Midweek Musings & Musicale

     It's the sort of weather outside that makes me want to don a long, flowing, hooded cape and flit through the woods à la Meryl Streep in The French Lieutenant's Woman. Gray and gothic. Damp and dreary. But, to me, very romantic.

     I suppose my idea of romance is somewhat peculiar. Many people find bluesy jazz played on a saxophone romantic; but every time I hear a saxophone, no matter what kind of music it's playing or what kind of sax it is, it always sounds to me like a giant kazoo—which I find romantic not at all. It's the snotty classical musician in me.

     On the other hand, I find baroque music incredibly romantic. The final duet of Monteverdi's L'Incoronazione di Poppea is to me some of the most romantic music ever written (despite the utter depravity of the two characters who sing it, Nero and Poppea). This performance by Marie-Nicole Lemieux and  Philippe Jaroussky is simply sublime.

 

     I remember when we did a production of Poppea at HGO—not the most recent one; I'm referring to one in, I think, the late '90s. I had for years been playing/coaching Verdi, Puccini, Wagner, Strauss, even Gershwin—there was one Dido and Aeneas stuck in there, but mostly it was a steady diet of 19th- and 20th-century lushness and bombast. I was so happy when Poppea came along! While I was studying it, translating the text and listening to recordings, I had the sense of being musically cleansed. And when I listened to the final duet, I wept. I had forgotten how much this music moved the very depths of my soul. Baroque music was my first love; ever since I was a little girl it affected me like no other kind of music could, not even my beloved Mozart or Chopin. There is a purity in it of the blood and bone, beyond mere flesh.

     When I returned to the Church, I began listening to Gregorian Chant. I realized at the time that chant was enjoying a revival of sorts; people were listening to it to be soothed and "zenned." While I recognize that there is some validity in that, I also think people who listen to it in that way miss its true power and beauty. Gregorian Chant is first and foremost the voice of the Church in song. It is the raising of the human spirit to the Holy Spirit, the praise of the soul to its Creator, the heart's expression of love and adoration for its Redeemer, and of veneration towards the Mother of God. It is spiritual in the most religious sense.

 



 

     I have been a musician all my life and have always known that early music in particular put me in touch with my own soul. Perhaps I also knew, deep down beneath the layers of secularism I had built up during my Houston years, that what I was getting in touch with was really the Trinity dwelling within. Perhaps that's why I find early music so romantic. Yes, faith is romantic. It is, in fact, the ultimate romance. 





The Elusiveness of Loving

    7 March 2005   I'm re-reading Growing Free -- another Carmelite memoir. It's fascinating that, a couple of years after first reading it, and being in a different place spiritually and environmentally, certain passages now take on a deeper significance for me. What comfort to know that she, too, had the same struggles with religious life that I'm having. People have told me right and left that obedience is hard, prayer can be completely unrewarding, the Divine Office a tedious chore, and Holy Mass nothing but an unholy mass of distractions. I accepted all that at a certain level of understanding. But it isn't until one finds oneself drowning in those dark waters, truly out of one's depth, that the heart understands as well as the mind. I used to say blithely, as one does in ignorance, "Obedience is hard, but all I have to do is see God's will in every request made of me, and then carry it out for love of him"; and, "I can't seem to pray, but I'll just wait for him and listen in silence"; and the most famous cliche' of all, "If I'm distracted, I'll just offer it up." Oh, the precocity of a spiritual neophyte who reads or hears a few pithy maxims, then regurgitates them at all the appropriate times, in all the appropriate situations, never dreaming that that in itself is a form of pride, because she is relying on her own little dangerous knowledge, not on a solid faith and trust in God's help. She learns only through the pain of seeming abandonment and the frustration of wanting to love, that those glib maxims ring false, unless they are truly tried through faith.     
     It is a humbling -- no, a humiliating thing, to realize that one's love is built on sand because it is love for God's gifts and consolations rather than for God himself. When you find yourself wanting to love, that is when the true loving begins. The desire itself is an act of faith. I think that's why Anselm's words speak so loudly to me. Love is a constant desiring, a continuous seeking: for intimacy, true knowledge and understanding, for union; to please, to depend on, to possess, and be possessed; to give totally, so that you may belong totally. God created me; therefore, nothing I am is my own to keep. I am his.

Let me seek You by desiring You,

and desire You by seeking You;

let me find You by loving You,

and love You in finding You.

~ St. Anselm

Further Reflections on the Restoration of My Faith

After visiting all three monasteries, I made the momentous decision and sent an application for aspirancy to the Monastery of the Infant Jesus, the Dominican cloister in Lufkin. An aspirancy is an extended visit (anywhere from a couple of weeks to a couple of months) in which the aspirant lives inside the cloister as a temporary member of the community. This accomplishes two things: the aspirant experiences firsthand what monastic life is really like; and she determines whether that particular community is right for her—and vice-versa. Even if she likes the community, they may decide she isn't a right fit for them.

While awaiting acceptance for my aspirancy, I reflected further on the path that had led me to that point. Here are my journal entries from that time:

18 January 2004

     I was so glad to go to Mass this morning; I haven't been since Wednesday.

     Why did women stop wearing veils to Mass? It seems to me that some of the old reverence went out after Vatican II. What's wrong with wearing a veil for an hour? I don't mind pants on women, I wear them myself, as long as they're neat and not skin-tight or low on the hips. But I see spaghetti straps, tight jeans, even flip-flops! And boys coming to church in t-shirts and those awful baggy shorts, chewing gum! What ever happened to modesty, and showing respect for Our Lord?

     When I was little, we dressed our best for Mass and wore veils. Mine was of the round, doily type. Mom didn't let us cross our legs in church, and we certainly couldn't talk or even whisper. Our family, which numbered eight, took up an entire pew in Ft. Sam Houston's chapel no. 2. I remember Fr. Shockey with the "shockey-ng" blue eyes and equally shocking blue Camaro convertible; and down-to-earth, dry-humored Fr. Elias, who years later did Alice's funeral.

     I remember every Christmas, going to midnight Mass in our brand-new dresses, George and Dad in their sport coats and ties. We'd all pile into old Betsy, the red and white Chevy station wagon, and drive to the big Main Chapel on post. In those days, the houses that didn't put up Christmas lights were in the minority. The lights were such a festive sight as we came back from church in the black of night; and George, if he was driving, would click the headlights' brights on and off and sing out, "M-E-E-E-R-RY CHRISTMAS!" as we went through the neighborhood.

     I don't remember what my feelings were about God in those earliest years, but I do remember when I was a freshman at Incarnate Word High School. It was 1973, and atheism and agnosticism were very much "in vogue" following the turbulent '60s and embarking on the age of feminism, free sex, widespread birth control and legalized abortion. "Me, Myself, and I" was in; God was out. So I decided I was an agnostic. I was a child of the times, anxious to fit in and be cool. At IWHS we had a religion class. Our teacher was one of the new post-Vatican II sisters—street clothes, no veil, only a face devoid of makeup and a name badge to identify her as a religious. She had serious yet gentle eyes and a gentle voice, and was bit taken aback by my brash announcement that I was agnostic. But I read the assigned Scripture readings; it was a class, after all. We used the newly issued Good News for Modern Man translation, wildly popular at the time. And it was while reading the account in Acts of Saul's conversion that I let down my guard and gave in to Christ. I became, what was called in those days, a "Jesus freak."

19 January 2004 

     After the rediscovery of my faith as a teenager, I began to devour Scripture. I fell in love with the Wisdom books and Acts and all the Gospels. My bosom friend Cindy and I lent our voices and guitar skills to the Mass at school. Folk music was everywhere; organs and the old hymns were shunned in the so-called renewal of the Liturgy. I drew and wrote all over my notebooks and even my clothes—"Jesus is Lord" and the ubiquitous "One Way" with the hand pointing up. I covered my saddle shoes (part of the IWHS uniform) with crosses and fish. I smiled benignly on my fellow man and thought everyone was, in some way, "beautiful." Yes, I was most  definitely a '70s-style Jesus freak and late-blooming flower child.

     For reasons which remain unknown to me, I moved away from the Church and lost my faith during college. [Many years after I wrote this, I learned with the help of a therapist that the sudden death of my sister Alice was the true reason.] I became so intent on piano competitions and recitals; music became my religion. Or, rather, my career became my religion and remained so for 23 years.

     Did I ever, in all those "lost years," really lose my faith? Or did I simply push it away and bury it beneath my selfishness and ambition? How different would I be now, if I had never strayed from Him? Or is there even any point in wondering? People say things happen for a reason, we each have our own path—which is simply pop psychology's way of saying that God has a plan for each one of us. But did I go against his will 23 years ago? Or did he permit me to wander away from him, knowing I would eventually come back to him with my whole heart, wiser, more willing, more trusting? Did he purposely hide his face from me until I finally looked into the pit of my soul and admitted with every ounce of my being that I needed him? Is that what it took for me to receive the gift of true faith? For faith is a grace from God alone; it can't be contrived or manufactured through human effort or determination. It must be given—when our reason is ready to receive it.

     When I think of all the dark moments, all the tears and torments of those lost years, I cannot but be convinced of God's loving mercy; even though I never asked his help—at least, not consciously—he never really abandoned me; even though I offended him deeply and repeatedly, he forgave me. His memory for sins is short and his mercy is boundless.

FOUND BY SPLENDOR

　
I have known vermilion seas
ravishing the horizon,
drawing earth and day away
to another tomorrow.
I have known translucent arms
clinging to a fickle sky
as a lover's fingertips
would cling to his beloved's.
I have known blinding rapiers
gashing the encroaching clouds
with one last defiant thrust
before succumbing to dusk.

Beyond it all was splendor;
of that much I was certain.
Till I found it—if I could—
I had the sky, and with it,
the dream of what I believed
I could obtain. But once found,
how could I hope to hold it?
My soul was a rusted sieve
through which grains of barren faith
streamed ... sandy, impotent tears.
Yet in my pride, I questioned:
if, like Tennyson's hero,
I strove, sought with all my will,
refused to yield—would I find?

Ah, no, my restless warrior,
to yield is to find—and hold!
So many alluring suns
I sought to hold, till at last
I yielded and waited firm,
and the truer sun arose,
wrapping round me like a robe!

There is no more need to strive
for splendor. It has found me.

On the Gift of Music and the Mystery of Religious Vocation

     Before I move on with my religious vocation story, I would like to clarify something. I wrote in my last post that, before my reversion to the faith, I didn't think of my musical talent as a gift from God, but only as a vehicle for my vain ambition. That much is true. But I also had, and still have, a genuine love for music itself which is completely separate from my ambition. From childhood, music has been as much a part of me as my blood. There is nothing on this earth that moves me more, and if I didn't have it in my life in some capacity, a large part of my heart would die. Which is why I was ultimately able to give up my career. The career was never the true gift. Not even is my talent the true gift. The true gift was and is, quite simply, the music itself. Whether or not I am a practicing musician, professional or un- , matters not at all. What matters is that I love music. And as long as I love it, I am not wasting the gift God gave me.
     We've all heard the phrase "true vocation." I've held so many jobs, but have yet to find my true vocation  is commonly heard, perhaps not in those exact words. But what precisely is meant by "true vocation"? For Christians, indeed for all humankind, there is only one true vocation: holiness, or union with God, which is the same thing. But we all know that the path to our true vocation is different for each and every one of us, and along that path, we may be called to one or more, shall we say, "sub-vocations." These sub-vocations, if we follow and fulfill them according to God's will, should lead us to holiness. All of us are called to more than one sub-vocation; for instance, each and every human being is called to be a son or daughter; then you yourself may be called to be a parent—that's two sub-vocations so far. Furthermore, you may teach for a living, or, in my case, become an opera coach. That's three. Each of these is a paving stone in our path to holiness.
     What is of the utmost importance, what makes these paving stones strong, is how we carry out these sub-vocations. When we are given them by God, we use our free will (which he also gave us) either to accept or reject them. If we accept them, God will give us sufficient grace to live them. If we reject them, we will not be truly at peace. Accepting his will and responding to his grace will give us peace and keep us on our path to holiness.
     But sometimes God throws us a curve! How many stories have we heard of someone enjoying success, comfort, and contentment, only to get an out-of-the-blue notion to uproot everything he's laid down for himself and his family, if he has one, and start all over with something completely different? Some tell him, "You're crazy!" while others applaud his courage. How does he know he's doing the right thing?
     How could I know I was doing the right thing when I gave up my cozy career in opera for the cloister? How can anyone know if what they think is a religious calling is indeed that? The call to religious life is the most mysterious sub-vocation of all. For some, it is a seed that is planted from their first moments of consciousness. For others, like myself, it's a curve ball. And mine was a hanging curve ball, to boot. If it is of the curve ball variety, another question arises: How do I know that this is from God, and not born of my own will and imagination? That question tormented me for many months until I finally asked it out loud to my spiritual director. After a moment's thought and, I suspect, a short prayer, he gave me this invaluable answer: If you try again and again to push it away, but it keeps coming back stronger than ever, it's most probably not your own will, but God's. Ask him.
     Taking this with me into further prayer and meditation, I asked God straight out from my heart: Let me know Your will. And God, seeing I was sincere in asking, gave me his answer with undeniable clarity. Exactly how he gave it, I cannot tell. That's between him and me. All I can tell you is that it left me with peace of mind and a joyful heart.
     And so, I took the next step. . . .

On My "Reversion" and Religious Vocation

     Some of my friends have asked me to recount how I received my religious vocation and the journey I took from there to entering the cloister. Though many books and articles have been written specifically about "the call" and how different people experience it and respond to it, I can't think it's an easy thing for anyone to discuss. It certainly isn't for me, mainly because it was such a complicated thing that happened in two stages. The first stage unfolded so subtly and over such a long period of time—the course of many years—that I was hardly aware it was happening. The second stage was more like the proverbial thunderbolt, or, to use a more contemporary vernacular, a boot in the rear.

     I can only say that an ever-growing restlessness and dissatisfaction with life as I was living it in the 1980s and '90s prompted me to re-examine the need for a spiritual center, which I once had as a child and adolescent, but in my late teens had pushed down and buried deep inside me while I pursued my musical career. In the beginning of that career, my talent was not to me "a gift from God"; it was simply something I was born with, and I developed it with a purely selfish, vain ambition and ruthless competitiveness. I loved my talent because it was mine (so I believed), and I loved that others admired and respected me for it. I found success and did indeed have a good career in opera, but eventually selfishness and competitiveness led, as it always does, to dissatisfaction. Dissatisfaction led to anxiety; anxiety led to the search for, as I defined it then, "something stronger than myself."

     Once I acknowledged there was something stronger than myself and my ambition, something that I couldn't control but could rely on always, then, and only then, was I open to the gift of faith. I was given the grace to question, to explore, and to learn. I was given the grace to see beyond myself and the ephemeral world I lived in. For this, and for my subsequent return to the Catholic Church, I must give some credit to my beloved mother, who prayed for me constantly during my years of faithlessness. She was my own personal Saint Monica, and I am forever grateful to her.

     In my quest to find a parish in Houston I felt at home in, providence led me to Holy Rosary, a parish run by friars of the Order of Preachers (commonly known as "Dominicans"). At the same time, I was also beginning to feel an inexplicable pull toward religious life. To this day, I have no idea specifically how or when it started, but suddenly—and this was the "boot in the rear"—I was reading everything I could lay my hands on about religious life.  I learned there are basically two kinds of religious orders: contemplative and active. Religious in active orders are sisters (technically not "nuns"). Their apostolate is teaching school or nursing, or doing some kind of charitable  or missionary work, and sometimes they live "in the world" while doing these things, or sometimes they live in convents. Mother Theresa's order, for example, is an active order. Religious in contemplative orders are nuns, but are addressed as "Sister" (or, for those who hold office, "Mother"). They live in monasteries called cloisters and their only apostolate is prayer and contemplating the word of God, which is why they are called "contemplatives." Nuns only venture outside the cloister for the most essential things, such as doctor's appointments or the death of their immediate family members, or for conferences and workshops. In the simplest terms, active sisters are "Martha"s and contemplative nuns are "Mary"s—and both are necessary to the Church and to the world.

     To say I was not bewildered and frightened by this pull toward religious life would be a lie. Frankly, I was scared out of my mind, and many were the times that I tried to convince myself it was just a passing fancy.  My life at that time was so settled into my work at the opera house; to give up everything for which I worked so hard for so many years and to which I had become so accustomed was unthinkable, akin to madness! Finally, I consulted both a therapist (who, thankfully, was a very faith-filled woman) and one of the priests at Holy Rosary. Both encouraged me to explore this mysterious and frightening thing that was happening to me, but they also cautioned me: "Take it slowly. Don't jump into anything without a lot of examination and (my priest told me) prayer."

     And so, I began my discernment in earnest. . . .