Please refer to Author Notes to learn more about unfamiliar terms  or concepts

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It seems we should still be back in the Fall, when we could freely be outside. Somehow we have jettisoned into Winter. How could that be? 

It was summer when I was standing out front with the others from the harp therapy group waiting for the shuttle to take us up to the Tor. I was swelteringly warm, standing in line reading the sign about this place.

Oh, how I wish I had time to read the entire history of this Glastonbury Monastery.  I’ve heard whisperings, it’s turning cold with snow falling frequently. 

I have to go out to milk the cows and see my girl Alfalfa, who lets me warm my hands against her warm udder. I have to do that before I milk her because it is her udder that holds the warm milk. Any warmth goes with the milk into the wooden bucket. 

I betcha, many a monk has dunked his freezing numb hands into that soothing warmth. It’s time to bite the bullet and put my big girl, er, big boy panties on to brave the chill. I best hurry.

We each have scheduled tasks. Mine is to milk the three cows. I am relieved to have my first task be something I already have knowledge of, as I used to help milk the cows at my grandparents, where, as I have mentioned, we spent a portion of our summers  

As I shoulder into my light-weight dark cape, Brother James catches me in mid-motion on my way out the back door leading to my girls who are definitely lowing by now, waiting my attention.

James kindly advises me. “It is bitter cold out there and there’s deep snow on the ground. Please, wear your woolen mittens and boots with your Coptic socks and your woolen cowl.”

After dressing as directed, I am deeply affected by the caring way he instructed me. Unlike so many incidences of what is called blind obedience, such as watering a dead stick, he explained why I needed to bundle up, and used the word ‘please’. 

Blind obedience is defined as obeying an authority figure without thought. This is done regardless of the consequences for the actions that are being carried out. They also obey whether or not, the task they are asked to carry out makes any sense. 

I know it’s winter and I know how cold it is when the scent of wood-fire smoke stings my already nearly closed nostrils. The cold is cracking and splintering the air as I jostle through the snow to get to my Jerseys. I am doubly grateful to James for alerting me to these conditions. 

I reluctantly remove my nicely knitted, yummy mittens gifted us by John. I was going to say, ‘gifted to me’, but nothing is mine, it is ours, given to us. 

These community mittens could easily be taken from me for someone else, if the brother’s need presented itself to be more vital than mine. Although, I trust my current need would win out. 

James so lovingly reminded me to put them on, for the first part of my venture. However, as wonderful as these mittens may be, they are no good for when I’m actually milking the cows. My fingers sting from the biting cold.  I knot, release, and knot them again, trying to get feeling back into my appendages. 

My excruciating dilemma, reminds me of the man in Jack London’s short story, ‘To Build a Fire’. I know it will be futile, but still, rap my lifeless fingered hands against my legs. 

“Nothing. Just hurry, and get yourself back inside”. I’m muttering aloud to myself. Good thing no one’s here. I can’t tell, except by sight, if I have a sufficient grasp on the wooden pail. 

To try to clutch it by its rope could be disastrous.  I hug it, for the first time hugging anything, or anyone, in what seems like an eternity. 

If I ever get back to the 21st century, I will hug everyone, holding on as if I’m never going to let them go again.

In the midst of my painful trauma, there it is, all frosted over, staring at me through the smokey fog. There is a legend that Dunstan, now St. Dunstan, who used to be Brother Dunstan was asked by the Devil to re-shoe the Devil’s horse. 

Instead, Dunstan nailed a horseshoe to the Devil's hoof. It was painful for the Devil, but Dunstan told him it would be taken off if he promised to never enter a place where a horseshoe hangs over a door. As the story goes, the Devil has kept his promise to this day.

James meets under the doorway with the horseshoe hung upon it, to direct me to the warming fire. He told me what to do next. 

In a nearly inaudible whisper he said, “Go into the kitchen, to warm your hands. It will sting and ache terribly. Put them close to the fire, but not too close.” 

“Should I rub my hands together?” That’s what I’d seen as a child, on the Western TV shows.

My new dear friend cautioned me in gestures and in hushed words. “No, don't rub them, just turn your wrists back and forth. And when your hands are warm, I have a couple pairs of gloves, thick with warm cotton on the inside and outside.” 

How he had squandered, or gained the privilege of having healing glove-like mittens I will not ask, just be grateful. They are probably more like our strange socks called Coptic socks.

My hands don’t even feel like they belong to me. Wool double-socks doesn’t sound so bad if it helps them to get better. With the twisted messages going to my brain, I’m sure this must be someone else’s pain, from someone else’s hands, I’m bearing.