The Move to Houston

     This will be a short one, due to my father's illness.
     I didn't keep a regular journal around the time I auditioned for the Houston Grand Opera Studio; for that reason, and also because my memory has gone bye-bye, I don't exactly recall the timing of events. I know I had to do two auditions, because there was no vacancy for a new coach in the Studio when I auditioned the first time. What I can't remember is exactly how long it was between auditions.
     But I do remember that first audition quite clearly: I had to prepare the Composer's Aria, the Act II Finale of Figaro, and the whole first act of Boheme. I had to be ready to sing any of the parts while playing, show how well I followed a conductor, and also sightread. To start the audition, I had to play a solo piano piece of my choosing to demonstrate my basic technique and musicality. I chose the first two movements of the Beethoven Op. 109 Sonata.
     My flight into Houston was a bit late, and the auditions were running a bit early due to a couple of cancellations; consequently, when I got off the elevator on the sixth floor of the Wortham Center, Shauna Bowman, the Studio's administrator, was right there waiting for the next victim. Which was me.
     "We're running ahead. Are you ready to go in right now?"
     Maybe someone else would have answered, "Actually, could I just have ten minutes to warm up?" But I, knowing my nerves and not being a big warmer-upper, said, "Sure!" Better just to go in and do it before I had the chance to get nervous.
     Anyway, it went very well (by the way, my sightreading piece was an ensemble from La Rondine), and they did ask me to come back and audition again when they had a vacancy. Some months (or maybe a year?) later, I got a call from Shauna saying that one of the Studio coaches decided not to stay a third year (three years is usually the maximum a coach or singer can stay), and could I do another audition in a couple of weeks? Sure!
     The real reason for the second audition, since they already knew my playing, was so that the Music Director of HGO, John de Main, and the co-director of the Studio, Carlisle Floyd, could hear me and give final approval. And approval they gave.
     I moved to Houston in the autumn of 1989 to embark on what was to be one of the greatest and most rewarding adventures of my life.

Handel and a Turning Point

     The San Antonio Festival's production of Handel's Saul (sometime in the mid-1980's; I can't remember exactly when) was an invaluable learning experience for me. Although I had already played recitatives in performances of Mozart and Rossini operas, Handel is another animal altogether, and I had zero experience with him going into rehearsals. Nor was I well-informed at that time about the world of Baroque scholarship and performance practice, or about the musicians who specialized in these things. Nicholas McGegan, who was to conduct Saul, was simply a name to me; I had no idea that he was and is one of the world's foremost Baroque specialists. I suppose being ignorant of this was better for my nerves.
     He had no quibbles about my playing of the arias and other set pieces; Bach was one of my specialties as a solo pianist and this helped me in playing Handel. But I was playing the recitatives (recits) as I would have played Mozart recits. McGegan taught me the correct way to do Handel recits: play chords only where indicated, no adding extra chords or improvising; the chords should be short and solid, or rolled quickly, or rolled moderately slowly, depending on the text and dramatic situation. They should never be sustained for long, and your cellist sustains the bass note only as long as the you sustain the chord. I have never forgotten this teaching, which served me well when years later I played continuo for such luminaries as Christopher Hogwood, Craig Smith, Patrick Summers, and once again for McGegan himself.
     I should say that the woman who sang the role of Michal was a still unknown Lorraine Hunt (later the great Lorraine Hunt-Lieberson, whose too early death from cancer left a deep void in the music world). That production of Saul was the beginning of her long, successful collaboration with McGegan and her reputation as a specialist in Handel, though she sang anything and everything with uncommon grace. I remember being particularly impressed, even at that early "soprano" stage of her career (she became a mezzo later on), with her liquid legato and warm, unforced sound.
     It was around the same time as Saul that I began serving as coach/repetiteur for Opera Theater of San Antonio. One season, we did The Barber of Seville and our Rosina was the delightful Stella Zambalis, who at that time had recently completed two years with the prestigious Houston Grand Opera Studio. She was impressed with my playing, and told me I should consider auditioning for the Studio, which trains coaches as well as singers. Being a master procrastinator and all-around yellow-bellied chicken, I mulled over her suggestion for a few years, meanwhile continuing to freelance. Despite Stella's confidence in me, and the encouragement I received from my teachers and elder coaches at AIMS (the American Institute of Musical Studies in Graz, Austria, which I attended for three summers), I myself was still unsure about my abilities. In my own mind, I was merely a big fish in a very small pond. The thought of testing the waters of a much larger pond, i. e. the Houston Grand Opera, brought out my extreme fear of drowning. Was I a good enough swimmer?
     On a particular day in the late '80s, around tax time, I was organizing the piles of receipts and paycheck stubs from all my freelancing jobs, when I came across a note from a coach whom I considered to be a mentor. This coach, who during the regular season served on the music staff of Lyric Opera of Chicago, was one of my teachers and my sounding board during the first of my three summers at AIMS. At the end of that summer, she left a note in my box which closed with, "You should have a great career in opera, if you want it."  I read the note again, sitting on the floor that spring day, surrounded by receipts and check stubs, and thought of all the piddly little jobs I was doing in order to scrounge up some sort of living -- a living which mostly got eaten away at tax time. I thought of all the tedious hours I spent coaching voice students who had little or no talent, who certainly had no hope of ever making a career in opera. I thought of all the miles I drove from job to job, burning up tankful after tankful of gas, grabbing fast-food lunches on the way. And I said to myself, "What the hell am I doing?"
     When annual auditions for the Houston Grand Opera Studio were announced later that year, I sent off an application.

The Freelance Musician

     After five years at Trinity University, studying piano and voice, I spent the next several years freelancing in San Antonio and Austin, as coach, rehearsal pianist, and singer. I also went back to the Round Top Festival for four more summers, once as a piano student and three times as a voice student. (Their vocal program existed only a few years, unfortunately.) Because I wasn't allowed to matriculate at Trinity (due to my lack of a high school diploma), I had no undergraduate degree; so graduate school was not an option. I had to become a professional straight away.
     Freelancing is no bed of roses, let me tell you. In order to earn any decent money at all, you have to have as many jobs as possible, which means you have to drive to all these jobs, which takes both time and gas. I was lucky to land some of the best jobs a freelance pianist could have in the San Antonio area: rehearsal pianist for the Symphony Mastersingers (I also sang with them), vocal coach at UTSA and St. Mary's University, répétiteur for the San Antonio Festival (now defunct), Austin Lyric Opera, and the Opera Theater of San Antonio (also now defunct). ("Répétiteur" is a fancy name for operatic rehearsal pianist.) As a singer I was soprano soloist at a couple of the bigger churches, and also sang solos with the Texas Bach Society, the Mastersingers, and the San Antonio Choral Society.
     During these years, I was equally interested in being a coach and a singer. My youthful aspiration to be a concert pianist had fizzled out by this time, as I discovered I lacked the wherewithal (or discipline) to put in the necessary hours per day practicing. My laziness again reared its droopy head. At any rate, I really didn't think I had the technique to cover a wide enough repertoire. Playing opera meant playing piano reductions of the orchestration; as they are not true piano works, this means you don't have to play every single note on the page. However, this does not necessarily mean that reductions are easier to play; in fact, there are many, many operatic scores that would challenge the most gifted pianists, for the very reason that they are unpianistic. I grew to love playing opera, being a one-woman orchestra and seeing how the orchestral score supports and enhances the drama. I loved being part of a multi-faceted art form and watching it come together, facet by facet, in the rehearsal room, then seeing the final product of weeks of hard work come to glorious life on the stage. But I also wanted to be part of that art form as a singer; so I continued studying voice and doing auditions and competitions.
     One summer, I decided to audition as a singer for the San Antonio Festival. They were mounting a production of Handel's Saul, and they were looking for a Merab. I was already known to the General Director as one of their regular repetiteurs, and he was rather surprised when I showed up to audition for Merab. After the morning round of auditions was over, he took me into his office and asked, "So are you a pianist or a singer?"
     "I'd like to be both," I answered.
     "You can't do both. Either one would -- should -- take up all your time, concentration, and effort. You cannot do both and expect to succeed at either one of them. Frankly, it's a lot harder for us to find competent répétiteurs than it is to find good singers, so I'd rather you play for Saul."
     Maybe he was trying to find a gentle way of saying he didn't think much of me as a singer; but I knew he was dead right about it being hard to find competent répétiteurs, especially in the San Antonio area. So I chose to play rehearsals for Saul, which meant I would also play continuo in performances under the baton of Baroque specialist Nicholas McGegan. (More on that later.) 
     That decision pretty much squelched any real ambition I had to be a singer, and sealed my fate as an operatic répétiteur and coach.
    
    
   

The Tunnel-Visioned Flunkie

     High school was almost a complete bust for me. If it weren't for choir, I think I would have gone mad. Fortunately our high school choir was one of the best in the state, certainly the best in the city, and our sense of competitive pride was extremely high and nurtured an already robust (perhaps too robust) musical competitiveness in me. I made it to All-State Choir three years in a row (I missed my freshman year, as I spent that year in a Catholic girls school), winning first in my voice division every year at every level (region, area, and state) except once, when I foolishly had pizza right before my audition and had to fight through major cheese phlegm while singing.

     Between choir and the increasing demands my piano study made on me, I grew lazier than ever scholastically, neglecting homework and skipping class to practice in the choir room. I even managed to skip nearly an entire semester of Latin. Every summer, I'd have to make up at least one class that I flunked due to my laziness and lack of interest. I believe it was my junior English teacher who told me I had tunnel vision -- that I could only see one thing, music, and that one thing would never carry me through life and would prevent me from ever being a well-rounded person.. Then it was that my counselor, frustrated at having to summon me to her office at least twice a month for one thing or another, told me point blank that I'd never amount to anything. When it came time for graduation and I wound up being one of only a handful of kids in my class that didn't receive a diploma, it looked as if my counselor was right. I never did graduate high school.

     My mother came to my rescue -- the first of two crucial rescues she made in my life, the second being her praying me back to the Church. The summer after my non-graduation, I won a Ewing-Halsell Foundation scholarship to the International Round Top Festival, a summer program for young pianists and string players. There I studied for six weeks with the renowned pianist James Dick and performed in several concerts. While I was there, my mother, without telling me, went to Trinity University to speak with one of the piano faculty, Andrew Mihalso; he had known me since judging me in a competition when I was small, and had wanted me to study with him ever since. He and my mother appealed to the dean, who examined my SAT scores (before I found out I would not be graduating, I had taken my SAT and applied to three colleges, including Trinity). He found my scores to be very high, high enough to justify admitting me -- provided I didn't actually matriculate for a degree.

     So the flunkie lucked out. With the help of my mother and a teacher who believed in my talent, I spent five years studying piano and voice at Trinity, earning no degree, but coming away with several competition prizes and many performances under my belt. It was also during college that I began coaching singers, mostly my fellow students; but then one weekend a Wagnerian bass named Simon Estes came to sing with the San Antonio Symphony and wanted to coach his next role while he was in town. Someone gave him my name, and I spent two hours one afternoon working with him on Handel's Saul. That was my first real professional coaching, and the start of a 25-year career.

The Young Poet

     When I was in the fifth grade, my teacher asked each of us to write a poem. Whether or not she told us the real reason, I don't remember (I probably wasn't paying attention, as usual), but it was that she planned to enter one of them in the Young Pegasus Poetry Contest, a city-wide contest sponsored by the San Antonio Public Library for budding poets grades 1-12. I wrote a concrete poem (a poem that has a significant shape on the page) in the shape of a diamond called "Sun and Moon" which was chosen as one of the winners in the fifth grade division. The results for being a winner were publication in that year's Young Pegasus anthology, a luncheon at which all the winners met and shared their poems, and a taped television appearance in which the older winners read their own poems and the younger had their poems read by one of the judges.
     The only person I remember at that winners' luncheon was the then 17-year-old Naomi Shihab (Nye), who is today one of this country's most respected and prolific poets. I remember her, not for her poetry, but for her appearance that day -- she looked like a poet to me: loose, flowing clothes, waist-long hair in a braid, very sort of bohemian.
     The television appearance was rather embarrassing for me and, I imagine, for the rest of the younger winners who weren't allowed to read our own pieces. Instead, each of us had to perch on a stool doing absolutely nothing except look straight at the camera, goofy and uncomfortable, while listening to his or her poem being read. What on earth were they thinking, putting us through such embarrassment?!
     This did not put me off writing poetry, however. Through middle school, I wrote quite a lot of it, compiling my work into a collection called Poems of a Childhood Romance. Except for drafts of a few of the poems, it has since disappeared. (Judging from those extant drafts, it's no great loss!) I wrote a few more in high school, but by then I was more interested in writing songs in the style of Joni Mitchell, Judy Collins, John Denver, etc., and I dreamt of wandering round the country with my guitar and a knapsack, earning my weekly bread by singing my ballads in smoky, dimly lit coffee houses. Eventually, of course, I intended to meet a fellow balladeer, preferably a James Taylor type, build a cabin with him in the mountains, have twenty children, and live off the land.
     On the other hand, I was still the aspiring concert pianist, giving performances and entering (but hardly ever winning) competitions. This persona dressed more neatly than the balladeer, enjoyed meals at stylish restaurants (Ms. von's treat), and dreamt of dwelling in marble halls, single, but with a string of wealthy and powerful lovers.
     In both these fantasies, I never stopped writing in one form or another.
     When I was in the eighth grade I followed my sister Alice's example and started to keep a journal. Being an aspiring writer, I never meant my journal to be private, but passed it round among my friends (is it any wonder I eventually decided to blog?). I also wrote short stories, which were really my own original episodes of The Partridge Family, all of which were centered around Keith (David Cassidy). There was even a rough outline and one chapter of a novel entitled Sisters and Lovers, a tale of two orphaned sisters in early 20th-century San Francisco; the elder was prudent and practical, the younger impulsive and romantic. If this sounds suspiciously like an American Sense and Sensibility, let me hasten to say I hadn't even heard of that novel at that time, much less read it. However, I had read Little Women and was very much influenced by Alcott's style -- in fact, that was the start of my love affair with the semi-colon.
     The novel, poetry, and song writing all fizzled out (temporarily) by my senior year in high school, but I continued to keep a journal and my dreams of becoming a concert pianist.

The Anxiety-Ridden Chorus Master

     It is one of the greatest ironies of my life that I spent so much of it working with choruses, given that I've always had a deep-rooted aversion toward that job. I wrote before that I was enlisted at a very early age (third grade) into accompanying for school choir concerts; by the time I was in middle school, I was official accompanist and rehearsal pianist for our mixed choir and madrigal group. (It wasn't until seventh grade that my choir director discovered I also had a good voice and had me sing in all the a cappella pieces.) Had I known that being rehearsal pianist also meant actually taking over in the absence of the choir director, I would have turned tail and run.

     There was one particularly painful day in the eighth grade when Miss E. had to be absent and she asked me to take the class, with one of my classmates at the piano. My pianist belonged to that elite group of pretty, popular girls that lived in the richer neighborhood; they were already under the impression (thanks to the veneer of cool aloofness behind which I hid my social anxiety disorder) that I thought my musical gifts made me superior to everyone else. In truth, she and her group, many of whom were in the choir, intimidated me to the point that I was certain my nervous shaking was visible to all as I took my place that day behind the director's music stand. I had to stand there in front of all those "prove yourself to us" faces and the ill-concealed smirk of my pianist, push my anxiety as far down into my shoes as I could, and just give it my best. I got through that agonizing hour, but not without witnessing, after the bell rang, my pianist and her friends giggling and mimicking my nervously rigid conducting gestures. Perhaps anyone would have been hurt by this, but I was a hyper-sensitive child with low self-esteem; a more confident child would probably have shaken off the dust from her shoes and moved on. As it was, the wound they inflicted that day, perhaps unconsciously, rankled deep in me through my year as student director for our high school choir, and much later throughout my fifteen years as Assistant Chorus Master at the Houston Grand Opera. Not even the genuine affection and respect the HGO Chorus and I had for each other could quite cure my aversion for running rehearsals and sectionals.

     Behind it also were the high expectations of my teachers and elders, my own high standards (which grew more and more impossible with each passing year), an enormous fear of failure, and the equally enormous if irrational fear of being found out as a sham. For all my talent and training, and all my bravado, I was still at the core that awkward, inept, and insecure child.

     You might be asking why, then, I consented to be HGO's Assistant Chorus Master. Deep down, I knew I could do it, and do it well. I had all the necessary tools for what that job entailed, including, by that time, good conducting skills (thanks to lessons from two gifted and generous conductors, Ward Holmquist and Patrick Summers). And I had the unflagging support and confidence of the Chorus Master, Richard Bado, for whom I had, and will always have, tremendous respect. So I forced myself to ignore the sickening churning in my stomach before every rehearsal and sectional I had to run, and told myself (to quote my fellow S. A. D. sufferer, Mr. Darcy) "I will conquer this!" And conquer it I did. That terrified young girl who was mocked by her peers grew up to be a good Assistant Chorus Master (and, for some shows, Chorus Master) -- even if she never really liked being one.

    

Enter "Ms. von"

     When Peter Martinez moved away to graduate school, I had been studying with him for two years. It was now time for me to study with his teacher, one of the best piano teachers in the city, Myrna von Nimitz. I was then 11 years old.

     "Ms. von," a native Texan, had just moved into a large, newly built colonial style house on the north side of town. She and her Russian husband Igor filled their home with Louis XV furniture; valuable period paintings covered the walls and bronze statuary perched on every table. A Steinway concert grand dominated the front room. These surroundings were a bit overwhelming for me, as was the person of Myrna von Nimitz herself: I remember her as tall, though she might not actually have been; her slenderness and the white-blond hair sculpted smoothly into a high upsweep made her seem so to me. Large, expressive, almond-shaped brown eyes framed by precise, dark brows were the only things that lent color to her ivory face; the surprisingly small, pale mouth beneath the narrow nose was a mere textural element. Elegantly dressed, shoulders fashionably stooped, she would sit in a low Louis XV chair by the piano, one poodle in her lap and another lounging at her feet, a cigarette dangling from her long, languid hand. She was in her early- to mid-thirties at that time, though she could have been almost any age from any era. A true original.

     Peter Martinez's youthful maleness had exacerbated my social anxiety disorder, but Ms. von's flamboyant elegance and refined tastes fascinated me. Perhaps that was the beginning of my own Niles Crane-like fondness for the finer things in life; in fact, I know it was. Still, I remained mostly silent in my lessons, and Ms. von tried her best to draw me out those first few months, to no avail. Then one day, as I was playing the Bach G minor Concerto, I was suddenly and profoundly moved by the music; so much so, tears began streaming down my face. This was not the first time music affected me to the point of weeping, but I had always kept my tears to myself. Ms. von, perplexed and concerned, took me out to her wooded back yard and proceeded to ask me if I was having trouble at home or at school. When I didn't answer, she then began to talk of random things to put me at ease, until finally I stammered out, "It -- it's just the music. It's so -- so beautiful."

     Ms. von was not only relieved by my confession, she was delighted that I had a genuine love for music, and, as she told me afterward, a deep soul. From that moment on, I regarded her as a friend and mentor.

     The summer after my freshman year in high school, Ms. von took her piano students and a few college students to Europe -- a two-week tour of the continent, then a month in London taking music courses at Goldsmiths College. It was not only my first time abroad, but my first time flying. I might have known I'd be a bad flyer. To this day I cannot board a plane without first taking something for motion sickness. However, the half pack of cigarettes I smoked before boarding that day probably didn't help! I was only fourteen at the time, but my attire and bearing made me seem at least four years older -- and I don't exaggerate. People were always mistaking me then for a college student. My mother frowned on jeans and insisted that her children dress neatly at all times; Ms. von further influenced my taste in clothes. My social anxiety disorder, still very much with me, was the true reason behind my cool, seemingly composed and confident exterior. If I couldn't speak to anyone with ease, then I could at least give the impression that I didn't want to speak to them.

     My outer composure and mature appearance backfired, however, when one of my London professors began to have a personal interest in me. I was completely unaware of this until Ms. von told me she had had a word with him, telling him I was only fourteen. In my total innocence, I thought he took time to play duets with me just because he found it fun. I still saw myself as ugly and stiff, though Ms. von often told me I was growing up to be an attractive and poised young lady.

     Throughout my high school years, I competed in many competitions, always placing near the top, but never capturing a top prize until my senior year, when I finally won the San Antonio Symphony Young Artist Competition. Performing, too, became a frequent thing. I revelled in being onstage, though I did always suffer considerable nerves before walking out. Once I was behind the keyboard, however, the audience became a faceless, harmless presence, and I could lose myself, my feelings of awkwardness and inadequacy, in the music. For that short precious time, I felt accepted.

The Young Pianist

      In the few years between that fateful piano recital where Myrna von Nimitz (or "Ms. von," as all her students called her) evaluated my talent, and the time I actually began studying with her, I continued lessons with Mrs. Woliver, then with a jolly, Charlotte Greenwood-type woman named Mrs. Plewes (who also gave me my first lessons in music theory), and then with a college student of Ms. von, Peter Martinez. By the time I had my first lesson with Peter, I was in the fifth grade and had begun accompanying choir concerts at my elementary school -- this, though I didn't know it then, was the start of a long career working with choruses. My classmates were well aware of my ambition to be a concert pianist; some were drawn to me by my musical abilities, a few kept a wary distance, and others were simply indifferent.

     Other than Mr. Trent in the second grade, I had never had a male teacher. I suppose if Peter had been much older, more of a father figure (like Mr. Trent), I would have felt a bit more comfortable with him; but his being a college student and not much older than my siblings caused my already painful shyness to deepen. I was highly susceptible to crushes (still on boys who preferred blue-eyed blondes) and anyone of the male persuasion younger than my father made me nervous. Every week Peter came to our house, smelling wonderfully of English Leather, and I would sit shaking at the keyboard, hardly uttering a word. It was a wonder that I progressed at all, but he was a very good teacher and brought out the best in me. He introduced the art of phrasing and articulation into my playing, taught me the principles of rubato and romanticism with my first Chopin pieces, and helped me to "loosen up" with the Gershwin Preludes. He also furthered my studies in music theory. However, my lifelong battle with what I call "lazy ambition" reared its head during this period -- I no longer enjoyed practicing, and put in only the bare minimum between lessons, not even an hour a day. Because of my natural ability, I was able to get away with it, which was very unfortunate, especially in later years.

     Under Peter's tutelage, I entered my first competitions, earning consistently high marks; I also gave, at age 11, my first solo recital, and in the following year served as accompanist for the first time in a solo vocal recital given by my middle school choir director. It was in this vocal recital that I played my first art songs -- among them Brahms' "Botshcaft" (in six flats, thank you very much) and a group of Berg -- as well my first operatic arias, "Ain't It a Pretty Night" and "The Trees on the Mountains" from Carlisle Floyd's Susannah, and Norina's aria from Don Pasquale. I also earned my first fee as an accompanist, so starting my professional career.

     As my talent developed, so did my monstrous ego. Playing the piano well was the only thing that set me apart from my peers and made me feel special. Scholastically, I was falling off a bit, my laziness again the culprit. Popularity-wise, I still felt ugly and awkward, too shy with boys and intimidated by prettier girls. The keyboard was the only place I felt, not just equal, but superior. So I cherished that feeling of superiority and held onto it like a life preserver. My parents were, as parents are understandably wont to be, very proud of their child's talent, and showed me off to their friends at parties; my sisters, however, kept me in my place, again, as is siblings' wont. I can't say they (my sisters) made a conscious effort to bring me down off my musical high horse; they just treated me in the usual way older sisters treat younger sisters, sometimes coddling me, sometimes ignoring me, and sometimes being plain rotten. Most people would say that specially gifted children should be treated normally, to compensate for and balance their "specialness" and guard against conceit; in my case, however, starting out with an abnormally low self-esteem, I made it my mission to build myself up as much as I could through the piano. I simply came to love feeling special, and, like any addict, the more attention paid me because of my talent, the more I craved it.

Mr. Darcy, Me, and S. A. D.

     Mr. Darcy was so very misjudged and misunderstood. But then, that was partly due to the times in which he lived (yes, I know he's fictional; just indulge me for a moment). It is my belief that Mr. Darcy suffered from what is now known as social anxiety disorder, or S. A. D., an affliction which was unheard of in Austen's day -- and I believe this because I, too, once suffered greatly from it, and still do, to a much lesser degree. Mr. Darcy had all the classic symptoms: difficulty making friends, difficulty holding conversations not only with strangers but even with acquaintances, avoiding said acquaintances in the street or other public places (and going to ridiculous lengths to avoid them), and generally shielding himself behind a veneer of composure which was invariably mistaken by others as hauteur or pride. Plus, I suspect that he, like myself, sometimes broke out in a sweat or was suddenly convulsed by uncontrollable trembling when pressed into conversation.

     Yes, Mr. Darcy, I understand and empathize.

     The foundations of what I perceive to be Darcy's social anxiety disorder are quite clear to me. His excellent mother died when he was still at a vulnerable age; he had to share his father's affection with an annoyingly gregarious and comely companion who grew up to be an unprincipled scoundrel; after the death of his father, and while himself still a very young man, he was charged with the care of his sister who was very nearly seduced by the aforementioned scoundrel; and all his life he had to deal with the likes of Caroline Bingley throwing themselves at his head solely because of his wealth, handsomeness, and position in society. No wonder he withdrew into a distrustful shell.

     I first became aware of social anxiety disorder when I read an article about it in Parade magazine back in the late '90s. Reading it was like reading my own life story -- accounts of people ducking into bathrooms at work for fear of having to speak to an approaching colleague; or spending parties tucked in a corner, shaking nervously behind a potted palm. Far from being disheartened at recognizing myself in this article, I was immensely relieved that I was finally able to put a name to my life-long suffering, though at that point I had already made great strides toward conquering it. More about that later.

     In 2002, I began to see a therapist, mainly to explore my then current recovery of my religious faith and the inexplicable pull I was feeling toward monastic life. As all therapists deem it necessary to delve into their patients' pasts, I told her that I was the youngest of six children, that the sibling nearest me in age was four years older, a gap that seems much larger when young. Consequently, I spent much of my very early years alone at home while my sisters and brother were in school. My only companions, besides my mother, were Captain Kangaroo, Lucy and Ethel, and my stuffed animals; there were no children my age nearby until the Taylors moved into the house next door. I made a sort of friend of their youngest, Caroline, but constantly listening to everyone around me praise her prettiness and lively personality only drove me further into the shell that had already begun forming. I became convinced that I was ugly, inept, and absolutely no fun to be around; I found it increasingly painful just to speak to people and preferred solitude to shrinking into silence in the company of others. "You had social anxiety disorder!" my therapist exclaimed. So my self-diagnosis had been correct.

     When I started going to school, I found myself far ahead of my classmates, thanks to the home schooling my sisters had given me, but my intellectual advantage put me at rather a disadvantage in making friends. Having crushes on boys who only had eyes for blue-eyed blondes didn't help either. It was then that I forged my life-long preference for keeping a very few close friends whom I could trust completely. A couple of those childhood companions are my friends to this day.

     Since I showed a love and natural bent for music, my parents decided I should take piano lessons. I began studying with a Mrs. Woliver, a very capable neighborhood teacher, shortly after my seventh birthday. My lessons were mostly silent on my part, as talking was not my strong point, but Mrs. Woliver managed to pique my interest and encouraged me to practice at least a half hour a day. I progressed very quickly, and at my second public performance at age eight, a recital featuring all of Mrs. Woliver's students, I met my future primary piano teacher, Myrna von Nimitz. After hearing my insightful and technically brilliant renditions (I'm being sarcastic) of Beethoven's "Für Elise" and a jaunty little number called "Haydn-Go-Seek" which was based on themes from that composer's "Surprise" symphony, she announced to me and my parents that I had the makings of a concert pianist, and she would be glad to take me as a student, but I'd have to wait a few years. In the meantime, she would place me under the care of one of her college students.

     I was elated by this news, of course, but I also felt oddly vindicated. The awkward, brainy little nerd that all the cute boys and popular girls scorned had found an outlet through which she could ease her loneliness and feel admired and respected, if not liked. She could hide her painful shyness in public, as it were, by displaying her musical talent before an audience she didn't have to look in the eye.

To be continued. . . .

The Quest for Silence

     This world is inundated with noise. So much so, that we have grown uncomfortable with silence. But it is in silence that we can speak more clearly to God, and in silence that God's voice is most clearly heard.

     When I was a professional musician, my days were filled with sound—making it, hearing it, evaluating it, refining it. When silence did, in rare moments, emerge like a sudden sun ray through storm clouds, its "noise" was deafening and discomfiting, a waste of the aural sense, a mere blank space. A mockingbird's recital, the tiny tapping of rain, even the distant hum of traffic— anything was preferable to that most uneasy of companions—total silence. Quiet was easier; quiet was the soft white blanket I could lay over sound, muffling it, but never banishing it altogether.

     Total silence became important to me when I recovered my faith and needed to communicate with God in the depths of my soul. I didn't want the silence that is simply a void; I didn't want the mere emptying of distracting or negative thoughts which is its own end and which has become so popular in recent decades. I wanted to meet God in the silence and allow him to fill the void, to let him become my thought and my very conscience. This is the goal of Christian meditation, the goal of the Christian contemplative, whether in the cloister or in the world.

     I have been to New York City many times, but I especially remember the first time I went there after leaving the monastery. Granted, I had been back in San Antonio for some months; but San Antonio, and the kind of life I live here, is calm and quiet compared to Manhattan (then again, most cities are). Just before that particular visit to New York, I had spent ten days at the Abbey of Regina Laudis in Connecticut, a period of peace in the company of people whose daily goal it is to maintain a state of prayerful recollection. Arriving in Manhattan literally straight from the abbey, my senses were assaulted by the cacophony of traffic, the scurrying of crowds, and, I have to say, general rudeness and lack of simple consideration. On nearly every face was that focused yet unseeing gaze of someone completely absorbed in his own teeming thoughts and the business of the day. Not one looked happy or at peace.

     Now, before you bombard me with objections and arguments, I realize that I'm making a huge generalization and that my impressions were strongly colored by my stay at the abbey; there are many things I love about New York, and I always look forward to my visits there; but I couldn't help being struck by the disheartening realization that God is becoming more and more drowned out by noise everywhere—the noise, both actual and metaphorical, of "living," and the noise inside our own heads. For nearly two and a half years in the silence of the cloister, God was at the center of my consciousness, my pulse, my speech. I mourn the loss of that silence, as I sit here typing this with the television on not three feet away (not my choice, my parents'). It has become a struggle, day to day, to find those precious pockets of silence in which to still my mind and body and listen to the deep stirrings of the Spirit. I strive for prayerful recollection while going about the business of my day, but I know how essential silent prayer and contemplation are, if only for fifteen minutes a day, to one's spiritual growth and health. The quest for silence will and should never end.

Return to Regina Laudis, Part Two, and the End of My Vocation Story

     17 April 2007    Twins were born yesterday evening! Zephyr, one of the ewes, was the first to give birth this year at the abbey, and she bore twins. I went as usual with Mother Jadwiga to feed the sheep, and Mother told me that Zephyr was in the final stage of labor. When we got there, she hadn't yet lambed, so I dished out the feed, went to supper, and when I returned to the barn an hour later, there was a little dark brown lamb lying on the hay being tenderly cleaned by its mother. The dear little thing was struggling to stand up, but its long spindly legs would not cooperate. Mother told me it was a girl. Such a cute little helpless thing! Her ears stuck straight out from either side of her head like an airplane's wings; her little tail kept fluttering like a butterfly, and her tiny piping of a bleat was enough to break your heart.
     Mother said, "There's another lamb in the water spout," meaning a second one was still to be born, but poor Zephyr was having a hard time. So Mother felt inside and found something amiss -- I think the poor lamb's hind leg was splayed out so that it couldn't go through, and it was a breech. Mother went to get help, leaving me alone with poor Zephyr, who kept baa-ing and looking at me with imploring eyes. I kept murmuring to her, "I know, sweetheart; I'm sorry I can't help you, but I don't know nothin' 'bout birthin' lambies!"
     After what seemed an eternity, Mother finally returned with Mother Rachael, who obviously didn't know nuthin' neither. Mother Jadwiga instructed her how to hold Zephyr, told me to keep the little brown lamb in her mother's sight so she wouldn't panic about her baby, and proceeded to pry the unborn lamb out. So I picked up the little one and just couldn't resist cradling her in my arms before laying her before her mother. When I did give the lamb to Zephyr, she began to lick her again, then, as I was kneeling very close, Zephyr looked up at me with a woebegone face and licked my hand in gratitude.
     After a few moments, Mother Jadwiga gasped in weary but triumphant relief, "We have a baby!" and brought the newborn, still covered in its membrane, to Zephyr's muzzle. It lay motionless on the hay while Zephyr' warm tongue cleaned off the membrane; Mother Jadwiga picked up the newborn, held him upside down, and gave him a few good shakes to clear mucus from his breathing passages, after which he began to stir.
     He has grayish-beige wool with black markings and a cute little snubbed face. He looks nothing like his sister!
     There are five more ewes due withing the next week or so, so maybe I'll see more newborns before I leave. What a beautiful experience!

     18 April 2007    Strange --  I was so certain that this was the place for me, this abbey. But I'm beginning to have my doubts. Maybe it's because I'm not sure what I'm looking for in religious life. I know I need people, the support and security of some kind of community, but I also crave solitude, silence, time to be still before the Lord. There is so much activity here, sisters running or driving to and fro various parts of the property, barely making it to Office, changing in and out of their work habits.
     I suppose this kind of life, constantly caring for the land and the animals, really takes you out of yourself, and maybe I need that, or something like it, but to a lesser degree. I hate running around, living in a state of perpetual motion. Then again, there are many other things I could work at here -- pottery, cheese making, book binding -- that don't require so much running around.
     And where do my musical gifts fit into all this -- or should they? Are they at all compatible with the life I so desperately want?
     Is there a place for me?

     Epilogue: I have since, four years after that second visit to the abbey, discovered the answer to that question: there is a place for me, if God wills it; but I have to be completely willing to take all the musical gifts that he gave me, place them back in his hands, and say with my whole heart: "Fiat voluntas tua. (Thy will be done.)" The truth is -- and I can finally admit it to myself -- I just wasn't ready, deep down, to give them up completely when I entered the Monastery of the Infant Jesus. I thought I was, I said I was, but the truth is, I wasn't -- or, more accurately, my ego wasn't. Intellectually, I knew they could eventually be given back to me, purer, untainted by my pride; but emotionally, it was a different ballgame. 
     Today, I use my musical gifts only to play the organ for Mass on Sundays. I've given up the piano for now, given up vocalizing every day, and devote myself to helping my parents. Do I miss those things at all? Sometimes. But I have to say that life feels much freer, not being under the heavy yoke of the quest for musical perfection, not being a slave to my own impossible standards and becoming a shrew in the process. As I said before, the true gift of music is in the loving of music, not in the perfecting, and not even necessarily in the doing. The quest for Christian perfection is, as Jesus tells us, a much lighter yoke -- and far more rewarding.
     I have not given up hoping that God will eventually lead me again to the cloister, but if he doesn't, I'll be content knowing I tried my best to follow his will and say "yes" to his grace. 
    

Return to Regina Laudis, Part One

     10 April 2007    After a fast flight, I arrived in good time yesterday evening. The sun was still shining, so I got to see the charms of Woodbury this time (last visit, I arrived in the winter-dark evening). Sr. Margaret Georgina met me at Southbury's Crowne Plaza Hotel, where the airport shuttle drops off, so I didn't have to call a very expensive cab.
     Apparently, I just missed Patricia Neal! She is a great friend and long-time regular visitor of the abbey, and was here for Holy Week to do some of the readings at Mass.
     Today I had a very nice parlor visit with Mother Noella. We talked a lot about Mom and Dad and what this time means to them and to me. If God wants me to be a Benedictine here at Regina Laudis, then I will be -- but in his time, not mine. If it hinges on my parents' need, so be it. Fiat!
     They put me in the St. Scholastica room this time, the nicest room on the second floor. There are two beds with old-fashioned wooden head and foot boards and covered with very pretty blue and white coverlets; an antique bureau, bedside table, and a small writing desk at the front window which overlooks Flanders Road. The other window faces north. It's a small, cozy room, and I like being able to see the sunset as I sit here at the writing desk.
     I went for a walk this afternoon, and discovered a route that will do very nicely for my daily constitutional -- up to the creche (which unfortunately is closed for the season) and back to the art shop, then up the hill to the chapel for Vespers. I sat for an hour today before Vespers, underneath the organ loft. Father S. practices in the afternoons, always with a metronome, wearing the loudest organ shoes possible. As he plays a lot of Bach & Co., the pedalling is detached, but the stomping of his shoes drowns out the bass line and even, at times, the metronome!
     Finally, at about a quarter to five, he stopped and left. I was all alone in that big chapel. For just a few moments, there was complete, profound, utter silence. I have never heard such a huge, spacious silence. Ever. But of course, it didn't last; how could it, as long as there are people around outside, loading trucks, driving off, etc. But for just those few moments, I heard what true silence really sounds like. It is sublime.

     11 April 2007    A glorious morning! Couldn't ask for better weather, especially when working outdoors, raking leaves and pulling weeds, which is what I did. I worked with Mother Dorcas, a spry little twig of a nun, must be in her 70's, bright bue eyes and sparkling humor. I discovered untapped sources of strength, pulling up roots 3/4 of an inch in diameter, running six feet or more in length. I'll be sore tomorrow.
     As I walked toward the old chapel for some quiet relection before supper, I saw a car dropping off Lady Abbess, Mother Prioress (Dolores Hart), and Mother Placid. Lady Abbess saw me at some yards off and waved; I waved back but didn't recognize her till I got closer, then felt rather abashed. I shook her hand, said it was so nice to meet her, but couldn't remember how to address her, because I'm so used to saying "Sister." After the obvious pleasantries -- how is your visit, wonderful thank you -- she said, "Well, you've seen all our foibles now" -- referring to the rather glaring catastrophies committed by the nuns in some of the chants at Mass -- "I don't know if you did as much liturgy where you were" --referring to Lufkin -- "We're just really tired." They had just finished recording their third CD in addition to all the extra singing during Holy Week. I murmured something in response which I hoped sounded sympathetic.
     I'm beginning to think that my musical gifts and experience are a drawback, rather than an advantage, in monastic life. I forget sometimes how intimidating my credentials seem to others. Though I've not yet had a parlor visit with the Abbess and Prioress, I know, from Lady Abbess' words to me, that I'm already cast in a certain light; not exactly a preconceived notion -- but I know very well that my training and experience in the music business has, as it always does, colored their perception of me, though perhaps only slightly. I wouldn't accuse them of any kind of prejudice -- I give them the benefit of the doubt as Christians and religious to have an open mind. Whatever their perceptions are of me now, I assume them to be unconscious ones; but I'm still very sorry they should have to exist at all.
     I wish I could keep my past career a secret until people know me for who I am as a human being. I sometimes think it grossly unfair that my music should have such power over how I am perceived by others -- it causes them to regard and treat me with a certain reserve, and unless they have the wherewithal to persevere in their acquaintance with me, they may never know who I really am.

At the Abbey of Regina Laudis, Part Four

Continuing with my journal account:


     30 January 2007    This morning I helped Sr. Esther clean the floor of the big chapel, then at 12.30 I had my second parlor visit with Mother Noella. We had a long, rather intense talk, mostly about my music and submission. She told me that when Mother Dolores entered, for years she was not allowed to have anything to do with acting or anything related to it, not even to coach the readers at Mass.
     "Can you imagine what that was like for her?" she said. "Having to listen to all that bad reading and going crazy?"
     Oh, yes, I thought, I can not only imagine; I went through the very same thing with the singing at the Monastery of the Infant Jesus.
     "But," Mother continued, "she submitted. And she did get to coach the readers eventually."
     This is the thing I'd love to talk to Mother Dolores about. It was the main element of her influence on my decision to try my vocation.
     At 3.00 I met with Sr. Margaret Georgina, who is in charge of all the plants. We transported a lot of things from the big chapel to the compost heap, to the greenhouses (there are three), and back to the chapel in an old rattletrap Ford truck. I like her a lot; she has a nice, gentle sense of humor and is easy to talk to.
     I had a dream night before last. Well, not really a dream, I don't think, or if it was I don't remember any of it except for one thing: I came to the conclusion that I don't have a vocation, that I don't really want to enter the abbey. I can't help being a bit frightened by it, because I have had several prophetic dreams in the past. But I think it has more to do with this odd phase I'm going through -- I've been so secular since I left the monastery; lately I've not been praying the Office or praying much at all, comparatively, which is sad and really quite awful. I keep remembering the great St. Teresa of Avila and those years when she gave up prayer altogether and how harmful it was to her soul. I can't really describe it -- it's as if I feel I have to take a vacation from the intense life I had been living for over two years, as if I need to take a step backward after plunging head first into a life of 24/7 prayer and penance. If one has been living in Germany, one can't help feeling a sort of glee at one's first American meal in over two years. You want to savor it.
     I've read a few nun memoirs in which the young woman, before entering, immerses herself even deeper in her secular life -- going out with friends, partying, even dating. It didn't mean she didn't really have a vocation. In fact, all of these young women were told by their novice mistresses that that's healthy -- a sort of "get it all out of your system" thing.
     1 February 2007    Yesterday afternoon I went to the dairy with Sr. Emmanuelle. Yesterday was the weekly butter making time. Very little to do, just keep an eye on the cream and stop the beater at the crucial moment when the butter gathers and separates from the whey, which, after waiting a good amount of time through the whipped cream, double cream, and clotted cream stages, happens in a matter of mere seconds.
     Then we squeezed the whey out of the butter, washed the butter, beat it again briefly to soften, then spooned it into plastic containers to be consumed by the community. We also filled some bottles with their fresh, non-homogenized milk taken from their very pretty black-and-white cows.
     Who'da thunk I'd ever want to live on a farm?
     P. M.    This morning after Mass I had my last parlor talk with Mother Noella the Cheese Nun. She hadn't realized that I was leaving before dawn tomorow; she was going to arrange a meeting for me with Lady Abbess and Mother Prioress (Mother Dolores). Rats! It'll have to wait till my next visit, in April.
     The abbey is a marvelous place; the sisters I met were all lovely, each in her own way; and though I've not been here long, I can discern that their day to day life, from the little experience I have had of it, is very active and interesting and certainly varied. There is much to delight the senses, even in winter; endless opportunities to witness the innumerable glories of God's creation, from plants and butter to sheep and sunsets. There are animals enough to satisfy the most ardent animal lover and good food to satisfy the gourmand. And such artistic, talented, vibrant, intelligent women.
     As to their spirituality, it sems to be no-nonsense and down-to-earth. I saw no starry-eyed mysticism, no sickly sweetness, no gloomy martyrdom. They go about their duties prayerfully and, from what I could tell, cheerfully. They don't make a huge deal about silence, fasting, or maintaining the hierarchal system of novitiate and professed: a novice may speak to a professed sister without waiting to be addressed first or asking permission. They advocate prudence rather than asceticism. Their relationship with the lay community is strong, a true give and take. Yet their devotion to the Ancient Observation regarding the liturgy, chant, manual labor, and full habit keeps the monastic way not just alive but thriving.
     I very much look forward to my return visit in April.

At the Abbey of Regina Laudis, Part Three

     The guests at the Abbey of Regina Laudis are invited to help the nuns with various chores on the property. This is another Benedictine tradition. It isn't required of the guests, but most do it gladly. I myself was eager to experience firsthand what working at the abbey was like.
     Continuing from my journal:

    
     29 January 2007    The sun is bright, but there is a bitter wind, the kind that knocks the very breath out of you. I was supposed to have worked outside this morning clipping bracken with Sr. Esther, but she decided it was too cold, so we worked in one of the greenhouses instead, weeding, dead-heading, and pruning. Sr. Esther is a jolly soul, a former psychotherapist.
     Dinner and supper are provided in the women guests' refectory, an incredibly tight space into which are crammed two wooden tables and stools rather than chairs, the reason for which is, I assume, that chairbacks would only make it more crowded. In the corner of the room is a sort of booth through which the serving sister hands out the food on pottery made at the abbey, from which we help ourselves family-style.
     The noon meal was very merry. It was me, M., and a 60-something woman, B., who apparently is a regular visitor/helper. I'm not quite sure how all that works. The abbey seems to have quite an extended "family" among the local lay people.  B. spent this morning in the dairy, helping to separate the cheese from the milk, or curd from whey, I don't know. This afternoon I will be helping to wash wool recently shorn from the abbey's sheep. There seem to be so many chores to do; but what do I know? I'm a City Mouse.
     I forgot to mention the thing Mother Noella said to me yesterday that made the biggest impression: that whatever your particular gift is, the community encourages you to be the best at it. No false modesty here!
     P. M.    What a wonderful time I had! Sr. Jadwiga took me first to the weaving studio where we cleaned some freshly shorn wool from a ewe named Ochette. Rather than subject the wool to a harsh mechanical or chemical process, they pick out the bits of grass and hay by hand. A painstaking chore that must require an enormous amount of time; but Sister said it's worth it, and besides, it's much more monastic. My hands were coated with lanolin by the time we finished.
     We then went to the sheepfold to feed the rams, then to the sheepfarm to feed the ewes and lambs -- and the llama, Giselle. Sister told me that sheep don't take to people right away, and was surprised that they came right up to me, even the shyest. I mixed and put out their grain, then for dessert Sister gave me "treats" to feed them by hand. Not satisfied with that, however, they took turns sniffing my pockets and nibbling the snaps; they even started nibbling the velcro on my boots! Silly sheep. Giselle, the llama, is very stand-offish; it seems the more you ignore her, the friendlier she'll be, but if you rush the relationship it scares her off. Just like some people.
     I met the woman who is discerning a vocation here, N. She had been away for the weekend. By coincidence, she also lived in Houston for a number of years, working for British Petroleum. She has already visited the abbey several times and this current and final visit began way back in October! So the "screening process" is indeed very arduous.

     30 January 2007    The walk up the hill to Jesu Fili Mariae chapel is steep, but I enjoy it. Unlike Lufkin, however, I can't walk and look around me at the same time, the path here being very narrow and riddled with stones and roots. If I want to enjoy the scenery, I have to stop; whereas, in Lufkin, the paths are wide and manicured, with no danger of tripping up.
     I should be glad to come back to the abbey in late spring, when I can fully delight in the woods and birds. The woods on the lower part of the property (the public part) have but few evergreens, so everything is grey and brown and bare. But last evening on our way to Vespers, Sr. Hedwige decided to take a shorcut to the chapel, through the enclosure. She drove through a long "avenue" of pines, part of the original property given Lady Abbess Duss to found the abbey. (I don't suppose the gentleman donor was of dubious profession, as was the one in Come to the Stable, the film based on the story of Regina Laudis' founding!) There are pines all around the top of the hill.


To be continued . . . .

At the Abbey of Regina Laudis, Part Two

Continuing from my journal:


     28 January 2007   When I arrived last night, I met the three other guests -- two friends from New York and a resident of Bridgeport, all very nice; they're just here for the weekend and leaving this afternoon. Then there's M. the intern, and a young woman I've yet to meet who is discerning a vocation to this abbey.
     This morning began with Mass (for us, that is; we skipped Lauds). There are two places of worship at the abbey: the old monastery chapel, whch is smaller, darker, and "womb-like," to quote Sr. Emmanuelle; then there's the large new public chapel on the hill, Jesu Fili Mariae, where Mass is held and also where the nuns pray Vespers. The other hours of the Office are prayed in the old chapel.
     The two women from New York decided to drive up to Mass. I opted to walk up the hill with L., the visitor from Bridgeport. The nuns tell guests, don't walk up the hill if you think you're not in great shape, which I am not, but I managed. It is a fairly steep climb on a tortuous, rough ribbon of path through the woods, and I sweated like a pig despite the crisp coolness of the morning.
     The church is almost overwhelming in its open airiness (or airy openness; both are accurate), knotted wood surrounding you on all sides, an incredibly high, vaulted ceiling, and what I call "pin drop" acoustics. The chapel at the Monastery of the Infant Jesus is "L" shaped, the public sitting in one leg of the L and the nuns in the other, with the sanctuary in the corner; here at the abbey, the Jesu Fili Mariae chapel is oblong, the public sitting in the back half, the nuns at the front, and the sanctuary in the middle. Between the sanctuary and the nuns' section (which is called the "choir" in every monastery chapel) there is a high grille that has a door on either side, near the wall, and a window in the center through which the nuns receive Communion. At the start of Mass this morning, Sunday, the nuns processed in two lines from the two enclosure doors in the choir, through the grille doors into the public section, met at the back of the chapel, then, two by two, came up the center aisle and re-entered the choir through the grille door on house right (I still think in theatrical terms). They passed right in front of me, and I looked eagerly for Mother Dolores Hart. She was near the end of the line with Lady Abbess, wearing a jaunty black knit cap over her veil. She is taller than I expected, a bit taller than me. The abbatial chair and the chairs of the prioress and subprioress face the congregation, "upstage center," and the nuns are of course split on either side of them and facing each other.
     I was surprised that some of the nuns, including Lady Abbess and Mother Dolores, came out to greet the congregants. I screwed up the courage to approach Mother. She was very sweet, and promised to pray for Dad; I told her that he, like herself, suffers from neuropathy. Her blue topaz eyes are enormous and penetrating, but not uncomfortably so, and her speech is rather halting and measured. We only spoke briefly -- I didn't want to appear over-eager, but I did tell her that she played an important part in my discernment. I hope I get to talk to her again.
     At 11:00, I had a parlor visit with Mother Noella, "The Cheese Nun," so called because she is one of the world's leading authorities on artisinal cheese-making (there was a PBS show about her which is available on DVD ). It seems that all guests, whether discerning a vocation or not, are assigned a sister with whom to speak privately. (I should explain that, in the Benedictine order, nuns are called "Sister" until they take solemn vows, after which they are called "Mother," whether or not they hold office. The Abbess is "Lady Abbess," not "Mother Abbess.") Mother Noella and I had a very nice talk; she told me a lot about Benedictine spirituality, the charism of this particular community, and their formation process. As per Benedictine tradition, they work the land and live mostly on its yield; they place great emphasis on hospitality, welcoming guests throughout the year, though they do not hold formal retreats; they have a very popular internship program, in which one can learn about any aspect of Benedictine life, from farming to crafts to liturgical music and chant, while living on the abbey grounds for as long as one year. As for the formation process of a Benedictine nun, it is a very long one, longer than any other order except possibly the Carthusians. It can take nine years or even longer to reach solemn vows. Just entering as a postulant is much more difficult here than, say, at the Monastery of the Infant Jesus. A woman aspiring to enter must visit the abbey many times, not just once or twice, then become a long-term guest for some months, living in the guest house, while the community gets to know her slowly. She must prove, by her persistence, that she truly desires "to try her vocation as a Benedictine."
     What I love about this community is that they emphasize development of the whole person through her unique gifts and interests; however, they have been criticized for it. I'm sure many would also look askance at the way they acknowledge and even tolerate ill temper, jealousies, resentments, etc. -- "tolerate" in the sense that they don't try to negate these very real and human traits. They don't believe in the band-aid approach of "say you're sorry; it means you care." (Whenever Sr. Maria Cabrini in Lufkin said that to me, I would reply, "But I'm not sorry, and I won't be a hyprocrite. I'll say it when I mean it." She was at first confounded by this, but later told me that my honesty was refreshing!)


To be continued. . . .

The Abbey of Regina Laudis' website: www.abbeyofreginalaudis.com
The Cheese Nun: http://www.amazon.com/Cheese-Nun-Sister-Noella-Marcellino/dp/B000FGG62K/ref=sr_1_1?s=movies-tv&ie=UTF8&qid=1318256070&sr=1-1

At the Abbey of Regina Laudis, Part One

     Regina Laudis in Bethlehem, Connecticut is probably the most well-known Benedictine community of women in the country. Their three CDs of liturgical chant are very popular, as are their artisan cheeses and the recent biography of its foundress and first abbess, Mother Benedict Duss. The Hollywood film Come to the Stable, starring Loretta Young and Celeste Holm, is loosely based on the story of Regina Laudis' founding, though a children's hospital is substituted for the abbey. But perhaps the primary reason for the abbey's notoriety is its current prioress (second in command to the abbess), Mother Dolores Hart, who enjoyed a successful Hollywood career before entering religious life, starring in two films with Elvis Presley (Loving You and King Creole) as well as the beach classic Where the Boys Are and Francis of Assisi, in which she portrayed St. Clare, among others. Her sudden, unheralded renouncement of the glamour of Hollywood for the austerity of the religious life caused a great stir in the film community, and to this day Mother Dolores is featured quite often in the press, as much for her past career as for her present advocacy of neuropathy research (she herself suffers from the infirmity).
     I first heard of the abbey when I saw a segment about Mother Dolores on 20/20 in 2002. Upon doing further research, I discovered their commitment to keeping alive the Gregorian Chant and their dedication to singing it well, even bringing in the late Dr. Theodore Marier to train them regularly in the Solemnes method. They also sing everything in Latin and wear the full habit; the abbey is on a 365-acre farm on which the sisters raise sheep and cows. All of these things appealed to me greatly. In the end, however, I decided against a community that was so musically oriented, as I wanted to "purge" the overly meticulous, too-highly-disciplined musician out of myself.
     When, after over two years in the Monastery of the Infant Jesus, my prioress advised me to try the Benedictines, and specifically the Abbey of Regina Laudis, I took it as a sign that perhaps it was time to bring Leticia the Musician forth again. Perhaps she was sufficiently mellowed. So when I returned home to San Antonio I wrote the abbey to arrange a visit.
     The following is from my journal:

     28 January 2007, Feast of St. Thomas Aquinas   I arrived at the abbey around 7 last evening, my flight out of Detroit having been delayed. I had to take a taxi from Southbury, and my driver and I had a very hard time finding what the abbey calls its front door -- you actually have to go through a large, glass-enclosed greenhouse to get to the actual door. I was fortunate that a young man met me as I hesitated outside the greenhouse -- turns out he's been at the abbey since last April, doing a year's internship in land husbandry. He led me through the greenhouse and into the tiny entry and rang the bell. He had to pick up a supper basket, which was passed to him through a small turn below the grille.
     Presently, Sr. Emmanuelle, the guest secretary and the one I'd been communicating with, came to meet me. She took me to the nearby St. Gregory guest house, but left me outside the door, as she was forbidden to go into the house in the evening. I was instructed to speak to M., a young intern, which I did; she told me there was a supper basket waiting for me in the kitchen, then showed me to my room upstairs.
     The St. Gregory is an 18th-century three-story farmhouse complete with warped, creaking wood floors, a dark narrow creaky stair with a very low banister (shorter people in the 18th century), and metal latches on all doors and cabinets instead of modern knobs. Drop latches -- it took me a while to figure that out; I thought they were the sliding kind at first, silly modern me.
     Most of the furniture is very old; lots of dark wood, lots of wobbly legs, rickety backs, etc. The dining table, which can seat four normal-sized people or six very skinny ones, consists of 5 wide planks atop traditional X legs; no nails, just pegs holding it together. The adjacent living room, a perfect cozy size, boasts a large, simple fireplace with wooden mantle, plaster ceilings with the original dark wood beams, creaky wood floor, a '70s harvest gold 3-seater sofa that swallows you when you sit, a pair of low-backed armchairs with tattered floral upholstery, old chairs, occasional tables, and several table lamps (the ceiling is not wired). There are many radiators throughout the house to make it surprisingly warm -- almost too warm -- modern plumbing and appliances, and just enough food for breakfast (dinner and supper are provided in the women guests' refectory).
     My room, the St. Catherine, runs the depth of the house above the living room. There are four beds, all on casters, all without headboards, dressed in quilts and the flattest pillows I've ever seen, but the beds are not the monastic, wooden-slab-with-six-inch-pad type. They are ascetic, however, comfort-wise. There is a fireplace, which I think is non-working, four windows, two antique bureaus, a small square writing table with terribly uneven legs, and a couple of straight-backed wooden chairs.

     To be continued. . . .

A New Vocation

     In March of 2003, I asked God to tell me his will for me. I asked this in the context of the discernment of my vocation to religious life, when I was struggling to decide whether I should or should not seek entrance to a monastery. As I wrote earlier, he gave me his answer very clearly, but I didn't feel at liberty to tell exactly how he gave it, and I still don't. All I can say is that the answer came in two parts. The first part was unmistakable: he was indeed calling me to contemplative religious life. The second, more enigamtic, part I didn't come to understand until after I left the monastery.

     Since I had given up my job and my apartment, indeed my whole life, in Houston, I went back to my parents' house in San Antonio. There I discovered my new ministry, and the meaning of the second part of the answer: my father's peripheral neuropathy and dementia with Lewy body had been growing worse, rendering him ever less mobile and independent. My mother, though remarkably strong and energetic for her age, could not care for him by herself. It was clear that I had to stay with them and help.

     God's wisdom is the cause and effect of all things. He knew that I would have been ill-equipped for this ministry, had I come to it directly from my life in Houston. I was not, in the remotest stretches of the imagination, a "caregiver." I was selfish, self-centered, self-serving, self-everything. Therefore, he wooed me slowly but surely back to his Church and placed me in the ultimate school of charity -- the monastery. There I observed daily the unflagging selflessness of the infirmary sister who took care of one of the older infirm, who dedicated nearly all her time and energy to her charge's needs. At the time I thought, could I ever be that selfless? Seeing them walk slowly down the halls of the cloister, the stronger, younger sister's hand firmly holding the hand of the older and weaker, I felt humbled and unworthy to be a nun; yet deep down, I was confident that, relying solely on God's grace, I could overcome my selfishness. Living in close quarters with 27 other women -- none of whom I had chosen to live with, some of whom I would never choose to live with -- taught me patience, tolerance, and discretion to an extent that wouldn't have been possible had I not followed the call to the cloister. God knew what I needed to learn charity. This was the unique path he forged for me.

     Now I see very clearly God's will and direction in my life, and pray that I may always bend my own will to his, and say "yes" to grace. I know he'll never, ever steer me wrong. My monastic training is still strong with me; its principals guide me and keep my actions firmly rooted in the Gospel. Being as faithful as I can to the Divine Office keeps prayer a vital part of my daily routine. Striving to stay in a recollected and prayerful state, even when doing the most mundane chores, keeps God at the core of my consciousness. For all this, I am eternally grateful to my monastic vocation and the loving Father who gave it to me.

Departure

     I left the Monastery of the Infant Jesus in November, 2006, two years and four months after I entered, and six months before I would have taken temporary vows. Not a day has passed since that I have not thought of my all too short life within those walls.
     My departure had nothing and everything to do with my relationship with God. During my last months, he gave me many graces, some in the form of heavy crosses; much new light of knowledge, a greater understanding of his love; in short, I felt closer to him than ever. Yet, too, there was the tiny seed of that other knowledge that grew steadily day by day, the knowledge that he wanted something else of me. I never doubted it was his will, not just mine, that brought me to the cloister, and my confidence on that score was confirmed by the prioress, my novice directress, and many of the other sisters. They and I felt I did have a monastic vocation, and perhaps I do still. But it became clear that God wanted me to be somewhere else in the meantime.
     When the prioress, Sr. Mary Annunciata, called me to her office to tell me she had concluded, after long weeks of prayer, it was best for me that I leave, she again said that she believed I had a vocation, but not with them and perhaps not with the Dominican order. She strongly suggested I try the Benedictines. My musical and literary gifts would be able to flourish with them, as they put great emphasis on the development and use of individual talent, more so than any other order. So why didn't I go to the Benedictines in the first place, you may ask? Precisely for that reason. From the very first whispers of my call, I wanted to find out who and what I was without my talents. They were and are a great part of that "who and what," but they also clouded the issue for me to such an extent that I no longer knew myself -- my whole self. My better self.
     There were many tears when I said goodbye to the sisters, theirs and mine. The bond of religion is a strong one, but the bond that cloistered contemplatives share is unique. Only we can truly understand why we have chosen to sacrifice our life in the world to give ourselves utterly and completely to God in prayer and penance for that same world. The contemplative vocation was, is, and always will be, something of an enigma to those who have never felt a calling to it. Many consider it an aberration, even un-Christian. Then again, how many thought Jesus was an aberration? How many still do? It is for those very people that the contemplative religious life exists at all. And it will exist till the end of earthly time.
     I took my prioress' advice, and after leaving the Monastery of the Infant Jesus, I visited the Benedictine community that I had had my eye on long before, ever since I began my discernment: the Abbey of Regina Laudis in Bethlehem, Connecticut. . . .


UNDERSTANDING

Closing the door behind her,
autumn crispness cool upon
her now bare head, she clearly
sees the room she has just left.
Her mind recalls the soft white
of tunic and scapular
hanging limply on the hook,
the once flowing fall of veil,
still scented from her shampoo,
lying motionless on the
wooden chair. And now, pausing
just outside the cloister door,
she covers her ears to block
something she has not felt for
a long time -- the chilly wind.


But what is she taking away with her?
The proper way to fold a fitted sheet?
Folded properly, with patience, it fits
better on the shelf with the other sheets.
She understands the worth of that lesson.
She understands that freedom was found in
the scarcity of things, that prayers could speak
louder in silence, that a narrow cell
could not confine the heart. She has learned well.
She knows, too, that the simple veil she wore
protected her ears and mind from the chill.


["Understanding" was first published in Time of Singing]

Nuns Having Fun, Part Two: Picnic!

     Oh, how I loved picnic days in the monastery!
     The obvious date for a picnic is, of course, July 4, and the nuns of the Monastery of the Infant Jesus do celebrate Independence Day in that manner; however, they are in Lufkin, which in July is unbearably hot and much too humid for the comfort of people who wear full religious habits. What is the solution? To have a second picnic day on October 12, Columbus Day! That way, one can enjoy all the outdoor activities that couldn't be enjoyed in July! Perfectly sound reasoning.
     On both picnic days, the festivities begin with a ceremonial flag raising. On every other day of the year, the "canonically youngest," that is, the sister who entered the monastery most recently regardless of her age, raises the flag by herself and takes it down before sunset. She is also responsible for dashing out at any threat of rain to bring the flag safely indoors. On picnic day, all the sisters congregate round the flag pole just after breakfast, wearing their light work aprons over their habits. A large box filled with broad-brimmed hats is brought out; each sister dons her choice of "bonnet" for the day, takes a song book from another box, and joins the others in a semi-circle around the pole. At this point, Angie the cloister cat comes slinking over to see what's going on; she reclines at the feet of the prioress and watches, tail flicking, as I, with the aid of another novice, raise both the U. S. and Texas flags while all the sisters sing the national anthem. Other patriotic songs follow (hence the songbooks -- we sing multiple verses of each song); then we all disperse, chattering away, as the rule of silence does not apply on picnic days. Most of us make a bee-line for the refectory where, laid out on the long serving tables, are all sorts of goodies, sweet and salty (including, of course, the infamous popcorn), to be consumed at will throughout the day. There are sodas in the fridge and ice cream bars in the freezer (hence the aprons).
     Snacks obtained, some of us proceed to the community room for games -- not just board games and canasta, but bean bag toss, ring toss, bowling (miniature), and ping pong. Outdoors, there is a badminton net set up, croquet, and of course, we could always shoot baskets since the monastery has a basketball hoop. A few of the sisters like to rollerblade, helmets over their veils, scapulars flying as they charge back and forth down the unfortunately rather short concrete drive. Quite a sight, that.
     The monastery has also been given a golf cart, which comes in very handy for the less mobile elder sisters if they want to be taken for a spin on the paved loop through the walled-in part of the wooded property. There is another part of the property, the larger part of the 72 acres, that is only fenced in and is not nearly as manicured as the smaller, walled-in part. A path was once cleared years ago that winds through the dense woods, but Nature has since obscured it almost completely. Nevertheless, on one picnic day, a few of us decided to take the golf cart as far as it would go on that old path, which wasn't far at all, so we abandoned the cart and walked the rest of the way -- not an easy thing when wearing an ankle-length habit. Fallen branches and even a couple of small felled trees threatened to rip the hems of our tunics; low-hanging branches could at any moment catch on our veils and strip them right off our heads. I, a City Mouse, saw several species of mushroom in what I thought were fantastically improbable colors and in equally fantastic sizes. "Are there snakes?" one of the other City Mice asked of one the professed. "Oh, yes," was the nonchalant reply, whereupon a non-stop stream of silent Hail Marys ensued.
     Meals on picnic days are eaten anywhere one likes, indoor or out; conversation abounds, and sodas are plentiful (you may have surmised by now that sodas are a seldom-enjoyed treat). In the late afternoon, there is usually a movie. Someone donated one of those gargantuan flat-screen TVs -- he already had one, then won one another in a raffle, so he gave his old one to the monastery. Movies are donated on a regular basis (the sisters also possess both a DVD player and VCR), all of them Catholic or generally spiritual in nature. Naturally, The Sound of Music is a favorite. Narnia was also a big hit.
     The only things that remain inviolate even on picnic days are Mass and the Divine Office, both of which occur at their usual times. Contemplative nuns and monks are bound by pain of sin to pray the entire Divine Office every single day of their lives; it is their most important work, the primary reason they are in the cloister in the first place. I will say, speaking for myself, since I did not live the life of a contemplative for very long, I found it difficult to concentrate on the Office amidst the festivities and gaiety of picnic day. As much fun as it was to talk and play all day, I was grateful that such days were few and far between. Conversely, their infrequency also made me appreciate them even more. We in the secular world sometimes take our leisure time for granted, especially the leisure time we spend with our family and loved ones. I began to see more clearly that life without prayer is fallow, and prayer itself is fallow without the charity that is cultivated through relationships, be they familial, social, or the spiritual friendship of those who are called to the cloister.
    
   

Nuns Having Fun, Part One

     Recreation is a very important element in cloistered religious life. After all, even nuns have to have a break! It also provides them the chance to know the women with whom they must live for the rest of their lives, women whom they didn't choose themselves but who were chosen by God. There are occasions, too, when two or more sisters must work together at various jobs around the monastery; although the rule of silence forbids them to hold casual conversations while working and limits verbal intercourse to the absolutely necessary, they do come to know each other somewhat through their mutual work. Recreation, however, is the time for more camaraderie, freedom of expression, and just plain fun.
     Most houses in most contemplative orders allow time in their daily horarium for two recreations. In the Monastery of the Infant Jesus, the first recreation, which is scheduled at 1:00 after dinner, is separated; that is, the professed sisters have theirs in the main community room, and the novices would have our own in the novitiate community room. This room is dominated by four large tables which are usually pushed together to form one huge one; around it, all the novices, postulants, and the novice directress would gather, sometimes doing little projects as we chat. Many of the sisters make rosaries, either of the "knotted" variety, or with chain, to give out to the missions. Unfortunately, I never mastered that particular skill. One of my fellow novices tried to teach me how to make the knotted kind, to no avail; my knots kept unravelling. God in his infinite goodness gave me many gifts, but making rosaries isn't one of them; nor is darning, which is another thing sisters are fond of doing during recreation. The vow of poverty compels nuns to make things last until they fall apart beyond all repair, including the knee socks they all wear (they still refer to them by the quainter term, "stockings"). Holes in toes or heels, rips or runs in the legs, all must be darned. My first few feeble attempts at darning came undone, inevitably, in a single washing. Chastened, I asked my novice mistress what I could be doing wrong; she asked me, "Are you using the right thread?" There's a special thread for darning? Who knew?
     The second recreation takes place after supper, around 6:40. All the sisters -- professed and novices -- gather in the large community room in the main building, again bringing little projects or just a readiness to be sociable. The only rule is, there must be more than two in a group -- "pairs" are considered exclusive rather than sociable, a consideration which, I suspect, stems from the long-established taboo about forming "particular friendships" in the monastery. A very good thing, that, for many reasons; one of which (the most important) is that religious must emulate Jesus in all things, including loving everyone equally and with detachment (which means not "cleaving"). Another very good reason is that forming particular friendships creates factions, which will eventually and inevitably destroy the unity of mind and heart so crucial in a monastic community -- "unity" being half of the word "community."
     My favorite recreation of all was Sunday evening. It's a half hour longer because it's Game Night. Board games are brought out -- Uno, Clue, etc., usually a jigsaw puzzle as well, and there is always the canasta group, which consists of a small core of die-hard canasta players, plus an ever-evolving satellite band of rookies. The die-hards are among the oldest of the sisters, and they tend to make up their own rules; so if you are at all familiar with the game going in, you have to be prepared to forget everything you once learned and conform to their peculiar form of canasta. I did learn, but have since forgotten completely how to play, both their way and the real way.
     Game Night's other chief characteristic is the snacking. Now, you have to remember (or perhaps you didn't know) that "snacking" in the worldly, secular sense is not done in monastic life. You have your meals, and necessary glasses of water or juice in between, and that's it. Maybe some crackers, if you have to take something with prescription medicines. So the Game Night snacks -- which always included among them the sisters' favorite, popcorn -- are indeed a treat. They are put on a cart by the cook sister, and the cart is pushed around to the various gaming groups by a novice or postulant at the proper time, about halfway through the recreation period. Once when it was my turn to push the cart, I accidently knocked over the very large, almost full barrel of freshly popped corn. Fluffly kernels scattered everywhere. In the old days, I would have been ordered, as penance, to clean the mess by myself and eat the popcorn (e-e-e-w!!). Fortunately, it was 2005, so a few of the other sisters helped me clean up, and one of them (bless her old-school-nun's heart) offered to eat the popcorn. I suppose I could have remonstrated and taken on that penance myself, but -- I'm sorry -- I just couldn't bring myself to do anything so unsanitary! I was a bad nun!

"We'll put on our own show - right here in our cloister!"

     It all began on the Memorial of St. Louis Bertram, the patron saint of novices and novice directors. That day is also the traditional "feast day" of all novices and novice directors/directresses, a day of games, having jolly meals together, talking and laughing, and generally taking a break from monastic life, except of course for Mass and the Divine Office. Festivities for this day take place in the Gate Parlor, which is the largest visiting parlor in the Monastery of the Infant Jesus, and is a small, separate building all its own (which means you can make lots of noise without disturbing the rest of the community).
     So there we were, the novices, our novice directress Sr. Maria Cabrini, the prioress Sr. Mary Annunciata, and a few others, having dinner in the Gate Parlor and chatting about this and that. I don't remember exactly what prompted it, but I told them about the Christmas madrigal feasts my high school and college choirs did every year -- we would wear Elizabethan costumes, sing Elizabethan carols, and the "guests" (audience) would feast on roast beef, potatoes, and flaming plum pudding. I guess my enthusiasm got the better of me, because they were completely taken with the idea, especially our prioress, Sr. Mary Annunciata, who had been an English major and librarian before becoming a nun.
     Sure enough, a few weeks later, my novice directress, Sr. Maria Cabrini, told me Sr. Mary Annunciata suggested that the novices put on a madrigal feast for Epiphany. Oh, dear, I thought, what did I get myself into? I knew the sisters enjoyed doing little plays and concerts, even making rudimentary costumes and scenery, but it never entered my mind that they would want to do a madrigal feast! The first thing I considered was costuming. Now, you have to understand that nuns cannot take off their habits except to sleep. They are not even allowed to remove the cape or the scapular, and God forbid they should remove the veil. So I devised a costume that, if I do say so myself, was rather ingenious: a second "scapular," to be worn over the cape, the front panel belted empire style with a sash that tied behind and underneath the back panel, which was left loose and flowing. We used all the nicest fabrics to be found in the many cartons of donated "remainder" fabrics kept in the hobby room.
     The headdress was a more perplexing problem. I eventually decided on an Ann Boleyn-type crown, made by attaching heavy cardboard crescents to plastic headbands. Because of the curve of the band, the cardboard stands up like a crown. We novices had great fun decorating each crown with a different design, using sequins and beads. They were actually quite beautiful, and the sisters could wear them right on top of their veils for a surprisingly authentic look.
     As to the music, I chose a mix of traditional and lesser-known carols, mostly in English, with a little German and French thrown in. I wrote simple but effective arrangements for two and three parts; I even wrote an original composition entitled "Responsum Mariae," which is a setting of the second part of the Angelus, "Ecce ancilla Domini; fiat mihi secundum verbum tuum" ("Behold the handmaid of the Lord; be it done unto me according to thy word"). I wanted to tell the whole nativity story beginning with the Annunciation, alternating music with Scripture readings and poetry. In order to involve the whole community, I assigned the readings and poems to sisters I had not chosen to sing in the choir. (I was given permission to choose the best voices for the singing.)
     December of that year turned out to be a terrible time for preparing a show: bad colds caused many music rehearsals to be cancelled, then there were two deaths among the sisters that month. The madrigal feast had to be rescheduled for the Feast of the Annunciation, March 25, which was also our prioress' feast day. We could still retain the nativity theme, and I could dedicate my "Responsum Mariae" to her. Actually, the postponement was a good thing; Sr. Mary Annunciata gave me permission to set up a rehearsal schedule, telling me I could have as many rehearsals as I needed, as long as they took place during recreation so that the regular horarium would not be disrupted. I scheduled ten hours -- the music itself was not that difficult, since I kept in mind when writing the arrangements the fact that most of my singers had no formal musical training; indeed, some of them couldn't read music at all. German was limited to two verses of "Silent Night" and "Still, still, still"; the only French they had to learn was a short chorus of one carol, the verses of which I sang myself as a solo. Distributing other solos among the stronger musicians helped reduce the actual amount of music for the untrained.
     In the end, it was quite a success. All the sisters were given a copy of the script so they could follow along and stand up when it was time for their readings. Sr. Mary Annunciata was thrilled with all the work we did; the costumes were beautiful, and my choir did me proud. The only not-so-successful element, I think, was the plum pudding. . . .

[The piece I wrote specially for our madrigal feast. Later, I set the whole Angelus for women's voices, continuo, and oboe obbligato; however, except for this movement, it has never been performed by the sisters.]