To whom it may concern:
I am writing to submit myself for consideration as a postulant at Barking Abbey in Essex, sometime in the fourteenth century. Other than that, I am not especially picky about when, although it’d be nice to avoid the plague years and the Peasants’ Revolt if at all possible.
You may be asking yourself: why would a twenty-first century woman who enjoys comforts such as “the ability to own property” and “a toothbrush” want to enter a medieval nunnery? The answer is simple: because I’d be extremely good at being a nun. My qualifications are as follows.
I have gone to church my whole life and am pretty credulous about the whole God thing. Though raised a Presbyterian, I am definitely waffling on consubstantiation and could easily be convinced that Catholicism is the one true faith. I know the Paternoster, Ave Maria, and the Credo, although I will probably have to sing the Bach setting to remember all the words. Should you require a reference, I invite you to contact my former Youth Minister, who will attest that I was a welcome presence at all lock-ins, mission trips, and fellowships, even the fellowships where there was no pizza involved.
I can read, write, and speak Latin and French. I am also an accomplished translatrix, having once rendered the lyrics to The Talking Heads’ “Uh Oh, Love Comes to Town” into Latin for a high school Classics Day project. My Middle English is admittedly weaker, but give me like two weeks with this facing-page edition of the Canterbury tales and I can figure it out. Furthermore, I believe my experience in the publishing industry would also be well-suited to Barking Abbey’s impressive library, where I would be more than happy to write back cover copy for De doctrina christiana. Likewise, the three hours of mandatory silent reading expected of every nun at Barking are well within my skill set.
Musically, I am more than prepared to chant the offices of the Opus Dei “entuned in my nose full seemly” (Chaucer joke, ha ha!), having attended three summer sessions of the the Royal School for Church Music camp in Wilkes-Barre, PA, where I only got in trouble for doodling on my music once. I have been told I have a pleasing alto and a decent sight-reading ability, although someone is probably going to have to bring me up to speed on how numes work.
As far as denouncing all earthly vanity goes, I’m completely on board with that, too: I hate picking out clothes every day, so taking the veil would be a welcome step up in practicality, and I’ve already shorn my hair into a pixie cut, which is basically the modern version of a nun’s tonsure. I would probably need some time to get used to the natural shape of my eyebrows once I give up getting them threaded, but it’s an adjustment I will bear gamely. All my worldly possessions, too, I’m down with giving up and donating to the poor, especially if the poor will have good use for these three thousand or so back issues of the New Yorker. I am also more than willing to change my Christian name to something more olde-timey like Joan or Agnes or Margaret, since “Blair” is awfully Scottish-sounding. (“Thornburgh,” I think you will agree, can stay.)
In conclusion, please accept this enclosure of me dressed as Mother Superior in a high-school production of The Sound of Music.
in nomine patris et filii et spiritui sancti,
Blair “Agnes” Thornburgh