Then and Now

Then: 17 August 2009

     It has been over a year since I started this volume, and I am thoroughly ashamed of myself. I've all but abandoned you, and the poetry hasn't been all that forthcoming either. My last poem was over a month ago. If it weren't for my reading—which isn't much, admittedly—my brain would surely atrophy. I lead the life of my mother and father and have none of my own. Or should I say rather, that I have no life outside that of my mother and father? I have devoted myself completely to them.

     I try not to think of the future—too frightening—and when I do feel frightened, I try to submit myself to Providence.

     Too many memories haunt me. Part of me wants to cleave to them as some sort of confirmation of I'm not sure what, and part of me thinks it's perhaps better if I try to put my past lives in a drawer, close it firmly, and never consciously think of those lives again. What pleasure does it give me to think of them? None. Only pain and regret.

     All the regrets I have about my two and a half years in the monastery have yet to be sorted and clarified, and finally—hopefully—converted into a more tranquil, philosophical vein. Right now, I'm still torn between resentment of not being completely understood by the sisters, not having been given enough of a chance, and guilt that I just didn't try hard enough to overcome my need to be the authority in all matters musical and linguistic. Sometimes I think that I wasted the gift of my vocation through sheer pride and obstinacy; and in those moments when that thought torments my peace, I long to have a wise and holy confessor to whom I can pour out my soul. Then again, if I hadn't left, I wouldn't be here to relieve my mother of some of the heavy burden of caring for my father, nor would I have the gift of healing the rift, at least in part, that has long existed between my father and me.

     If I hadn't left opera, I would have spiraled rapidly down the shaft of frustration and dissatisfaction that I had already begun to descend. My friends, dear as they were to me, most likely would not have offered enough to sustain me through my increasing restlessness. My success as a coach would have continued to fuel my pride and my intolerance of what I perceived to be mediocrity. In short, I would have become hateful to myself and undeserving as ever to remain in God's grace.

     No, I am better off where I am, living a humble, hidden, and hopefully useful life. My demons continue to taunt and tempt me, but I try my best to stay close to Jesus and Mary. If my writing never gives any pleasure to anyone except a very small handful of people, I will be satisfied, and not seek anything more.

 

Now: 28 October 2012

     It's a perfectly gorgeous day, one that sets your heart rejoicing the second you go out the door and into the refreshing, golden crispness of autumn. The sky is endlessly brilliant and only the smallest breezes disturb the treetops.

     I'm back in a writing slump after a month of relative productivity, but never mind. I've learned a good deal from that month, received much encouragement and affirmation, and rest in the renewed confidence that I still have it in me to write good poetry. My muse may not be consistent or even reliable, but it isn't dead!

     Mom and I live a very quiet life. The monastery has rid me forever, I think, of the old restlessness that made me jump in my car and wonder where I could go to run away from myself. I was only running away from emptiness. Now I stay at home for contentment. Every night when I hug my mother and wish her a good sleep, I feel grateful and blessed. Life is found inside oneself.

     I no longer feel regret for my time in the cloister. I can now accept peacefully my own shortcomings and my failure to fulfill the vocation God gave me. I look on my present life as his generous gift of a second chance and am happy with that. He has given me back music, too, in a measure I can deal with serenely, without stress or anxiety, just the pure joy.

     My musical past, too, I can now look back on without regret. If my temper and intolerance held me back from accomplishing more than I did, I can only smile ruefully and move on. What have I missed, after all? Nothing at all. I've only been given more than enough, more than I ever deserved.

     I have the peaceful, useful life I have always, at my heart's core, wanted.

God is Not in the Music

     After my return to the Church in the early 2000's, I established a particular Easter tradition. At that time living by myself in Houston, away from my family, I elected to spend Easter alone, unless any of my really close friends were also alone, in town, and available for a nice dinner out.

     On Easter afternoon, in the quiet solitude of my apartment, I would put on my favorite CD of Handel's Messiah, as performed by the Monteverdi Choir and the English Baroque Soloists under the direction of John Eliot Gardiner. I'd sit on my couch, perfectly still with eyes closed, not moving a muscle for the entire length of the oratorio, which is over three hours. In this way, I reflected on the life of Christ, from Isaiah's prophecy of his birth to his eternal reign in Heaven as told by John in Revelation. Handel's music, far from being a distraction, or so I thought, only served to deepen the experience. Glorious as it is, inspired by God as it must surely have been, it illuminated the Scripture texts for me, compelling me to listen not just with my mind but with my heart. In that nascent phase of my spiritual life, it was the most prayerful way I knew to spend Easter Sunday, after Mass.

     In the monastery, Easter Sunday is of course very special, as is all of Holy Week. The communal celebrations of the day override any private, personal devotions. As for the rest of the year, listening to music in general is not an everyday indulgence, but one that's reserved for the evening meal every Sunday, which is also communal. In other words, private listening is rare. This was, admittedly, a great sacrifice for me, and most especially on Easter, when I sorely missed listening to Messiah.

     The afternoon of Good Friday in the monastery is the most intensely prayerful, most spiritually powerful time of the whole year. From noon till three, all the nuns shut themselves in their cells for silent prayer and meditation. There is no sound, save the birds in the woods. No sound – including music. My first year there, I asked my novice directress if I could, through headphones, listen to Messiah in my cell during those three hours. My request was denied. "It's a very holy time," she told me, "and we spend it in silent prayer, with absolutely no distractions." I was heartbroken. She just didn't understand, I thought, that for me music is prayer, that for me music is God's voice in another guise.

     It took me a good while, maybe a year, to realize that she was right. I had mistaken mood and feeling for meditation and prayer. Music may help to put me on the track, but it is not the track. It may turn me towards God, but it is not God. It is a gift, but it is not the Giver. As a religious in formation, it was vitally important for me to learn the difference. Just as God was not in the wind or the earthquake (1 Kings 19:11), he is not in the music – but in the still, small voice that is heard in the core of one's soul.