in moment after moment to the present. I
found satisfaction, not only in completed tasks, but also in the simple processes—finding
and joining a steady, rhythmic beat as I pulled sheetrock, molding and cornerbead;
shoveled debris, or pushed a wheelbarrow to a growing mound at the curb.
Time with people I hardly knew was pleasant, tranquil. We came together
nearly every hour, for cool water and rest. At midday, we traded snacks and
desserts from our simple box lunches. We talked. We listened. Maybe we seemed
peaceful because we were all so exhausted and hot. But something tells me
there was more.
During the moments we shared in this faraway place, doing unfamiliar work,
we were, for many moments, really present. To ourselves. To one another—young
people and adults, old friends and new. Present—to our experience, in these
very moments—right here, right now-- in someone’s stripped house, and overgrown,
abandoned backyard in New Orleans.
Why did this happen? Why there? Why then?
During those hours, we lived in slow motion. Everything about this place
slowed our pace. The July heat. The palpable humidity. The workclothes and
big boots and triple gloves. Respirators that silenced our chatter.
The work was monotonous. It was not always easy. It took effort and concentration—to
climb and stay on the ladder in these jumpsuits and boots, to hold on to the
tools, to find and remove the next nail from the corner bead…
Things that seem so important just did not matter here--what to wear, how
to fix our hair, when to eat, what to eat, who to sit with for lunch…We discovered
something beyond "freedom of choice"--something unheard of in our middle class
culture: freedom "from" choices.
It has been two months since we returned. The questions that remain are
not why or how this happened to me or for me in New Orleans. For me, the
real questions are these:
• How can I recreate this kind of attention in my daily
life? Noticing the details, staying present, available and open to others,
mindful of my movements and my tasks?
• How can I pay attention and not miss so much of my life—Can
I stop filling the moments with crazy thinking about what has happened or
planning for or worrying about what might happen—and notice and be fully here
with what is?
• How can I bring this quality of presence, integrity
and self-focus when I am…alone…with my family… with my students and colleagues…
with my friends… among strangers?
• Can I slow down? Can I try doing one thing at a time—doing
it thoroughly and well and mindfully?
• Can I be conscious of my steps, my movements?
• Can I listen and really hear what others have to say?
• Can I taste and enjoy cold, clean water? Or the food
which is so plentiful at every meal?
• Can I appreciate a hot shower and shampoo and soap and
a clean towel --being fully aware from start to finish?
• Can I be myself? Can I accept and offer the simple and
most powerful gift --the gift of presence?
Perhaps I did get to go on a summer retreat, after all.
- Bobbi Schnorr
If you were part of the Mission Trip and have a
story you'd like to share,
please e-mail Bonny McCabe.
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