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. . . .