Laundress for 28 Nuns, Part Two

     When I received the habit and was told that, as a novice, I would have to take on the duty of laundress, I was at first horrified. The thought of washing clothes and linens for 28 people sounded like a nightmare to me, surpassed in horror only by the thought of cooking for 28. My novice directress, Sr. Maria Cabrini, assured me that it was a very popular job among the sisters, mainly because it afforded the laundress much time alone in a separate building; it was very quiet (the sound of the machines notwithstanding) and the laundress could spend a lot of time reading between loads. The delicious prospect of solitude finally sold me on the idea.

     Nuns don't have a vast wardrobe: each sister has two everyday habits (changed weekly), several cotton undershirts (changed daily, because the habit is only changed weekly), a work habit (only worn when doing heavy work, like painting or clearing tree limbs after a storm -- and how often can that be?), a special habit that is worn only on Christmas, Easter, and the day of profession (it looks exactly like the everyday habit, but is made of a slightly fancier grade of cotton/poly), two petticoats, two nightgowns, two work aprons; plus socks and unmentionables, which are washed in personal net swish bags for convenience as well as privacy. That is the extent of whatever each sister wears on her person. But when you add to that every week: bathtowels, bed linens, cleaning rags, kitchen aprons, kitchen towels (which number in the dozens), and take into account that each habit has three parts (excluding cap and veil, which each sister washes herself) -- you've got a lot o' laundry!

     Monday morning is the busiest, as this is when habits are washed and "spotted," and for spotting, the laundress is aided by the other novices, postulants, and novice mistress. Though the sisters are responsible for taking spots out of their own habits, the Monday morning team checks all the habits again after the laundress washes and dries them, removing even the tiniest pinhead-sized spots with a wide array of chemicals found in dry cleaning businesses.

     Tuesday morning, the laundress rises extra early because Tuesday is steam press day. The monastery possesses one professional steam press, which to my mind resembles a large panini press in the shape of an ironing board. In fact, I often wondered if it could be used to grill enough sandwiches for the whole community's dinner -- 28 panini in one fell swoop! But I digress. The laundress must rise extra early in order to light the steam press' pilot light. This is not as easy as it may sound. The pilot light is in a small utility closet, very close to the floor, hidden underneath and behind various pipes. The laundress, armed with her handy long-reach torch lighter, all but turns herself upside down to find the pilot, even using a hand mirror if need be. Once lit, it takes the steam press about 20 minutes to heat to the proper temperature.

     Pressing the habits is done in shifts: tunics, then scapulars, then capes. The first sister on pressing duty comes in at around 5.20, giving her half an hour before Morning Prayer to press as many tunics as possible, hopefully getting most if not all of them done so that the second sister, who takes over immediately after Morning Prayer, can move on to the scapulars, getting as many of those done as she can before Mass, so that the third and final sister, taking over after breakfast, can get to and finish the capes before Midmorning Prayer. After Midmorning Prayer, all the novices and postulants, and the novice mistress, come into the laundry to fold scapulars and capes. The tunics are hung on rolling racks. Folding must be done and everything taken to the seamstress sister's workroom by Midday Prayer. The seamstress sister puts all the habits in order, according to laundry number, in the long hallway closets where they may be picked up by their owners by Saturday evening.

     Now, you may be wondering why, if the fresh habits aren't picked up till Saturday evening, they have to be washed and pressed by Tuesday midday. I often wondered that myself. I do know that the steam press, which uses a great deal of power, can only be used one day a week for only a few hours (in the morning, so that the temperature in the laundry won't be so unbearable). But why Tuesday? Beats me. I tried not to ask too many questions. But getting all the hardest work over with early in the week makes the rest of the week very easy for the laundress. After Tuesday, she can revel in all that promised solitude between loads of linens, kitchen towels and swish bags. And believe you me, I did.

Laundress for 28 Nuns, Part One

     Now that I was a novice and beginning my canonical year -- that is, the first year of the novitiate -- there were new jobs I had to learn. One was laundress. I don't know how laundry is handled in other houses, but in the Monastery of the Infant Jesus, one sister, usually a novice or a sister in temporary vows, does the laundry for the entire community. To make her job somewhat easier, laundry is divided into categories: nightgowns and habits (including petticoats, but not caps or veils), bed and bath linens, cleaning rags, and swish bags. Swish bags are net bags in which are washed all intimate items, keeping yours separate from everyone else's. Each category is given its own wash day, but swish bags -- because of the nature of their contents -- could be washed on any day. 

     Also making the job easier are the appliances. In the large laundry room, which shares a separate building with the main storage room and the hobby room, there are three washing machines: the main washer, huge, computerized, and formidable in its terrible efficiency; a regular machine of the sort found in every average home; and the old manual washer with its partner, the extractor.

     I must devote some few lines to these last two appliances, because I had never seen the likes of them before, nor do I expect to see them again. First of all, the manual washer is used only when in a hurry and the big computerized washer is occupied. It stands taller than me, is of solid steel, and has a glass porthole door. Detergent is deposited in a small chute at the top. At the side are two levers which open and close valves inside the barrel, one for hot water, the other for cold. When the valves are opened, the barrel fills with water, the temperature of which is determined by your manipulation of the two levers. Since it takes a moment or two for the barrel to fill with the desired amount of water (depending on the size of your load), I would usually try to multi-task and attend to something else in the meantime. Once, however, I completely forgot I had left the valves open, only to be rudely reminded of the fact by the deluge gushing out the porthole and onto the cement floor. I was later assured that I was by no means the first laundress to flood the laundry, and it is for that very reason the floors are bare cement with a very large drain grid set near the manual washer.

     When the water level is correct and the valves safely closed, you then push a button to start the barrel agitating and to release the detergent. The agitation will stop on its own a few moments later, at which point you may start it again for further agitation, depending on how dirty the items are, or you may drain all the soapy water and refill the barrel with fresh rinse water. When all this is done and the last of the rinse water drained out, and since the washer has no extracting mechanism, it is then time to use the washer's partner, the extractor.

     The best way to describe the extractor is to liken it to a giant salad spinner; in fact, I'm convinced this is how the idea of the salad spinner was conceived. The extractor is a large, round steel tub into which you heave your water-weighted laundry, taking the greatest care to arrange it evenly around the center cone. The laundry loaded, you clamp the lid shut and turn the machine on, whereupon the inner tub begins its hurricane-force whirl. (If you have not arranged the laundry evenly, the extractor will wobble violently and very noisily, and threaten to catapult itself through the roof.) Water drains through a pipe and into a hole in the floor; you watch for the steady stream to reduce to a trickle, then to a slow drip, then you turn the extractor off. But wait! Do not open the lid until the inner tub has come to a dead stop and all is silent within, if you value your hands and all ten fingers!
     After my introduction to these two quaint contraptions, I gave fervent thanks for the fancy computerized washer and the gargantuan dryer.
    

    

  

On Receiving the Habit of Religion

     The date was set for my clothing day, and I couldn't have asked for a better or more appropriate one. In the year 2005, May 29, a Sunday, fell on the Solemnity of the Body and Blood of Christ. Since I had chosen as my mystery the Passion and Cross of Jesus, this day was perfect; but it was made even more perfect by the fact that May 29 was Sr. Mary William's birthday. Sister, who died in December of 2004, had championed my vocation indefatigably and was my role model and spiritual mother. I was very sorry that she didn't live to see me receive the habit, but, being clothed on her birthday, I felt she was blessing and looking down on me from heaven.

     I was very excited to be measured for my habits (one to wear, one for spare). The Dominican habit is, I've always thought, one of the most beautiful of all religious habits: a loose tunic, creamy white, with long, deeply cuffed sleeves, and cinched with a black leather belt from which hangs a large black rosary; over that, the white scapular -- a panel in front and a panel in back, sewn together at the shoulders, the sides left open, a sort of over-long bib; over the scapular, a short white cape, ending just above the elbows, with a stiff stand-up collar; a white cap, shaped like a bathing cap; and over the cap, the waist-long veil -- white for the novice, black for the professed. Underneath, a full cotton petticoat skirt. The best thing about the petticoat is that it has two over-sized patch pockets that are accessed via slits in the sides of the tunic. A nun could keep all her wordly possessions in those pockets (which, I realize, is not saying much; nevertheless, they are huge pockets). White knee socks and black shoes or sandals complete the outfit.

     Before her clothing, a postulant takes a 10-day retreat. I spent much of mine taking long, meditative walks in the woods, talking to Jesus in my heart. I found pieces of petrified wood, many small enough to be used in the making of a mosaic cross, which I had in mind to make by Lent the following year. I spent extra time before the Blessed Sacrament, contemplating the face of my Beloved, and wrote poetry and long letters to Jesus in my journal. A clothing retreat may or may not be directed by the novice directress; I opted not to be directed, since solitude was still a very important part of my personal spirituality. In fact, I was beginning to feel there was too much "togetherness" in the novitiate - recreating together, having class together, working in the laundry together, having adoration time together, putting up Christmas decorations together. . . . The effects of all my years of independent living were not so easily erased. I heartily wished the monastery had a real hermitage for sisters to use on their retreats and monthly Moses Day. However, I knew that, once a sister is professed, has moved out of the novitiate and is living in the professed sisters' dorm, she enjoys a bit more solitude.

     Time was, the reception of the habit was a public event that took place in the monastery chapel, very much like a wedding: invitations would be sent and the sister would wear an actual wedding gown. After the preliminaries, she would then go into a private room to have her hair cut off, be dressed in the habit, and re-enter as a novice. Nowadays, the ceremony is closed to the public and takes place in the chapter hall with only the sisters to witness; the big public events in the chapel are the profession of temporary vows, when the sister takes the black veil and becomes an actual nun; and the beautiful profession of solemn (final) vows, when the bride of Christ receives her ring from the local bishop and symbolizes her death to the world and to her former life by lying prostrate before the altar.

     On the day of my clothing, the sun shone bright and warm, the infamous Lufkin humidity settling like a heavy blanket over the town. I remember very little of the actual ceremony, being in a kind of daze. I had struggled so hard to arrive at that day. My hair, which had grown past my shoulders during my postulancy, was tied into a pony tail; Sr. Mary Annunciata cut it off with little trouble. Then Sr. Maria Cabrini took me into a small room and helped me put on my crisply pressed habit and white veil. When I went back out, the closing statements of the rite were pronounced by Sr. Mary Annunciata, and my new name was revealed: I was now Sr. Maria Simona of the Passion and Cross of Jesus.

(Photo by Sr. Mary Jeremiah, O. P.)

 

Acceptance to the Novitiate

     The reception of the habit, a. k. a. clothing day, a. k. a. investiture, marks the end of a prospective nun's 9- to 12-month postulancy and the beginning of her novitiate, which for Dominicans lasts two years. As I approached the end of my own postulancy, I admit to having felt a bit apprehensive. The nine months since the day I entered the monastery had been anything but smooth sailing. I was 44 years old at the time, well beyond the average age; I had lived on my own for many years and so was set in my independent ways; I had come from a 30-plus-years-long career as a professional musician and had spent the last 15 of those years in the company of and working with the best and brightest in the opera world. The transition into the austere, confined, and humbling life of the cloister, and singing seven times a day with 27 women, most of whom had no musical or vocal training whatever, was, to tell the truth, Calvary for me. I had to die to my old life, and that death was slow and torturous. I had to adjust to the fact that I owned nothing and had to share everything. I had to ask permission to use, take, or throw out every object I wanted to use, take, or throw out. I struggled in vain to blend my operatically trained voice to the untrained voices of the others. I had to learn to be a pray-er who sings, rather than a singer who prays. I tried my best to close my musician's ears, squelch those instincts which had served me so well as an opera coach, and ignore the out-of-tuneness and incorrect rhythms that I heard every single day from my fellow sisters. I had to resign myself to the fact that I couldn't correct the out-of-tuneness or incorrect rhythms--I was a postulant; it wasn't my place. Nevertheless, I fixed my eyes on the day I could wear the habit and white veil of a novice, knowing full well that, although many graces come with the reception of the habit, Calvary was by no means over for me.
     It was in this frame of mind that I awaited word of my reception. All the professed sisters were gathered for Chapter and would vote whether I should be accepted as a novice. In my mind's eye, I saw one too many of those infamous black balls being cast into the box. While they voted, I sat trembling in the darkened chapel, the novices waiting with me, all of us in silent prayer before the Blessed Sacrament.
     I thought of the long battle with my novice directress over the selection of my name in religion. Now that sisters could choose their own names, rather than the superior choosing for them, the choice had to have some personal significance for the chooser. I had made my choice even before I ever entered: Sr. Maria Simona. Every Dominican nun must have the name "Mary" or some form of it, because Mary is considered the patroness of the Dominican order; but the other part of her name is up to the prospective novice. I chose "Simona" for three reasons: firstly, Simon of Cyrene. I identified very strongly with his story, his sudden and seemingly random calling. Secondly, Simon Peter, whom I love dearly for all his failings, but particularly because Jesus forgave him his vehement denial, eventually exalting him to leader of the apostles and the Church. Thirdly, my father's mother was a Maria and my mother's mother was a Simona, so I would be honoring my family as well. My novice directress, Sr. Maria Cabrini, objected to the fact that Simon of Cyrene is not a saint in the Catholic canon of saints (I've no idea why); but he is a saint to me, since he helped Jesus to carry his cross. Sister tried her best to convince me to take the name Peter. As I said, I love St. Peter very much, but I'm just not crazy about the name!
     Then there was the matter of my mystery, which is the second part of a nun's name and signifies an important aspect of her particular spirituality; for instance, my novice directress' full name is Sr. Maria Cabrini, O. P., of the Sacred Heart. ("O. P." stands for the Order of Preachers, official name of the Dominican Order.) Sister has a deep devotion to the Sacred Heart of Jesus, so she chose that as her mystery. I had a tremendously deep devotion to the Passion and Cross, so my full name would be Sr. Maria Simona of the Passion and Cross of Jesus. Sister was concerned that I was perhaps a bit too fixated on the Passion, that I didn't look beyond it; but I assured her that wasn't the case at all--I was well aware that Christ rose from the dead!
     Sister also worried that because Simon of Cyrene wasn't a canonical saint, he had no feast day on the liturgical calendar. A nun's feast day, celebrated every year instead of her birthday, is the same as her saint's feast day; in the event that there is no such day, the nun chooses her feast day based on her mystery. My mystery was the Passion and Cross, but I obviously couldn't choose Good Friday (the most important days are of course sacrosanct); neither could I choose the Feast of the Precious Blood, because that was already taken by another of my sisters. So I chose the very beautiful Feast of the Exaltation of the Cross, September 14. After finally (albeit only partially) convincing Sr. Maria Cabrini, my name and feast day were handed in to the prioress, Sr. Mary Annunciata.
     The other important hurdle before being received for clothing was the written examination. This covers all the basic aspects of religious life. Luckily, I passed it with flying colors!
     All these things, plus my fervent prayers, passed through my mind as I waited in the dark, silent chapel. After what seemed an interminable time, Sr. Maria Cabrini came to escort me and the novices to the community room where all the rest of the sisters were assembled. We walked in, and the novices sat in their assigned seats while I approached Sr. Mary Annunciata, who, according to the rite of ceremony, asked what was my request. I then formally asked to be accepted for reception of the habit, and to my joy, Sister replied that my request had indeed been accepted! I then sat with the novices and listened to Sr. Mary Annunciata deliver a short talk in which she dropped hints as to what my name in religion would be (a fun tradition, causing the other sisters to try and guess the name, which would not be revealed until the actual clothing ceremony).
     As soon as Sister finished her talk, I went back to her to begin the "kiss of peace" round the circle of sisters, tears of relief and joy springing from my eyes. It was raining heavily outside, but I actually took that a good omen: rain is supposed to be God's blessings, and the Little Flower had rain on her Clothing Day.
     A date had to be set for the ceremony; I had to be measured for my habits, which would be sewn by the seamstress, Sr. Mary Magdalene; and I looked forward to a blessed 10-day retreat before being clothed as a novice of the Order of Preachers.

The Elusiveness of Loving

    7 March 2005   I'm re-reading Growing Free -- another Carmelite memoir. It's fascinating that, a couple of years after first reading it, and being in a different place spiritually and environmentally, certain passages now take on a deeper significance for me. What comfort to know that she, too, had the same struggles with religious life that I'm having. People have told me right and left that obedience is hard, prayer can be completely unrewarding, the Divine Office a tedious chore, and Holy Mass nothing but an unholy mass of distractions. I accepted all that at a certain level of understanding. But it isn't until one finds oneself drowning in those dark waters, truly out of one's depth, that the heart understands as well as the mind. I used to say blithely, as one does in ignorance, "Obedience is hard, but all I have to do is see God's will in every request made of me, and then carry it out for love of him"; and, "I can't seem to pray, but I'll just wait for him and listen in silence"; and the most famous cliche' of all, "If I'm distracted, I'll just offer it up." Oh, the precocity of a spiritual neophyte who reads or hears a few pithy maxims, then regurgitates them at all the appropriate times, in all the appropriate situations, never dreaming that that in itself is a form of pride, because she is relying on her own little dangerous knowledge, not on a solid faith and trust in God's help. She learns only through the pain of seeming abandonment and the frustration of wanting to love, that those glib maxims ring false, unless they are truly tried through faith.     
     It is a humbling -- no, a humiliating thing, to realize that one's love is built on sand because it is love for God's gifts and consolations rather than for God himself. When you find yourself wanting to love, that is when the true loving begins. The desire itself is an act of faith. I think that's why Anselm's words speak so loudly to me. Love is a constant desiring, a continuous seeking: for intimacy, true knowledge and understanding, for union; to please, to depend on, to possess, and be possessed; to give totally, so that you may belong totally. God created me; therefore, nothing I am is my own to keep. I am his.

Let me seek You by desiring You,

and desire You by seeking You;

let me find You by loving You,

and love You in finding You.

~ St. Anselm

An Exericise in Humility

     Sometimes in films about nuns there is a scene where the nuns are gathered in a room; one steps forward, kneels before the prioress or mother superior or novice mistress, and states her "faults" for that week (she broke silence twice, arrived late to Office once, etc.). Then the superior gives her a penance (an extra chore, or extra prayer); the nun then kisses the floor, goes back to her chair, and the next nun gets up and follows the same procedure. This custom is called the "Chapter of Faults" and takes place on a regular basis (usually weekly) in all monasteries. The procedure has changed somewhat over the years, and from order to order and house to house. At the Monastery of the Infant Jesus -- in the novitiate, anyway; I never got to find out how the professed sisters do it -- they no longer kneel before the novice directress and they no longer kiss the floor in an act of humility. However, the basic elements of stating their faults in front of their fellow sisters, asking their pardon, and receiving a penance, remain the same.

     "How humiliating!" some may say. Well, yes, that's the whole point. It takes humility to admit one's faults and ask pardon, and even more humility to make reparation for your faults.

     A "fault" in the monastic sense is not the same as a sin. Faults are infractions of the rule, that is, the "laws" governing the day-to-day life and customs of a religious order. Each order in the Church has its own particular rule, usually drafted by the founder of that order, but some orders adopt the rule of another order as their own: the Dominicans, for instance, follow the Rule of St. Augustine. All rules, however, take their cue, if you will, from the grandfather of monastic Rules -- the Rule of St. Benedict. It is the model on which all others are based.

     Yes, confession is good for the soul, including the difficult and humbling confession to a fellow human being; it cleanses you, frees you, and receiving forgiveness heals the wound between you and the one you offended; moreover, in the larger, more mystical sense, it heals the wound you inflicted on the Body of Christ, which is the Church. Even when a sister asks pardon for breaking silence, a seemingly small thing, she confesses that she has broken a code of behavior which was forged to keep order and peace in that house. She is placing herself, rightfully so, below the higher law of obedience, and humbling herself before her fellow human beings. She is placing herself last, as Jesus himself would do.

     After I experienced my first Chapter of Faults, I couldn't help thinking back to the "notes sessions"  at the Houston Grand Opera. A notes session takes place at the end of a run-through, or perhaps between performances after a show has already opened. The cast, stage director, conductor, head coach, prompter, and stage management gather together; each member of the cast, one by one, in front of all his colleagues, receives notes from director and conductor (or head coach): every mistake in staging, every mistake in diction, and every musical mistake that singer has made, is pointed out. Most singers -- almost all, in fact -- consider this to be a necessary part of their profession and take their notes for the good of the show. They know that the performance as a whole, the product they present to a paying audience, is more important than themselves.

     Obedience -- exercising humility -- is for the common good as well as for an individual's good and ultimate sanctification. That is why God gave us commandments and why the government drafts laws. When we disobey through lack of humility -- when we act out of pride -- we wound others as well as our ourselves. To confess and make reparation is to heal one's soul and to help heal the Body of Christ.

City Mouse Meets Robin Redbreast

From my monastery journal:

     27 February 2005   What a grace God sent me today! I went out to the cemetery lane, despite the chilly grayness and gathering clouds, to pray my rosary. After not having seen robins all my pre-cloistered life, I beheld a whole flock of them among the various trees along the lane. There were dozens sitting in the Chinese tallow near the diveway gate—the tallow has no leaves just now, of course, but it is sprinkled with tiny white berries whch made a striking contrast to the scarlet breasts and black heads of the robins. Some would flit down to the grass, hopping and pecking the ground for worms, their breasts all puffed up to their beaks. I'm told they're actually from the north, on their journey south. I suppose they are the ones I see at dawn, coursing over the monastery in huge masses.

     As I made my way back from the cemetery, approaching the same tallow, which was still abundantly ornamented with robins, I saw coming toward me dear little Sr. Mary Sybillina, one of our oldest sisters and a foundress of this monastery. She didn't notice the birds as they flew en masse to a higher, neighboring tree, startled at her approach. But after she passed me, I stood by the tallow and waited; and sure enough, as soon as they saw she was gone, they came back—warily, a few at a time, until they once again filled the white-studded gray branches. A moment later, Sister came back, noticed my fixed upward gaze, and followed my eyes. She stopped, too, and stared in wonder for a moment.

     Watching those robins, I thought of his Precious Blood—yet I was filled with joy. How can one not feel joy at the sight of those dear birds?

THE ROBIN TREE

I caught my breath in awe at that fair sight;

Such wondrous gifts at ev'ry turn may be!

A tallow, and a winged coterie

Of scarlet breasts among its berries white—

A robin tree!

Like dancing drops of blood on spotless wool

They flitted branch to branch with dizzy glee,

Three dozen strong or more, a symphony

Of whirring wing and chirping fanciful—

O robin tree!

Entranced, I found I could not turn my gaze

From such an entertaining jamboree;

It was indeed a pefect harmony

Of vision fair and merry roundelays—

That robin tree!

But as I gazed, my thoughts did turn to Him

Whose breast is scarlet, too, but with the blood

From many a cruel blow for love withstood,

Who writhes with pierced hand and straining limb

Against the wood.

City Mouse Meets Tufted Titmouse

     Living in the midst of pinewoods is a joy that for me came too late and lasted for far too short a time. I have always considered it unfair that I should have been born with such a deep love for the glories of nature, yet have grown up and lived in urban areas. And now, after having tasted the myriad delights of the woods, I must, due to circumstances, once again live in an area that has no delights whatever, except the birds that sing in its stunted trees and soar over its depressed streets, and the few Chinese tallows that, given sufficient rain, remind me there is indeed such a thing as autumn.
     Even the birds in my particular neighborhood are limited in breed. On a regular basis, I see sparrows, finches, mockingbirds, mourning doves, martins, starlings, the occasional bluejay and cardinal, and of course, those ubiquitous grackles that must spring fully grown from oil slicks. Hawks cruise constantly, casting great shadows on the pavements and brittle fields. In summer, hummgingbirds come.
     In the woods of Lufkin, I saw my first woodpeckers, my first siskins, my first tufted titmice (titmouses?), and believe it or not, my first robins (hordes of them!). Host upon host of migrating birds would stop in the monastery woods on their way south, drinking from our pond and resting in our trees. All these new wonders inspired me to write passages in my journal such as the following:

11 February 2005   It was such a glorious dawn today! A sheet of little puffed clouds, lined up in formation, arose from behind the pine trees -- not quite a mackerel sky; not that tightly packed -- and all their undersides glowed a neon salmon color. Stunning and almost surreal, a Maxfield Parrish kind of sky. As I stood gazing at this magnificence, I suddenly heard a great whoosh of wings from the north, and I turned to see the hugest host of birds rise in unison from the woods on the other side of the monastery, covering half the visible sky. The birds swept in one graceful, undulating, enormous wave over my head to the south. I have never in my life seen that many birds in one flock -- flying, that is; I have countless times witnessed the deafening, chattering, squawking hordes of starlings that infest the trees and line the edges of roofs in downtown Houston right about dusk at certain times of the year. They are truly Hitchockian, and leave behind Pollack-like splatterings all over the sidewalks. (I wonder if that's where he got his inspiration???) They are frightening to see and their aftermath is disgusting; but the flock of whatever type of birds I saw this morning left me breathless with the wonder of God's Nature. What instinct did he give them that makes them move in such perfect unison? Humans try in so many ways to imitate that kind of precision: drill teams, corps de ballet, soldiers, the Rockettes, and of course, the "wave" that fans do in stadiums. Yet more examples of how we humans try to recreate, in our crude and imperfect fashion, what God has already created in glorious and incomprehensible perfection. We keep striving, consciously or not, to be God. To be like God is commendable -- it is our very calling as human beings and creatures of our Creator. But comes a point when one has to admit one's shortcomings.

On the Peculiar Breed Called Musicians

Music may be a universal language, but the language of musicians certainly is not. I remember receiving a rude shock when one of my fellow novices in the Monastery of the Infant Jesus asked me what a bar line is. Having been a musician surrounded by other musicians for most of my life, it simply never occurred to me that someone wouldn't know what a bar line is. But then, I'm sure the incredulous look on my face when I was posed that question is exactly the same look any computer-savvy techno-geek would give me if I asked him the kind of questions I'm likely to ask. "What's an URL?" (Yes, I do know what an URL is -- now. And my fellow novice now knows what a bar line is.) The bar line question was just one tiny incident among many in the cloister that prompted me to write the following passage in my journal:

     9 January 2005   It struck me last night that I really have no one to talk to about the things I love to talk about -- music, opera, books, films. No one in the novitiate, that is. There are some among the professed sisters and temporary professed who know literature and films, but even the few who have had musical training have not had enough to talk about it on the level to which I've so long been accutomed. And then, just as I was beginning to feel genuinely depressed about all this, I received a letter from the very person who embodies the kind of friendship I miss. His letter made me ache bitterly for his companionship and understanding, the understanding of two people with the same likes, dislikes, opinions, experiences, and vernacular. Yet I can't talk to him about this deep instinct telling me I need to be here in the cloister precisely because I love him and all those dear to me. I would bear any cross for them, even the sacrifice of that daily physical companionship which has been one of the great joys of my life. I can be a far better friend and greater help to them here, through this life of prayer and penance, than I ever could be in the world.

     I think I wrote in an earlier journal about musicians being a peculiar breed unto themselves. They have their own way of thinking and feeling and they speak a language all their own. No one, but no one, can truly understand the soul of a musician except another musician, and that is the absolute truth. A musician may come to be understood by non-musicians on a certain level, but that very deepest level is accessible only to those of the breed. It goes beyond understanding: it is empathy. I've been blessed, until I entered the cloister, only to have had relationships based on this particular empathy. I indeed lived in a kind of cloister, inhabited only by those of my own breed, and I never had to worry about not being understood or accepted; artistic temperament, a certain amount of moodiness, and rages directed at no one in particular, were the norm rather than the exception, along with pronouncing foreign words properly and debating the merits of Bösendorfer vs. Steinway. They were common traits of our peculiar breed. Suddenly to be plunged into an entirely different cloister with an entirely different breed that cannot understand your peculiar language or customs is not only a shock to the system, it is crucifying. But I took the plunge in faith, and in faith I will continue to swim blindly, with no life preserver save that of God's grace.

It's ironic that today I seem to suffer the opposite problem, though not quite to the same degree: I now feel out of the music loop, and more in the poetry and religion loop. Not that I don't have musician friends who are also religious; I have many, but they and I now tend to talk more about spiritual rather than musical things. My way of thinking and speaking has changed. Music is a crucial element in my life and always will be, but in the past it was crucial because of my own ability to produce it. Now I simply love it as one of God's great gifts. And another VERY important thing: I now know that using an outdated browser is like using Schirmer editions of Rossini.

A Heavenly Ring and a Holy Death

     2 December 2004   Today is my "make-up" Moses Day, since I had to forego it on the 25th. I began the day by taking a walk in the woods after breakfast. The air was still, bright, and wonderfully crisp from last night's freeze, and I bundled up in my faithful white-speckled black overcoat that I brought with me from Houston, pulled gloves on my hands and a wool scarf over my veil, and went out to immerse myself in the dazzling rays that sliced through pine branches steaming with the evaporating damp. The woods were positively smoldering with cold! I couldn't make out the footpath, the blanket of needles covering it was so thick. But the men have begun to clear it -- I like it better uncleared; it makes it easier to walk on. Those stones are murder on my feet.
     3 December 2004   In the mini-series Anne of Avonlea, Anne says to Catherine Brooke, "Isn't that ring around the moon enchanting?" Never having seen a ring around the moon, I had no idea what she meant, exactly, but I assumed she was referring to a ring of clouds -- I imagined the clouds to be a rather close halo resembling the outer edges of a fried egg, ringing the "yolk" of the moon.
     Well, this morning as I walked out of the novitiate at 5.30, I looked up to find the moon, as is my custom, and lo and behold, there was a ring around it! Not a little "fried egg" halo, but an enormous, sky-wide, perfect, milk-white, filmy but crystalline circle, and the half-moon with a surrounding sprinkle of stars sat exactly in the center. I was so amazed at this, my first sighting of this phenomenon, that I stood there transfixed, my head thrown back in complete discomfort, as the moon was directly above; but I couldn't bear to tear my eyes away.

(The one I saw had a half moon, but I could only find photos with a full moon.)

 

     26 December 2004   Our beloved and revered Sr. Mary William of the Mother of God went home to her Bridegroom last Wednesday morning at 11.30. She took a final turn for the worse early Tuesday morning, and the community was summoned from Office. Sister was still awake and lucid, but it was clear she was failing. We stayed with her for some time; Father came to anoint her. Then before Mass an hour later, I went back to see her again -- there were still with her the Prioress and Sub-Prioress, and a few others. Sister saw me and said weakly, "Oh, look -- here's Leticia." I went to her and struggled to understand what she was trying to tell me, but couldn't quite. Sr. Maria Cabrini said, "She's saying, 'You're in the right place'." So I answered, squeezing Sr. Mary William's hand, "If you say so, then I must be."

     Those were her last words to me. When I saw her next, before Midday Prayer, she was unconscious and breathing with great difficulty.

     That night, her last on earth, I will never forget. There were perhaps 10 of us that stayed with her after Compline, praying, watching, listening to her struggle for breath while she burned with fever. At around 11, Sr. Maria Cabrini had to go back to the novitiate; she simply couldn't keep her eyes open any longer, and also she, like so many of us, was suffering from a cold. Since we are not allowed to go from building to building alone at that hour of the night, I volunteered to take her back to the novitiate; but I realized, too late, that I would have to stay there, because there was no one to walk me back to the infirmary. So I went to bed, still half-dressed, ready to pull on my skirt and veil if Sister should die in the night. But morning came, and she was still with us.

     28 December 2004   When I went to her room before Mass (or was it Midmorning Prayer?) she was conscious again and could understand people, but couldn't speak. When I greeted her, I saw her face change slightly, and Sr. Mary Jeremiah, who was tending her, said to me, "She's trying to smile at you." I could only stay a moment, as the bell had already rung.

     I went to see her again before Midday Prayer. The bell had just rung, and as I approached the infirmary, I heard the running feet of Sr. Mary Jeremiah, who was also heading to the infirmary from the opposite direction. She saw me and shouted, "Watch out behind you!" as she dashed through the infirmary door. I then heard a great clanging cow bell, and turned to see Sr. Mary Christine, one of the infirmary sisters, running and ringing the bell, announcing the death of Sr. Mary William. I hurried to her room, 10 seconds too late, for when I got there, I saw the white shadow of death on the beloved face. The other sisters rushed in and crowded round the bed. As I stood there at the foot, I felt someone's head fall against my thigh, and I looked down to see Sr. Mary Gabriel kneeling beside me, crying. I put my hand on her shoulder as we all sang the Salve Regina. I cried, too, but I was happy that Sister was well at last, and was with Jesus and his Mother and all the angels. She was free. It was the selfish part of me, the part that wanted her here in body as well as spirit, that wept. I was weeping for me.

A Reawakened Muse and the Power of God's Grace

     8 November 2004   I wrote a poem yesterday -- the first I've written in well over 20 years. So now I'm trying very hard not to expect that he will grace me with one every day, or every week, every month, or indeed, ever again.
     How do poets do it? Does every poem they write have to be squeezed out against its own will, or do some come easier than others?
     How do writers do it? It's hard enough for me to keep opening this journal on a regular basis. So many manuals and writing magazines exhort you to write every day, whether you feel like it or not, preferably at the same time every day, and in the same place. Ugh! What drudgery. Yet, come to think of it, musicians do that when they practice -- maybe not always at the same time, but usually. But they have music in front of them, ready-made. A blank page is so intimidating.


UNION


I seek you in the silence of day
among angel pines that mark
their silent, immovable march
before the light that is your glory.
Words like slow flames
warm the barrenness of me;
words silent, unheard, pulse
as blood in flesh.
     In this waiting wonderment
     I am content.


I seek you in the silence of night;
in my cell, dimness gloves
these clasped hands raised to you
through the dark that is your agony.
Whispers stir beneath breath;
heart within heart, wound within wound,
whispers silent, unheard, pierce
as iron in flesh.
     In this groaning stillness
     I weep with you.


     10 November 2004   Happy birthday to me. 45. Oy.
     I think we're going to lose E_ (our other postulant). She's really struggling with the life, and, so Sr. Mary William observed, her personality isn't "flowering" in this community. Both she and Sr. Maria Cabrini hinted she may leave. She's only been here a month! But Sr. Mary William says there's no point in drawing things out; if it is agreed on both sides that a postulant isn't meant for this life, make the final decision as soon as possible.
     There is a wide-spread myth out in the world that the ones who are best suited for the contemplative monastic life are generally quiet, meek, and unquestioningly obedient. It's not true. Most of the women here have strong, vibrant personalities; they love to talk and laugh, and they've had their share of struggles with obedience.
     No, what is called for, from what I've observed, is adaptability, especially to schedules; a capacity for hard work, and a certain amount of organizational skills. You must know how to use your time well. Also docility -- almost always confused with meekness. "Docility" comes from the Latin docere, "to teach." Being docile simply means that you are teachable. All this is necessary, in addition to love of Christ and neighbor and the sincere desire to help save souls. This is a hard life; I wouldn't kid anyone. Those who think cloistered nuns simply glide through dark hallways with eyes downcast, from chapel to cell and back again, are sadly misinformed.
     If God wills you to be here, he will give you the necessary grace to persevere. All you have to do is say "yes" and then trust him with all your heart and soul. I know there are people who doubted, and still doubt, that I'm truly called to this special life; they think I'm too strong-willed and used to having my own way. But God's grace can do wonders. It can transform entire lives, as it has mine. That doesn't mean you lose your uniqueness; on the contrary, what makes you unique is what's most valuable to your community and to your God. After all, he made each one of us in all our glorious uniqueness. He can transform my strong will into a sincere determination to help others with my prayers and with the very witness of my hidden life. He can turn my selfishness inside out so that it becomes self-discernment and humility. He can broaden the vision of my pride so that I also see the profound weakness behind it. Such is God's grace, without which we can do nothing. We may not recognize or acknowledge that it is his grace working in us, but he doesn't need our acknowledgment in order to love us. He gave us the free will either to turn toward or away from him, and that will is ours to exercise till the day we die.

A Cell with a View

     I loved my monastic cell. Though many people's bathrooms are larger than the 7 x 10 (or thereabouts) room I slept in, I never felt the need for more space. Of course, not having many possessions helps -- a lesson which, perhaps, we should all learn living in the secular world. All the cells in the Monastery of the Infant Jesus are pretty much the same; the only real difference being which side of the room the sink is placed.

     Let me take you on a tour of the cell I occupied while I was a postulant (I lived in three during my two years and four months there).

     Cell #5 in the novitiate is happily situated in a corner of the building. Upon entering, you'll notice that hanging on the wooden door, by means of a metal coat hanger rod, the kind that hooks over the top of the door, is a narrow white muslin curtain that reaches almost to the floor. When the rod is placed near the edge of the door and the door is left about a foot ajar, the curtain fills the opening, providing some visual privacy for the inhabitant while still allowing air to circulate from the hallway. Ingenious contraption, this, one that I have actually replicated for my current bedroom door.

     At the opposite end of the 10-foot long room is a window. It spans almost the whole 7-foot breadth of the wall; its sill is about waist-high and its top edge almost reaches the ceiling. It is comprised of two panes that slide open. A screen keeps the hungry Lufkin mosquitoes out. The window in cell #5 affords a view of -- oh, joy! -- my beloved woods. There are the ranks of pines rearing their spiny heads to the heavens; there to the left is the fish pond, home of a snowy white egret and watering hole for thousands of migrating birds; there is the gravel path, making a wide loop around the central sloping patch of open ground; and there, too, is the "hermitage," the A-frame green-shingled roof of the monastery's original chapel, which today provides a quiet open-sided shelter for meditation.

     But before we become too engrossed in the enchanting view, let me take you round the rest of my tiny domain. In this cell, the sink is on the right wall as you stand in the doorway (in some cells, it's on the left). This small sink is surrounded on both sides, and on top and bottom, by cabinetry that takes up most of that long wall. At one end is a very narrow closet, the size of an ordinary broom closet, in which hangs one of my postulant's uniforms (I'm wearing the other), my coat, and bathrobe. There is also a dust mop, found in every cell, and absolutely necessary given the inexplicably fast rate at which dust bunnies grow in this otherwise impeccably clean building. The rest of the cabinetry houses plentiful drawers and, well, cabinets. Around the sink is enough room to keep toiletries, which of course, are kept to the bare essentials, and above, a narrow shelf upon which perches a hand mirror (with no handle) just large enough to check the placement of your veil. There are no other mirrors in the building, not even above the sinks where the toilets are, and certainly not in the individual shower and bathtub rooms.

     Going back to the window for a moment, you'll notice below it a quaint contraption called a convector. This provides much needed air-conditioning in the sauna-like summers, and enough heat in the winter to roast a pig. In fact, getting the right temperature in the cell in winter is quite a difficult feat, especially if one prefers to sleep with the door closed, as I do. If you leave the heat on, you'll be cooked to a perfect medium-well in ten minutes and are in danger of suffocating in twenty. If you turn the heat off, you spend the night shivering and chattering. Eventually, I opted for an extra woolen blanket and to crack my window open an inch. On the coldest nights, I reluctantly left my door ajar (with the ingenious door curtain veiling the gap) to let in the heat from the hall convectors.

     Tucked into the corner of the cell, next to the window, stands a small writing table. Actually, it was in another life a dressing table, the shape of an elongated kidney, with one shallow drawer. Before the table is a straight-backed wooden chair. No swiveling office chair with casters, cushiony leather, and lumbar support. You either learn to sit up straight, or risk lower back pain.

     Lastly, we come to the infamous monastic bed. In days of yore, this consisted of a couple of sawhorses, a couple of planks, and a hay pallet. The modern version is slightly less rustic. In all honesty, it is the most comfortable bed on which I've ever rested my weary bones. Instead of sawhorses and widely spaced planks, we now have a wood slab (an old door, in this instance) or long planks tightly nailed together. The six sturdy legs, replacing the sawhorses of old, are footed with casters which are essential when putting on new sheets (remember, the cell is only about 7 feet wide). The headboard is of the most rudimentary kind, just a thin wooden board, with a towel rack affixed to its back. There is no footboard, just the wall against which the foot of the bed is snugly pushed. Only one pillow. Then we have the hay-free mattress: at the most, 8 inches thick, at the least, 6 inches. No boxspring. No system of cylinders that adjust to the various curves and hollows of your body. You sit on the bed, expecting it to yield to your weight, but -- clunk! You do get used to it, quicker than you'd think. And once you are used to it, an ordinary bed feels downright uncomfortable. All the beds are covered with the most basic cotton/poly spread in a soothing shade of midrange blue.

     Well, that concludes our tour. I hope you enjoyed this peek into a typical cell at the Monastery of the Infant Jesus. Thank you for coming, and please tell your friends!

Random Memories of my Postulancy

     29 September 2004   It had been weeks since my last private spiritual direction with Sr Maria Cabrini (my Novice Directress), which is supposed to happen weekly for each of the novices and postulants -- but for one reason or another, we've had to cancel the past few. Finally we had an opportunity yesterday. She first gave me a large, lovely blank book in which to begin writing poetry again. I had told her some time ago about what a creative child I was, always writing poems and songs and short stories, and that my mother gave me a blank book when I was a teenager, to fill with my poems and song lyrics, but it's now lost. Since college -- or, really since my senior year in high school -- my "muse" had lain dormant, except for journaling. But lately it seems to have reawakened, and I am hoping and praying that the Spirit may think me fit to write poetry again, and maybe even a book.
    
     10 October 2004   What a day yesterday! It was the Memorial of St. Louis Bertram, the patron saint of novices and novice directors, so it was also the Novitiate Feast Day. The five of us in the novitiate invited the temporary professed (four of them at the moment), plus of course Sr. Mary Annunciata, Sr. Mary Jeremiah (who teaches most of our classes), and also Sr. Mary Bridget, since she helps the novices in the laundry. In the morning, we had a video, Come to the Stable, that I had brought with me; then we brought our dinner trays to the gate parlor, where this whole celebration took place. Adrienne, Sr. Mary Giuse, Sr. Maria Cabrini and I had made brownies for dessert, plus we had ice cream and sodas. We came back at 4 for games -- Pictionary, and a homemade "St. Louis Bertram Bingo." Much fun, all of it; but, as we had to set up as well as clean up -- involving hauling the folding tables, carts, TV/VCR, blackboard on wheels -- we were all very tired at the end of the day.


     No Date   This morning was grey, cool, and wonderfully misty -- perfect walking weather. So I donned one of the long slickers hanging in the back entrance by the kitchen, grabbed an umbrella, put on my sneakers, and went tramping in the woods. Oh, it was wonderful! I could only wish for an honest-to-goodness rain -- a light, gentle rain -- but the mist was very nice, and there was a constant breeze that made it swirl around. I suppose some people would find such weather annoying, but I love it. As long as I don't have to drive in it.


     24 October 2004   I'm taking my Moses Day today. A Moses Day is a monthly individual retreat day and is determined by one's laundry number. My number is 25, but tomorrow (Monday) is laundry day, and they really need everyone to work, so I'm taking my Moses Day today instead. Schedule-wise, it's really no different from any other Sunday in that I still go to Mass and Office; but I skip recreations and get a replacement for my work duties. The big difference is, knowing it's your special retreat day, you automatically spend more time in prayer, meditation, and sacred reading. I did finish a letter to the family, and am now writing in you, but already I've spent more time in prayer and meditation than I normally do. And do you know what? I really like it! It makes me yearn more than ever for more solitude and less community. Does that make me a bad Dominican? Does that mean I have more of a Carmelite or Trappestine spirituality?
     There has been a lot happening lately in the way of trials and penances, all very hard to bear; but just when I think I can't bear them, God sends me grace through my Novice Directress. For one thing, she gave me St. Paul of the Cross' letters to Mother Mary Crucified and I have found much in them to give me strength and hope. Sister has been so encouraging -- she told me she has no doubt of my vocation; that I have a good, religious soul, which is why God is so jealous for me and why he sends me so many crosses and withdraws his consolations so often. So I am not to give up when I feel nothing in prayer. All I can do is keep striving to find him, and to wait for him to tell me, in whatever way he pleases, how I may love and know him better.


     3 November 2004   Today Adrienne received the habit, the novice's white veil, and her name in religion: Sr. Mary Gabriel of the Holy Name of Jesus. So I witnessed my very first clothing ceremony, and it only made me yearn even more for my own. I pretty much cried through the whole thing.
     For her special day, we did the traditional things -- Sr. Mary Giuse did the bulletin board and the flower vase for her cell, Elizabeth (our postulant) made an Eye of God, Sr. Maria Cabrini made sachets and a mobile, and I was in charge of decorating her writing table and her bed, which served as the gift table, being the largest flat surface in the cell. I must say, the writing table turned out beautifully.
     If my postulancy lasts the customary 10 months, I'll have my clothing in May. But the constitutions state that it can last anywhere from 9-12 months. I'm hoping that Sr. Mary Annunciata will take into account my advanced years (!) and let me receive the habit in April. The weather's still reasonably nice then, too. I hope it rains on my clothing day!

Is This the Monastery or the Military?

     When a woman aspires to be a contemplative nun, she has to pass through three phases after entering the monastery: postulancy, novitiate, and temporary vows. The length of each of these varies from order to order and even, to a slight degree, from house to house. For Dominicans, postulancy usually lasts 9-12 months; novitiate, 2 years; and temporary vows (renewed every year), 3 years. Any or all of these phases may be extended if need be. During all this time, the woman is free to change her mind and return to secular life. Likewise, her superiors may ask her to leave, if they feel she is not a right fit for that particular community or that particular order, or if they determine that she does not have a monastic vocation after all. Some women start out in one order, then find they may be better suited to another. If, however, she does pass the three phases successfully in the same house, at the end of them she makes her solemn profession (final vows), and she is—at long last!—a nun for life. So you see, it really takes a long time and much testing, formation, and discernment to become a nun. No plunging in with blinders on!    

     Even if a woman leaves a certain monastery, she may re-enter it. One of the sisters in Lufkin left after she had already taken temporary vows. She went to Rome to pursue a Doctorate in theology, which she achieved. But while there, she felt called to return to monastic life, asked to re-enter the Lufkin monastery, and was re-accepted—but she had to start all over again! Happily, she persevered, and just a few years ago celebrated the Silver Jubilee of her solemn profession.

     Postulancy began for me, as with all postulants, with taking care of practical details. When I entered I of course had rid myself of most of my possessions, but I did bring many books and CDs that I thought would be useful to the community, plus pajamas (you don't get "regulation" nightgowns till you receive the habit and become a novice), and intimate wear (I love that euphemism). I had to take inventory of everything, and the list was filed away. This way, if I did leave, I would know exactly what to take back with me. If I had stayed and taken vows, all my things (except, of course my intimate wear) would have become community property. In addition, I was given tags with my laundry number on them which I had to sew onto all my clothes and linens. My seamstress skills being limited to sewing on buttons, it took me several days to stitch all those tags on securely. A sister's laundry number is also used as a sort of ID when signing up for confession or volunteer duties.

     A postulant learns the proper way to do everything—or I should say, the community's way of doing everything—from making her bed to mopping to folding laundry. It's a lot like being in the army! Everything is done according to regulation. For one thing, it's an exercise in obedience, something every human being must learn, but is particularly important for religious (and soldiers, for that matter) whether they be contemplative or active. For another thing, it's simply good for your own discipline; you become more conscious of taking care in everything you do, large or small. In the world, it's known as "taking pride in your work." But for religious, it's doing your best for the glory of God, even if it's folding a bedsheet.

     And speaking of bedsheets—!

     That mystery of mysteries—how to fold the fitted sheet—was finally solved for me. Never mind that folding bedsheets, be they flat or fitted, is always done in the monastery with a partner (much faster, more efficient, and less fatiguing on the arms); I learned the best basic method for folding those  confounded fitted sheets (it's all about tucking one corner into the opposite corner), an accomplishment made even sweeter when I managed to fold them with the laundry number tag showing, which is really the most important thing.

     Another thing I learned to do properly was mop the floor. (They use old-fashioned rag mops.) The basic motion is side to side,  letting your weight shift accordingly,  working your way backwards, keeping the strokes not much wider than your shoulders, and your elbows close to your sides. Believe me, this method really saves your back. No pushing and pulling the mop in and out in front of you!

     I think the best training of all was how to wash dishes, pots, and pans. Fie on you if you leave the tiniest speck of food on even the outside of a pot or the underside of a plate, or—horror of horrors—between the tines of a fork! All traces of food must be scoured and scraped off before the item goes into the steaming hot soap water to be sterilized. To this day, I can't bear to wash dishes in soap water that has bits of food floating around in it.

     If all of this sounds a bit obsessive-compulsive, I can only say that it taught me an invaluable thing: give your absolute best even to the smallest, most mundane task, and try to do it with love. It's all for God's glory.

My Entrance Day!

From my journal:

27 July 2004
   Where to start? It’s been a very big 3 days, so much to tell you, and I don’t know if I can write down everything I’ve been thinking and feeling and doing.
   Friday, of course, was frantic -- my last day, possibly my last day ever in the world, except for doctors’ visits, etc. I finished up packing and cleaning and sorting, then J_ and a tenor in the HGO chorus came over to help me haul boxes to the post office, after which J_ and I had lunch at the Black-Eyed Pea. Then he dropped me off at my apartment and we said a tearful goodbye. Ordinarily, J_ is not much of a hugger, but we held on long and tight, and I even saw a suspicious redness in his eyes when we parted.
   Mom, Dad, George and Cindy arrived shortly before 5. The whole evening, and Saturday as well, had a strange atmosphere of unreality. I expected to wake up at any moment to find that these past 2 years have all been a dream. Mom held up very well, aside from a few dewy-eyed moments, but she never really gave in to the tears until the very last goodbyes, for which I will always be grateful.
   The drive up to the monastery was fairly smooth; we arrived at around lunchtime. Sr. Mary Veronica had tuna sandwiches ready in the guest dining room, but I don’t think any of us had much of an appetite.
   After lunch, we went into the Peace Parlor where we were met by Srs. Mary Annunciata, Mary William, Mary Jeremiah, and Maria Cabrini. We had a very nice visit, during which Dad recounted many war stories. We must have chatted for about an hour, then the sisters told me to go into the restroom by the parlor and change into my postulant’s uniform, which was hanging on the door. My veil wasn’t ready yet, but I put on the white blouse, blue vest and skirt, white socks, and my brand new black sandals (white socks with black sandals -- only in the monastery!), then walked back into the parlor as a Dominican postulant. It was time for me to enter the enclosure. I hugged everyone long and tight. Mom finally let her tears go, as did I, after so many weeks of being brave. “Take care of my baby,” she said to the sisters. She and Dad and George and Cindy, along with Sr. Mary Veronica, escorted me to the enclosure door, an unassuming, unmarked door at the end of the front porch. As when I entered for my aspirancy, almost all the sisters (except the infirm) were lined up along both sides of the narrow hallway just past the vestibule. Sr. Mary Annunciata had my family come into the vestibule and right up to the hallway door so they could see the community and watch me become a part of it. I went down the double row of smiling, welcoming, joyful nuns -- my sisters now -- then went back to my family for one last, long hug.

Sr. Mary William welcomes me into the monastery

   My first night -- Saturday -- was pretty miserable. But I was in a sort of daze, a combination of lack of sleep, too much packing and cleaning, and too many violent emotions let loose after holding them in for so long. I was tired, physically, mentally, and emotionally. My heart was breaking from leaving my family and my home; yet at the same time, it was rejoicing because I was finally where I wanted to be, where I felt I could just throw myself into God’s loving arms and let him carry and guide me. I was free.
   But I also knew -- still know -- that I have a long, painful, arduous journey ahead of me. I came here to seek union with God, but I’m well aware of the obstacles -- my obstacles -- and now begins the real work of overcoming them. My pride, vanity, thoughtlessness, and most of all, my impatience and intolerance. God and I have an uphill battle ahead of us.

The Closure of a Life

The most difficult months of my life thus far began when I returned to Houston after my aspirancy in Lufkin. 

8 May 2004  I wondered today, for the zillionth time, what will happen to my journals when I'm gone. What is it in people that makes them want to be remembered? I suppose it's because our time on this earth is so short, yet we labor so hard just to live; we want someone to acknowledge and even appreciate our labors. I will have no descendants, no husband to cherish my memory. It is my dearest and most fervent desire that I be known, truly known, through my own words.

     Today must be the day I mourn my past and would-be loves. I felt very odd, very emotional, for some reason, and needed just to drive around. You know, old and faithful friend, that I am one of the world's biggest romantic saps, that I have always followed my heart rather than my head, and that my heart has led me to some rather bizarre places. My romantic sensibilities belong to another era -- or maybe they belong in the pages of a melodramatic, gothic, Victorian novel written by a middle-aged spinster who still dreams of experiencing that one "great love." In any case, I was never so happy as when I was miserable in love. And tonight it has begun to dawn on me that when I enter the cloister, I say goodbye to those wonderful heart-wrenching torments that in the past have made me feel alive and purposeful. Sad, aren't I?

11 May 2004

Carol called last night; we had a good chin wag. I needed to voice to someone all the bewildering emotions I’ve been feeling suddenly about this tremendous change in my life and how much more difficult it is than I thought it would be to say goodbye. I almost wish there would be no fuss at all, no acknowledgement of my leaving the company; I would just quietly disappear and avoid all the sadness and turmoil. But that wouldn’t be fair to those who do want to say goodbye to me. Carol very kindly offered to fly me out to Santa Fe for a few days in July. I think I will take her up on it; I think I can get all my packing and shipping done even if I do go.

13 May 2004      The music staff lunch yesterday was really nice. I only cried a little, when I read the card they signed and gave me. Otherwise, it was a lot of laughter and good will and questions about the monastery.

     It’s very hard to put into words everything I’ve been feeling. But if at any given moment it seems I might be overwhelmed by the emotions whirling inside me, I go back in my mind, very calmly, and retrace the path that has led me to this point.

16 May 2004      I received the call from Sr. Mary Jeremiah with the news of my acceptance.

     Why is it that, when it comes to the most profound and complicated times of my life, I find it difficult to write? There’s something in me that disdains the cliché “There are no words to express X” yet there is truth to it and a reason it was coined in the first place. These past two days have in many ways been the most confusing and difficult of my entire life. I didn’t think it was possible to plunge from the highest joy to near despair in so short a time. I don’t even think I can write about it now -- but I will sometime. I have to.

     My life is in Your hands.

20 May 2004     Last Saturday was very gloomy indeed. I of course prayed very hard for my family, especially my mother, and that God would give us all the strength necessary to accept his will.

     Saturday night, the 15th, was closing night of Barbiere -- my very last performance in the Wortham Theater. I played the chorus warm-up, and at the end of it Richard announced very quietly, “This is Leticia’s last chorus warm-up.” It was a small group of 16, but those 16 men applauded me warmly. Richard, who is not given to public displays of emotion, hugged me as I sat crying on the piano bench. Some of the chorus stayed to say goodbye to me personally. It was very sad for me. I continued to cry until half-way through Act I of the show.

      During the Act II finale, when the entire company came down to the footlights to sing the closing phrases, a few of the choristers looked straight at me in the pit where I sat at the fortepiano. The final cut-off came; I looked at Patrick on the conductor’s podium. He turned to me and blew me a kiss.

      As with every closing night, I went onstage after bows to say goodbye to the cast. I didn’t think Earle would ever let go of me -- he held me very tight, both of us crying. Same with Patrick. And Joyce.

      Oh, it was one of the saddest, hardest nights of my entire life! I’ll never forget the love -- the love that grew through these 15 years, despite the grumblings, the bad world premieres, the less than pleasant rehearsal periods, the frustrating and tedious (some of them) coachings. There is so much I’ve loved about my job -- Mozart, Handel, bel canto, playing continuo,  the many great and rewarding coachings, the many happy productions and rehearsal periods. And the people. I will miss them sorely.

      Saturday and Sunday, I busied myself with cleaning and packing, which helped much in the way of distracting myself from worrying about my family.

23 May 2004, Ascension Sunday      I’m feeling a bit melancholy right now. Understandable, I suppose. Fr. Victor told me that when he got accepted into seminary, he sat in his apartment surrounded by his packed boxes and cried. Sr. Mary Jeremiah told me that when she got her plane ticket to go to the monastery from Rome, where she was living at the time, she cried; she was so depressed. Isn’t that funny? I mean, funny-peculiar? I wonder if pre-wedding cold feet feels this way. But I’m scared. It isn’t the thought of entering the monastery that depresses me; it’s this transition time. All the goodbyes, the packing, the throwing out of things -- the closure. Closure of a life. It’s said that when a woman enters the monastery, she dies to the world. But it’s much more specific and personal than that. She dies to her previous life.

      For years now, I’ve been trying to discover what life really is. So much of the time I felt as if I were faking a life -- yet, at the same time, wondering if that’s what living was: “playing” at things. Trying to convince yourself that you’re this, that, or the other. And all the while suspecting you should be “that” instead of “this.” But it was all just a preview. Now comes the true search. Now I have to confront life without playing at it.

      All these goodbyes have made it very clear to me how much a single person can influence and play such a part in so many other lives. How many people each and every one of us touches! I had no idea I mattered so much to so many. Now I’m beginning to see the network my own existence has built. It is an awesome vision, at once gratifying and humbling. I have made a difference in the world. I matter. What a great gift life is!

24 May 2004     Started cleaning out my studio at work this morning, putting scores in boxes to store in the HGO library until further notice; leaving the coat tree, small wooden table, and stool to Peter; the Maria Callas life-size cutout to Marjorie; the "Golf in Italy" poster to Norman; and everything else to Jim to do with as he pleases, since he is inheriting my studio. Yes, this is hard.

     Vai, e non fermarti mai,

     Perché il futuro è lunica ricchezza che hai.

     Non conta ciò che hai,

     Ma solo quello che sei e quello che darai.

     Sei solo tu il giudice che hai;

     La vita che hai davanti sarà come vorrai.

                                 ~ Enrico Ruggeri

     Go, and don't ever stop,

     Because the future is the only wealth you have.

     What you own doesn't count,

     But only what you are and what you will give.

     You are the only judge you have;

     The life you have before you will be as you want.

The World is Their Cloister

The following is an excerpt from a letter I wrote to a friend toward the end of my aspirancy in March of 2004.

Dear C_ ,

    You know what it is about this schedule? Nothing lasts more than an hour. Except for Sunday evening recreation, which is an hour and half. So you feel as if you barely settle in one place before you have to go someplace else. Kind of like high school. Here's a typical weekday for a postulant/novice:

  

5.20   Rising bell

5.50   Office of Readings, followed immediately by Morning Prayer (in chapel)

6.30   Private meditation (anywhere)

7.20   Mass, followed by private thanksgiving

          Profound silence ends

          Breakfast (pick up when done with thanksgiving)

8.45   Spiritual reading

9.20   Bell for Midmorning Prayer (chapel)

9.45   Work, as assigned
10.30  Study

11.30  Bell for Midday Prayer (chapel)

           Dinner  

12.55  Recreation in novitiate

1.30   Quiet time/nap

2.25   First bell for rosary

2.40   Rosary in common, followed immediately by Midafternoon Prayer (chapel)

3.15   Novices' allotted time for Adoration of the Blessed Sacrament (chapel)

4.00   Class (novitiate)
5.00   Bell for Evening Prayer (chapel)

          Supper, followed by dishes (as assigned)

          A few minutes' free time
6.40   Recreation with professed sisters in main community room

7.30   Bell for Compline, followed by Benediction (chapel)

          Private meditation (anywhere)

8.30   Showers/baths may begin

9.30   Profound silence begins

10.30 Lights out (unofficial)

     Yet there is a calmness to the day. If you had to follow such a tightly-packed schedule out in the world, you'd probably feel stressed. What makes it different here? First of all, the relative silence. Secondly, and more importantly, everything is done in prayerful recollection (hopefully), so that the whole day is spent in awareness of the presence of God.

     I took a stroll this morning before Mass to do my meditation. The sun had just risen, and the few clouds in the sky were golden. I went first to the cemetery, then to the woods. The paths had dried up a bit, so I went a little further than usual. The sun, still low in the sky, peeked through the straight, tall pines, making them seem like an army of angels marching in solemn triumph before the glory of God. The air was very still and cool and slightly damp, and there was on the ground a delicate silken network of webs, glistening in the golden rays. Walking in those woods, I feel very close to God.

     I went for another walk in the woods this afternoon during quiet hour. Every time I go out there, I look at the enclosure wall and think, "There is the boundary of their world. Beyond that wall, they hardly ever venture." It's an awesome, slightly chilling, thought. Can I really live witin these stone walls for the rest of my mortal life? Only by the grace of God! Since He seems to be asking me to try, I can only trust that He will also give me the strength. I look at the sisters and novices who are far younger than I, who are at an age when most young women begin to find ther lives, and marvel that they have made this choice. What courage, what genoerosity, what love they have for God! I've already tasted and experienced what I'd be giving up; they never had the chance to do even that! Who has the greater difficulty? Is it better not to know, is ignorance truly bliss? Or is it better to have known, then given it up? There are as many answers to that as there are people whom God calls to this life. As the fingerprints of our hands are unique, so are the blueprints of our souls; and God alone, the Master Builder, knows how many nails are needed, how many walls and windows, to build the temple within each of us. Make mine doubly strong, dear God, because I know the slightest wind of temptation could threaten to destroy it.

     This is a life of little things -- well, aside from the obvious big thing -- but I mean, it's the little things that touch my heart and put into sharp focus the beauty of this hidden life. When I enter the woods just after sunrise and see coming toward me the white-clad figure of a novice, habit and veil flowing in the chilly breeze, her face serene with the joy of Christ within her, my breath catches in my throat, and I think, "How beautiful that is!" Or when I go to the cemetery and watch an elderly sister, habit completely covered with her work apron, bending over the flowers she's tended so lovingly for God knows how many years, I think, "This is her world. This is her life. It's enough for her, because it's everything for her." Within these walls is a reality so deep and so true, all other "reality" shrinks beside its pure light. These women are living for God, with God, in love with God. That is their reality, and for them there is no other.

     My talk with Sr. __ was very wonderful, moving, and sad. She told me she developed fluid in her right lung in December; they drained it, but she then had pneumonia, and they had to drain it again. They told her she had probably six months more to live. It's very hard for me to talk or write about this -- all I can say is, I've never before seen ayone so cheerful and hopeful in the face of death. She's doing all she can to prepare herself to meet her Bridegroom, and she's awaiting her new beginning with such joy, I just can't be sad for her. This is what she's waited for -- what all the sisters wait for -- at last, to see God and be with him forevermore. I wish you could know her. She is a great soul, truly holy, yet so very comfortable and approachable and warm. She's taught me, in the short time I've known her, how to strive for holiness, and now she's teaching me how to die.

Upon my return to Houston, the hardest months of my life began. . . .                

A Taste of Monastic Life

Just to refresh your memory: before a woman officially enters a monastery, she usually makes a visit called an "aspirancy," which lasts anywhere from a few days to a few weeks or even months. This visit, during which she stays inside the monastery's enclosure walls as a temporary member of the community, enables her to experience firsthand the monastic life, the customs and horarium (schedule) of that particular community; more importantly, it gives both her and the community a chance to determine whether or not she has a true monastic vocation, and whether she is a right fit for that community and vice-versa.

The following passages are taken from my journal.


25 February 2004

     Tomorrow I leave for Lufkin. I can't seem to sleep. Guess I'm too excited. Such a completely different life, a completely different world from the one I live in now! Most of my life has been spent working in a business in which everything depends on talent, praise, and criticism. You are either being judged, or you're judging someone else. Your job hangs on questions like, "How well does she play? Is she a 'conductor's pianist'; does she play 'orchestrally'? Does she know how to coach? Do the singers like her?" I suppose success in any profession depends on ability, talent -- in fact, that's one of the world's biggest truisms -- but that can get all confused with the person, and sometimes in dangerous ways. It seems to me that the focus on one's talents vs. shortcomings can become so intense as to cause that person to believe that those are the only criteria by which he/she is deemed valuable. Especially in today's society, where too often a person's job is his life.
     No, life can be better than that. Now that I know I am valuable in God's eyes, regardless of the gifts he's given me, I never want to settle for, or rely on, the opinions and judgment of men. If tomorrow I lose the use of my hands, I am still precious in his eyes. I no longer want to care about praise and admiration and applause. But I know, because I've cared about those things all my life, learning not to care will be the most difficult thing I'll ever try to do.
     I'm beginning to understand that this is part of what St. Catherine of Siena calls "true discernment" -- a knowledge of self, and how God works in you and through you; the honest appraisal of one's faults, the things that hinder one's quest for perfection and union with God.


1 March 2004, Lufkin

     I arrived at the monastery last Thursday around 12.30 -- a beautiful day, crisp and sunny. I was immediately taken by St. Mary Veronica to be fed in the guest dining room, but only after a few minutes I was summoned to the Peace Parlor to be greeted by Sr. Mary Annunciata (Prioress), Sr. Mary William, and Sr. Mary Jeremiah.
     The meeting in the parlor was brief. I was then escorted by Sr. Mary Veronica to the enclosure door. This was the moment I’d read about in so many nuns’ autobiographies! There, in a narrow hallway just beyond a small vestibule, was the majority of the community, lined up in 2 rows, faces smiling in welcome. I made my way through them, alternating from one side to the other, embracing each sister. Some, of course, I’d already met on my previous visits. I came to the only blue-clad figure among them, their postulant Adrienne. She just entered at the start of the year. She kept saying, “Oh, I’m so happy you’re here!” It must be very lonely, the first months as a postulant.
     After greeting everyone, I was shown into the oratory where I knelt before a statue of Our Lady of Fatima, and Sr. Mary Annunciata said a blessing. Then the novices, Adrienne, Sr. Mary Jeremiah, Sr. Mary William, and Sr. Maria Cabrini took me through the main building, out along the cloister walk, and to the novitiate building for a “get-to-know-you” recreation, just the 8 of us. I was happy to see a grand piano in the novitiate’s community room. It’s a brown Aeolian in fair shape, but needs tuning and voicing badly. There was class in the afternoon (they have class every weekday except Wednesday, at 4). Right now we're studying the Gospel of John -- my favorite Gospel; I’m so glad!
     After supper, I went with the novices to work in the kitchen. My job was to help dry pots and pans and large utensils at the “pot sink.” Dishes, cafeteria trays, glasses, and silverware are washed in the “dish room,” which has one of those super-fast, restaurant-style dishwashers -- you fill up a big rack with dirty dishes, push them through a sort of mini-garage door; just a short couple of minutes later, ed ecco! Clean dishes, piping hot!
     Then evening recreation, this time with the whole community in the main building’s community room. That first evening, they had a “circle” recreation in my honor: all the sisters sat in a big circle with me and the Prioress, Sub-Prioress, and Novice Directress sitting at the top of it; I told them what I could about myself, and they asked lots of questions. Of course, they were extremely interested in my work and the world of opera.
     Friday I helped peel and core mounds of Granny Smith apples. Saturday mornings are devoted to housecleaning. My assignment was the novitiate's community room and computer room -- dust, vacuum, and mop. They of course use old-fashioned hand-wrung mops, Swiffers with their disposable mopcloths not being ecnomical and therefore not in accordance with the vow of poverty. Never mind the fact that hand-wrung mops can be very unsanitary!
     Monday morning, kitchen duty. I prepared toast points for dinner (their big midday meal), buttering the bread, topping each triangle with two kinds of cheese and a tomato slice, then Sr. Mary Thomas grilled them. I'm very good with assembly line work.
     After kitchen duty, I was taken to the laundry where I was shown by Sr. Mary Rose how to clean and vacuum the giant lint trap from their enormous dryer. The amount of lint that came out of that thing was enough to weave a whole set of sheets! Then I had to vacuum the very large laundry room. Someone needs to donate new vacuum cleaners to these sisters. The one in the novitiate looks to be circa the Viet Nam war. The one in the laundry ain’t much younger. Adrienne mopped the concrete floor after I vacuumed, then I helped fold and bring clean stuff back to the kitchen and novitiate. We finished with about 3 minutes to spare before Midday Prayer. I was famished! When we went in to dinner, I looked proudly at my beautiful toast points. . . .
     Meals are eaten in silence (except on special feast days and “picnic days”); as you eat, you listen to the reader who reads a biography of a saint, or a book or article on Church History, or something on the spiritual life, etc. In this way, you are feeding both mind and body. The refectory in a monastery is regarded as a holy place, because every meal taken there commemorates the Last Supper. Therefore, it is also one of the places where silence is generally kept, aside from the reading at meals.


4 March 2004

     I had a long talk with Sr. Mary Jeremiah about this and that -- what one does with one’s bank account, property, etc. before entering, and about visits and correspondence.
     You usually keep your bank account(s) open until you take vows, just in case things don’t work out and you leave the monastery. Upon entering, you bring a dowry (money) which is also kept aside until you take your final vows, again for security in the event you should leave. One doesn’t want to go back to the outside world without money! If you do take final vows, making you a cloistered nun for the rest of your earthly life, then you can close your accounts.
     The correspondence part I’m sort of disappointed about, being an avid letter writer. But postulants and novices can only write to friends a few times a year; to family, twice a month. Visitors (family and friends) can be received, except during Advent and Lent. If one’s family lives far away and can only come once or twice a year, they may stay (at a local hotel at the monastery’s expense) for two days, and a sister may spend the whole time (except for Mass and the Divine Office) visiting with them in one of the parlors; she may even take her meals there.
     We also talked about how much more difficult it is for someone my age to give up the world and enter into a hidden life. She was very reassuring and comforting: “God knows how much you’re giving up. And he wouldn’t ask you to make such a sacrifice if he didn’t think you’d be happy. We sometimes forget that he wants our happiness.”
     But this morning I couldn’t help thinking of all the things I’m giving up. As I took my morning stroll, pacing up and down the path to the cemetery, I thought of my life -- all I’ve accomplished, how much I have to give as an opera coach, how I’d never see the English countryside that I’ve wanted to see ever since I can remember; or Venice and Verona, which are more recent dreams. And so, after Mass, I prayed very hard to Jesus and Mary to help me fight these temptations and to remember always that the Spirit put this desire to be a nun in my heart for a reason -- his reason, not mine.


Part Two of my aspirancy coming soon. . . .