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.
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