Light, Hope, Love

     I've celebrated, so far, over half a century's worth of Christmases. All have been spent in the loving and boisterous bosom of my family; all have featured torn gift wrapping strewn about the living room, good food that took hours to prepare and minutes to consume, laughter, hugs, and general good will. There were many Christmases long ago when the whole family climbed into our huge Chevy station wagon in our coats and Christmas finery, to drive to the Main Chapel on post for Midnight Mass. The colored lights cheered our way and the very air smelled of something joyful and comforting.

     There have also been Christmases that, on one level at least, were not so joyful. There was the Christmas of 1995, when I was going through the deepest depression of my life. Not yet returned to the sacraments at that time, I nevertheless experienced an inexplicable but undeniable solace when I walked into the church with my parents for Vigil Mass. Perhaps that was the beginning of my religious reversion.

     There have been three Christmases dimmed by the shadow of death: just days before Christmas 1977, my sister died, shot at point-blank range by her so-called boyfriend. The month before Christmas 2011, my father died, a peaceful early morning passing after years of physical and, I'm certain, mental suffering. And this year in Connecticut, twenty-six souls were taken from this earth in one mindless, brutal act.

     Through them all, there has been light. There has been hope. There has been love. These are things given by a merciful God to sustain and strengthen us, and can never be taken away.

 



Inner Quiet

     Right off, I want to make clear that I love family get-togethers. Aside from major holidays, our immediate family gathers once weekly or once every two weeks, usually on Sunday, for the midday meal, lively banter, and lately, a game or two of Mexican Train Dominos. These gatherings take place here at my mother's house, the old homestead, if you will. It is a small—nay, tiny house in which one may easily hear from one end of it a conversation held at the other end, unless doors are closed or the conversants are whispering. When siblings mit  spouses are assembled all together in one room, be it the living or dining room, and everyone is talking at once, either to each other in pairs or on top of each other in a futile effort to be heard, the noise level can be truly astonishing.

     Astonishing, yes—especially to one who has lived fifteen years all alone in a small apartment, followed by nearly two and a half years in one of the quietest habitations on earth—a Catholic cloister. I didn't need to move to midtown Manhattan directly from the monastery to experience the noise equivalent of culture shock (sound shock, perhaps?); no, I simply had to move back to the family homestead. Even after six years back "in the world," I can still be easily and negatively affected by noise. Nor does the noise have to be excessive; it can be my mother's TV turned up just a tad past comfortable, a neighbor's stereo's mega bass thumping just a little too loudly, a crowded restaurant, a shopping mall on a Saturday afternoon. My sensitive ears are literally pained and, if I'm not vigilant, my quiet core can be jangled.

     This quiet core is something that was carefully nurtured during my brief time as a monastic. It has become essential to my day-to-day existence now that I no longer have the enclosure walls to shield me from the noise and potentially negative influence of the world. I believe those who adhere to Asian philosophies would call this inner peace a "Zen place." To Christians, it is that deepest part of the soul where the Holy Trinity dwells. It is the peace of Christ that creates this quiet core, a peace that is given when we, through a conscious effort of the will and with the help of divine grace, strive to keep its environment (mind, soul, and body) a fit dwelling place. It is where we meet God in moments of silent contemplation, where we hear his wordless voice speaking to us through the Spirit. It is not a silence of emptiness, but of sublime fullness. This is precisely why monasteries exist, and why a quiet environment is so crucial to monastic life.

     However, not everyone is called to be a monastic. Most people live in the secular, noisy, jostling, stress-filled world that is only a pilgrimage to the life we are all meant to live. Monastic life strives to provide a taste of that promised life, but if we can't live in a monastery we can at least build and maintain an inner monastery where we can retreat from the world's noise and confusion and listen to the stirrings of the Holy Spirit.

     My family's boisterous banter is by no means a negative influence, but in all honesty, it is at times aurally challenging and disturbing to one's calm. So when I'm sitting at the dining room table with my family, playing dominos, and everyone around me is talking at once and at the top of their voices, I make a special effort to remain as quiet and inwardly still as possible. When my mother turns her TV up near maximum volume because she's growing a bit hard of hearing, I try my best not to grumble, even in my mind. When my neighbor's mega bass pounds away through my bedroom wall, I delay my prayer time till he shuts it off, and in the meanwhile try to be patient by thinking of how patient God is with me. It's either that, or go mad.

Have I Been Kidnapped by Marty McFly?

     I really thought I had  been kidnapped by Marty McFly today. I thought he must have put me in his super-souped-up DeLorean and whisked me back to the early '60s. Anyway, however way I got there, I ended up at a bowling alley. From what I could make out in the grayish fluorescent light, the acoustical tile ceiling, which must have been white at one time, was now sepia-tinged from decades of cigarette smoke. Above the pits a line of ceiling fans spun at high speed, rocking dizzily from the momentum and threatening to catapult themselves at any moment onto the hapless bowlers. Behind me where I sat watching, a speaker blared at an eardrum-shattering volume "Runaround Sue," "Duke of Earl," "Tears on My Pillow," and the like.

     My earliest experiences in a bowling alley occurred during the summers between elementary school grades, when I went with my mother to the alley on post. She belonged to a summer league along with one of her best friends who was also my godmother; her daughter Lynn was about my age. Lynn and I passed the time at the alley eating french fries and hot dogs, hiding out in the ladies' lounge playing games, and doing handstands and cartwheels outside on the grass. I never learned to bowl for fear of injuring my piano fingers by getting them stuck in the ball's holes while trying to throw. That's my excuse, and I'm sticking to it. Sometimes, though, my mother would let me be scorekeeper, which I rather liked to do. In those days, of course, they used overhead projectors and you wrote the numbers in by hand on a transparent sheet. At least I got to exercise my feeble math skills.

     At the alley where I was today, the absence of projected handwritten scores dispelled my initial suspicion that I had been spirited there by Marty McFly and his DeLorean time machine. When I saw the computerized score screens, I was assured of having remained in the 21st century. But you can't blame me for being temporarily confused -- you would have been, too, given "Runaround Sue" and the gray, almost surreal, light. Once I shook off my nostalgic daze, I thoroughly enjoyed watching my family laugh off gutter balls, stamp their feet in frustration at a missed spare, and give each other high fives after the all-too-rare strike. And when they finished, we walked out to the parking lot where I got into my brother's perfectly ordinary Subaru Outback.

My Favorite Family Christmas Memories

Midnight Mass at the Main Chapel at Ft. Sam Houston. When I was little, I remember my sisters and I always got brand new dresses to wear at Midnight Mass. We, my brother, and our parents somehow all fit into the old red and white Chevy station wagon, and we'd drive to the Main Chapel through the chilly dark, enjoying the colored lights which all the houses sported then. (Nowadays, outdoor lights seem to be the exception rather than the norm.) Our lights were always red and blue, very simple. One of my sisters recently reminded me of one particular year when a classmate of hers, one of Cole High School's finest students, sang "O Holy Night" and crashed and burned on the high note. It was one of those things that, being normal kids, we thought horrible and funny at the same time.

The Little Drummer Boy album. I'm referring, of course, to the old 1950's Harry Simeone Chorale album, not the later version. I learned all the important Christmas carols by listening to that album, and I also loved the brief narrative snippets, both spoken and sung, in between the carols. I particularly love the "Adeste Fideles" -- it starts out with just the men singing a cappella  except for a soft bell; they sing the Latin very softly and take no unison breaths throughout the entire verse. The effect is seamless and stunning, like ancient monks chanting as they process through a dark cloister. The soloists on this album are great, too -- that lovely soprano featured in "O Holy Night," "What Child Is This?", and "Silent Night"; also the resonant bass that sang "Go Tell It on the Mountain." We still have that album.

"Christmas with Ed Ames." The other Christmas album I grew up with. Ed Ames has one of the most beautiful natural instruments I've ever heard; I could listen to him all day. The orchestration of "Do You Hear What I Hear?" is absolutely perfect, and spoiled me for any other version of that classic.

Christmas Day family dinner. Filipino style, of course! We always had lechon (roast pork), covered with its crispy skin, and, for those who like it (not me), Mom's homemade liver sauce on top. Pancit bihon -- delicate rice noodles mixed with pork, shrimp, chicken, and veggies; the Filipino version of lo mein, but lighter and drier. Mom's justifiably famous lumpia (egg rolls). And for dessert, leche flan, the Filipino flan, which is much richer and heavier than other flans. For those who want something American, red velvet cake with cream cheese frosting.Yummmmm scrummmmm......!

My Entrance Day!

From my journal:

27 July 2004
   Where to start? It’s been a very big 3 days, so much to tell you, and I don’t know if I can write down everything I’ve been thinking and feeling and doing.
   Friday, of course, was frantic -- my last day, possibly my last day ever in the world, except for doctors’ visits, etc. I finished up packing and cleaning and sorting, then J_ and a tenor in the HGO chorus came over to help me haul boxes to the post office, after which J_ and I had lunch at the Black-Eyed Pea. Then he dropped me off at my apartment and we said a tearful goodbye. Ordinarily, J_ is not much of a hugger, but we held on long and tight, and I even saw a suspicious redness in his eyes when we parted.
   Mom, Dad, George and Cindy arrived shortly before 5. The whole evening, and Saturday as well, had a strange atmosphere of unreality. I expected to wake up at any moment to find that these past 2 years have all been a dream. Mom held up very well, aside from a few dewy-eyed moments, but she never really gave in to the tears until the very last goodbyes, for which I will always be grateful.
   The drive up to the monastery was fairly smooth; we arrived at around lunchtime. Sr. Mary Veronica had tuna sandwiches ready in the guest dining room, but I don’t think any of us had much of an appetite.
   After lunch, we went into the Peace Parlor where we were met by Srs. Mary Annunciata, Mary William, Mary Jeremiah, and Maria Cabrini. We had a very nice visit, during which Dad recounted many war stories. We must have chatted for about an hour, then the sisters told me to go into the restroom by the parlor and change into my postulant’s uniform, which was hanging on the door. My veil wasn’t ready yet, but I put on the white blouse, blue vest and skirt, white socks, and my brand new black sandals (white socks with black sandals -- only in the monastery!), then walked back into the parlor as a Dominican postulant. It was time for me to enter the enclosure. I hugged everyone long and tight. Mom finally let her tears go, as did I, after so many weeks of being brave. “Take care of my baby,” she said to the sisters. She and Dad and George and Cindy, along with Sr. Mary Veronica, escorted me to the enclosure door, an unassuming, unmarked door at the end of the front porch. As when I entered for my aspirancy, almost all the sisters (except the infirm) were lined up along both sides of the narrow hallway just past the vestibule. Sr. Mary Annunciata had my family come into the vestibule and right up to the hallway door so they could see the community and watch me become a part of it. I went down the double row of smiling, welcoming, joyful nuns -- my sisters now -- then went back to my family for one last, long hug.

Sr. Mary William welcomes me into the monastery

   My first night -- Saturday -- was pretty miserable. But I was in a sort of daze, a combination of lack of sleep, too much packing and cleaning, and too many violent emotions let loose after holding them in for so long. I was tired, physically, mentally, and emotionally. My heart was breaking from leaving my family and my home; yet at the same time, it was rejoicing because I was finally where I wanted to be, where I felt I could just throw myself into God’s loving arms and let him carry and guide me. I was free.
   But I also knew -- still know -- that I have a long, painful, arduous journey ahead of me. I came here to seek union with God, but I’m well aware of the obstacles -- my obstacles -- and now begins the real work of overcoming them. My pride, vanity, thoughtlessness, and most of all, my impatience and intolerance. God and I have an uphill battle ahead of us.

On Possessing and Being Possessed

     I come from a family of pack-rats and collectors. My mother's house is filled with gifts from her friends—candles, little angel statues, etc.—and so reluctant is she to offend a friend, she hardly ever gets rid of anything. If a gift isn't useful or aesthetically pleasing to her, she simply stows it in a closet or drawer. Whatever display space is not occupied by friends' gifts gets filled up with family photographs and tchotchkes of her own choosing.
     My sisters collect things—Depression glass, Firestone dishware, teapots, oil lamps—and I myself have been blessed/cursed with the collecting gene; loving the written word as much as I do, I'm prone to furnish my surroundings more with books than with furniture. My apartment in Houston looked like a used book store: every inch of shelf space stuffed, coffee table and nightstand strewn, mini-towers of tomes stacked against walls. Where there weren't books, there were films, because if my spare time wasn't occupied by reading, it was spent watching my favorite movies over and over again. Moreover, like any other healthy, normal female, my closet was fairly choked with clothes and shoes, most of which I wouldn't wear for months or even years at a time.
     Every so often I would look around at the semi-organized wreckage that was my apartment and, momentarily contrite and not a little disgusted, I would vow to throw out every garment and pair of shoes I hadn't worn in two years, every film I wasn't that crazy about, and every book I had already read. And, indeed, I would gather a few articles and give them to the Salvation Army or Half-Price Books, feeling virtuous—then I'd realize I had hardly made a dent in my plethora of possessions, and I was still buying books and clothes to replace the ones I had given away. So, naturally, I would rationalize (at least as far as the books were concerned): "Most of my books are out of print and really, really  hard to find. I just can't  get rid of them; I know I'll read them again. I mean, would I throw out a cat  no one else wanted?"
     Eventually, and quite literally, Divine Intervention saved me from being drowned in my clutter. As I wrote in an earlier post, I felt a call to enter religious life. When I got accepted into a contemplative monastery, I of course had to get rid of all my earthly possessions except for the most basic and necessary—personal things that can't be used in common, such as toothbrush, underwear, etc.—and in order to make the process less wrenching, I adopted a mantra: Ruthless. I must be ruthless.  As I sealed each boxfull of precious books and labeled it "Salvation Army" I would mutter, "Ruthless!" Purses crafted of Italian leather, triumphantly snatched up for a song at my neighborhood T. J. Maxx, were handed over to eager friends with, "Use them in good health (ruthless )!" Jewelry from QVC, CDs collected with care over the course of my career, all perused and appropriated by friends and co-workers (ruthless, be ruthless ).
     At the end of my despoilment, I surveyed the relative starkness of my apartment and thought, why on earth didn't I do this earlier? Why did it take a religious vocation to spur me into action and unburden myself from the tyranny of possession? For suddenly I felt lightened and enlightened. I was free! I really didn't need all those things !
     Some weeks later, in the monastery, I surveyed the starkness of my cell: there was a bed, the simplest kind; a small writing table and wooden chair, a narrow closet for my three habits, enough drawers and cabinets for my underclothes and basic toiletries, and a small sink. What more did I need? Even if I had remained "in the world," would I really need much more than that?
     Now that I am indeed back "in the world," my answer to that question is still "no," but a slightly qualified "no." Yes, I am determined not to have more clothes and shoes than I actually need. I no longer buy jewelry. My one sturdy, basic leather purse serves me just fine at all times of the year, with any outfit. I was never a huge cosmetics consumer, and even less of one now—I keep my face clean and my hair short. However ....
     I have  rebuilt—not to their former extent, but to a considerable one—my library and my film collection. Some things are just so much harder to do without.