I did walk a piece today. I did wait a piece today—in the dentist clinic waiting room. A woman in front of me, age sixty, brunette to red hair—ponytailed—at the inquiry desk, left her queue to sit down. I followed.
“So you’re a monk?” she began.
“Oh yeah! Why the colour?”
“This saffron tone is reserved for celibate monks. It’s a colour worn before one’s married, and after retirement. I never got married. I’ve had this colour all these years.”
“When did you join?”
“It was your calling?”
“Definitely,” I said.
“My father was a minister. It was his calling. He knew at age fourteen. He ministered in Kenya. Everyone thought he was crazy. A Scotsman he was.”
I was curious. “Was he Presbyterian?”
“He started off but then he became non-denominational.”
The dialogue went on.
“I adopted kids from Africa. I have a few.”
She definitely was no monk, or nun, but a conversationalist, yes. I wanted to continue on but was asked to go for my dental cleaning.
“Well, I’m being called. Nice to talk to you!”
“Likewise!” she said.