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.