Eleven Halloweens Ago

     I have been rereading all my journals (at a snail's pace), searching for material for poems. So far the search has been quite fruitful. Along the way, I have revisited the journey of my reversion to the Church and subsequent call to the monastery. Though I've reread my journals a couple of times in the past, each revisit reveals something new about the path God laid out for me. Since I wrote about my actual reversion only quite generally in this blog, I will in future be posting some of those pertinent journal entries, a much more detailed account, to be included in the page "My Monastic Vocation Story" (link above).

     But today I'm just posting a "nostalgia" piece! In 2002, Halloween fell on a Thursday, as it does this year. This is what I wrote in my journal on that day. I was still living in Houston at the time.

Thursday, Halloween, 2002     There's a slight autumn nip in the air today, very welcome after long heat and rain. I'm in Panini now; just finished my cold pasta primavera w/chicken, and Vittorio has brought my espresso. There was the usual sudden tidal wave of customers at noon, and now, just 15 minutes later, the place is nearly empty. At 12.30, there should be another wave and a third, smaller, one at 1.00. Wonderful thing, this tunnel system, particularly when it's unbearably hot outside or raining. One can go from building to building, have lunch, get coffee and a bagel, without ever having to step foot outdoors. A lot of lawyers come in to Panini. One day, one of them asked Vittorio if he had any avocadoes, and Vittorio replied, "Yes, we get too many lawyers in here." The lawyer, not knowing that the Italian for "lawyer" is avvocato, took offense.

Most people really like Vittorio. They find him funny and irrepressibly Italian. I suppose he's what they imagine all Italians are like, the ones they see in movies and in pasta commercials. They like being called "signor" and "signora" and hearing his lilting English. Nothing is as charming as an Italian accent, unless it's a French or British one.

I still have on my answering machine __'s message from New York, thanking me for remembering his birthday. I replay it from time to time, just to hear the voice I love so much.

Vittorio has just asked one of the customers, "Ehi—what are you doing, where have you been? It's been a long time!" She laughed and told him she took some time off to be with her new baby. "Oh! I forgot you had a baby." If I haven't come in for a while, he greets me with, "Letì!!! Ehi, dove sei stata?" The only people outside my family that I let call me anything but Leticia are Italians. I love it when they call me "Letì", with the accent on the second syllable. So much more musical than "Letti," which I hate.

I see Scotti (my therapist) tomorrow. Last time, she asked me, "What would be useful to talk about today?" And I was stumped for an answer. If she asks the same thing tomorrow, I'd like to be prepared—but right now I can't think of anything except my recent searching for a spiritual center. Why am I so curious about monastic life, when I'm still struggling to believe in something?

I've resumed work on the Praga translation (La Moglie Ideale) with the intent of finishing it this weekend; but wouldn't you know it—I've run into some passages that have me a bit stumped. Up until now, it's been the easiest play I've translated. Teach me to be complacent.

After the Praga is done, I'd really like to return to older literature. I don't know why, but old Italian appeals to me very much—all those archaic and extinct forms, all the variants in spelling. Fascinating stuff. As for reading, I think I should go back to Dante, Petrarch, and Tasso. Maybe I'll even shake the dust off my aborted Rinaldo translation and see if it'll come any easier, now that some time has passed since my first attempt. I don't know if I'll finish the complete Svevo comedies any time soon, but I will someday. also Alfieri and Manzoni.

I made a reservation at the downtown Hyatt for my birthday. Yea! I think everyone, single or married, should treat himself/herself to a birthday hotel retreat, even if it's in the same town they live in. Amazing what even the smallest change of environment and routine can do in the way of reviving oneself.

 

Sunday Scrapbag

Reading: Oh, several things. In the Office of Readings (Liturgy of the Hours), lately I've been substituting the prescribed second readings with passages from Pope Emeritus Benedict XVI's encyclical Spe Salvi. I'm ashamed to say that this will be the first papal encyclical I will have read straight through, all the way through. Always before, I've only read excerpts of various encyclicals through the Liturgy of the Hours, or in articles and blogs.

     I'm also still reading bits and pieces of Robert Gibbings' books and have begun re-reading Elizabeth Taylor's The Sleeping Beauty which I read many years ago and have completely forgotten. I'm very bad about remembering the plots of books. So if I recommend a novel to someone and they ask me what it's about, I always say, "I forget—but I do remember I absolutely loved it."

     Also, I'm reading through all my journals in search of material for new poems. An enlightening experience.

Watching: I seem to have lost interest temporarily in movies. I own on DVD all the movies I like to watch (the most recent being Quartet, that lovely little film starring Maggie Smith and directed by Dustin Hoffmann). Sometimes (not often, admittedly) I regret having such limited tastes in film; were my tastes broader and more varied, I could watch and enjoy so many more things. But what I don't like in films is pretty much identical to what I don't like in books, which I wrote about in this post. 

     The cheesy part of me is psyched that the new season of Dancing with the Stars is in full swing. Can I just say that, though he seems like a very nice guy, I'm not sorry to see the football player go? I'm so tired of football players winning the DWTS mirror ball trophy! I haven't picked a favorite yet.

Writing: Lately, prose poems. I've written two posts in this past week alone about this new venture in Poetry Land (new for me, that is), this form that I used to despise as being fancified prose or free verse bound up in paragraph form. Now I see its merits as well as its many difficulties. But other than my prose poem experiments and this blog, I haven't been writing anything, not even my journal. Bad, bad girl!

Listening: To the wonderful Romanian pianist Clara Haskil (d. 1960). I tend to go through phases with pianists, concentrating on one for a few weeks, then going back to others before fixating on a "new" one. Haskil is my fixation at the moment. Her Mozart is impeccable in both style and technique. It's the kind of Mozart I myself always wanted to play, the kind I think is "true" Mozart. Poetic, profound, yet not over-sentimentalized as so many contemporary pianists are wont to do. Playful when playfulness is called for, but not overly so. Of course, she played many other composers brilliantly as well.

 

Considering: Cancelling my Tumblr account. I very much enjoy following art and photography blogs, and I enjoy following Catholic blogs on Tumblr. But I got a huge dose of disillusionment and disgust yesterday, when one of the Catholic blogs I follow got hacked and I found a number of pornographic posts on my dashboard. I realize hacking goes on everywhere, but Tumblr seems to be particularly susceptible. Plus which, there's no way (at least that I can find) to delete or hide posts you don't want to see on your dashboard; on Facebook, you can do this, which I really appreciate. When I saw those porn posts on my Tumblr dashboard, all I could do was "unfollow" that particular blogger until he realized he'd been hacked and cleaned out all those offensive images. But I think I will leave Tumblr altogether. I already follow a lot of Catholic blogs on Blogger and Wordpress anyway, and I follow many art and photography pages on Facebook.







Twenty Years Ago, I Wrote ...

     This post is not just a selection of journal entries from twenty years ago; more specifically, it is an homage to a little café in Houston called Epicure. I frequented Epicure during my many years living in Houston, always finding it to be, as the Germans say, a most gemütlich retreat with good food and coffee. It's on West Gray in River Oaks, a street that twenty years ago was one of the most charming commercial streets in the city; I believe it's changed a bit since.

     Epicure Café began rather humbly, as a true konditorei run by a certified Konditormeister; now, looking at its website, it seems to have evolved into a full-fledged café. If I ever visit Houston again, Epicure will definitely be on my list of places to go.

 

19 September 1993

     I'm having breakfast before a long day of chorus rehearsals. Epicure serves their coffee with hot milk, as it should be served, and their ham and cheese croissant is very substantial and comes with nice fresh fruit.

     The most beautiful child just came in—can't tell whether it's a boy or girl; I think boy—a Botticelli cherub crowned with copper curls. The parents are foreign, but I don't recognize the accent. She's very striking, strong dark features in a small face. The child is having gelato for breakfast, and his older brother is entertaining him by rolling his red toy convertible across the table. The cherub shrieks with delight, little pink mouth covered with vanilla gelato.

     I do love watching children, especially babies and toddlers.

     Epicure has retained the European way of not issuing bills—when you finish eating, you simply remind them of what you had.

     It's starting to get busy in here. Late-rising single women, older ladies just come from church, middle-aged bespectacled gentlemen reading the paper while their breakfast cools. Above it all, the white ceiling fans whir away, the soft lights casting small rainbows on their blur of blades. Sunday morning, a time of quiet recovery from the bustle of the week and the gaiety of Saturday night.

     The cherub is wandering around on his little unsteady feet, flourishing a menu. Maybe when he grows up he'll be a maître d'.

     And now, off to work and the stark, sterile surroundings of the opera house.

 

1 October 1993

     What a wonderful place this is. In the mid-afternoon, the bookish and artistic come in and read, or in my case write, with a pot of coffee. Just like Europe. A middle-aged couple has come in, obviously friends of the owner, speaking German. I wish I could really understand; I can catch a word here and there but can't put anything together. They always have good music playing; today it's Strauss waltzes. Sunday morning it's usually Mozart. Breakfast with Wolfie. I think I'll make it a custom to come here every Sunday, a mini-retreat of sorts.

 

26 October 1993

     There are two people that are almost always here when I am: a middle-aged woman with carrot-colored hair and matching glasses, and a young man who reminds me of James Stephens in The Paper Chase television series. Like me, they each sit at the same table every time. There's something very comforting about that. It's good to know that other people need these little rituals too. Both of them are writing something, too.

     The Paper Chase guy speaks French and Spanish. The other day, he spoke to the owner in French; now he's speaking to a companion in Spanish.

James Stephens

 

 

31 October 1993

     A quick sweet and a pot of coffee before going to Butterfly second cast piano dress. Saw, at the table behind me, someone writing in a cloth-bound blank book. A fellow journalizer.

     It gets dark so much earlier now. I much prefer it to stay bright as long as possible. This way, the day has such an early death.

     The street lights have just turned on. The sky is an iron gray, a strange transition from the brilliant blue it was an hour ago. West Gray is a fun street—all the buildings have been restored and done in stark white with black trim. Most of the street is lined on both sides with tall palm trees which are lit up at Christmas with tiny white bulbs. The shops are mostly of the "yuppie" type, upscale but not too; and of course there is the inevitable Pier 1 Imports. Two types of bookstores—one chain discount (Crown Books) and one independent (River Oaks Bookstore). Two types of movie theaters—one multi-screen mainstream, and one artsy-fartsy (the latter is still showing Like Water for Chocolate). The restaurants range from Black-Eyed Pea at one end to Café Express at the other, with a moderately priced seafood kitchen and moderately priced southwestern eatery in between. There is a pizza joint, a Chili's, and a grocery store. You can buy futons and antiques, coffee beans (at the wonderful Café Maison) and apple strudel, wilderness equipment and gently worn evening gowns. Or you can do as I do: hole up in Epicure three or four times a week and write in your journal. West Gray is probably my very favorite street in Houston.

Nineteen years ago today, I wrote ...

I would just like to mention that, in 1994, Carrabba's was not yet the big mega-chain restaurant it is today. Back then, I believe there were only two locations, both in Houston. I saw the owners there every time I went, which was about twice weekly for several years. It was truly a family-run place.

 

24 May 1994:  (Carrabba's)  At the next table, a floridly made-up woman with coal black hair (colored?), New York accent, speaks very loudly. Her voice has that particular brand of huskiness which comes of too much loud talking and raucous laughter in noisy, smoky places. She has informed her more sedate dinner companion that she's going to get him drunk. I'm not entirely sure he's pleased with the prospect.

     Had nothing to eat so far today except Reese's and Kit Kats. Will forego dessert. Seems wise.

     A new crop of waiters here which has evolved over the past few months, but now they all know me. It's pleasant here at my regular sunny table next to the window, the waiters waving and calling me by name.

     The loud woman is still laughing and saying that everything reminds her of her mother; I haven't yet been able to hear her companion's answers, which perhaps are so low-pitched in order to compensate for her loudness. They're obviously regulars here—Spencer-the-manager has just greeted them heartily. Funny that I haven't seen them in here before.

     She emits a husky chuckle, five staccato eighth notes; lips, generously coated with crayon-red lipstick, form a grossly exaggerated heart around large teeth.

     The room is half-full now, most of the patrons in the non-smoking area (of course). Men in ties and shirt-sleeves, their jackets stashed away in their Beamers, women with their manicured nails and carefully chosen jewelry speaking to each other over open menus which they do not read. They only read them when the waiter comes to take their orders. He stands with his hands on the back of an empty chair while they hem and haw and try to decide between ordering something healthy, or eschewing their "look how healthy I am" competitive personas and ordering what they really want.

 

25 May 1994:  (again at Carrabba's)  No loud-talking New York woman today. A pair of very old women in white, one has lost half an arm, poor thing. And the ever-present men in ties and shirtsleeves. I'm very hungry and it's been a trying day.

     I've been thinking a lot about my childhood lately. My early musical career. I entered my first competition when I was in the fifth grade, and gave my first solo recital at age 11. The first vocal recital I played for came a year later; it was with my junior high choral director, Mrs. Klier, for the Tuesday Musical Club, and my fee was $25. I remember some of the program: she opened with Brahms ("Botschaft," "Vergebliches Ständchen," a couple of others); there was a group of early Berg, both arias from Floyd's Susannah,  and Norina's aria. Big stuff for a 12-year-old.

     Mrs. Klier is one of the few teachers that remain in my memory in a positive way. She was young (25), good-looking, was always fashionable in an unconventional way (to the amusement of the other teachers), and she wore a different wig every day. She was an excellent director, knew how to handle us kids, and we all adored her. When she left to have a baby, it was a huge calamity in our lives; we shed gallons of tears, but managed to send her off with a wonderful baby shower. I gave her a yellow blanket with matching rattle. She had a daughter, Tiffany, a beautiful dark-haired porcelain doll of a baby with enormous eyes.

     When we did Carousel  in 1990, I was pleasantly shocked to see that "little" Tiffany was one of the dancers. Yes, Mrs. Klier had said that she wanted her little girl to go to ballet school. And there she was at that first Carousel  rehearsal, still the dark-haired porcelain doll with those enormous eyes.

 

26 May 1994:  I took out my songs and poems, just to look again. They raise the question: why was I such a creative child? What made me write all those songs, some of which astonish me with their depth? Why did I start keeping a journal?

     Despite coming from a large family, despite my good friends, I was lonely. There was always turbulence inside me—I see it in my lyrics and the few poems that I still have from childhood; I hear it in the tapes of my playing. How well I remember the ever-present sense that I didn't belong, that no one liked me. Certainly no one really knew or understood me, just as no one knew or understood Alice. So I suppose, with all those songs and poems and my journal, I felt—still feel—a tremendous need to leave something behind that would explain everything. To whom? Doesn't matter. To someone. Anyone. Everyone.

     My family don't know me. They don't know me at all. I love them, but they don't know me. Maybe if they all outlive me, they will read these things and come to understand the Leticia they never really knew. And I will be a real person to them, instead of this eternally young, irresponsible, floundering little girl who never married.

     When I was very little, before I started school, the most vivid memories I have are of being afraid. A big dog would pass by, and my sisters would hide me because I was afraid. They would take me to the playground and were puzzled and exasperated because I was afraid to get on the monkey bars or  the big stone animals. When I started school, one of my sisters always had to take me to the bus stop because I was afraid to go alone.

     I was convinced that everyone in my family liked my friend Caroline better than me. She was very pretty and friendly and fearless. Everytime I liked a boy, I was convinced that he liked my best friend better because she (whoever it was at the time) was prettier, blonde, blue-eyed; she could talk to people without trembling; she wasn't afraid.

     I never felt accepted, popular. My music was such a blessed refuge. People liked me when I was onstage; I earned their respect and admiration; I didn't feel ugly and awkward and unwanted. Yet when my parents wanted me to play for "company," I always refused, or, if I complied, I did so very reluctantly. "Company" could never appreciate or understand the specialness of my music. I couldn't bear the stiff smiles and half-hearted compliments with which they tried to mask their ignorance and indifference. They were too close; I needed the stage. I just couldn't bear their patronizing "company" smiles. Those people just didn't know, they couldn't  know. I wanted sincerity. Don't say you like me when you really don't.

     What brought all this on?

On Being a Fickle Diarist

     I began keeping a journal in the eighth grade. My sister Alice, who was four years older, kept one—I would see her on pleasant days sitting against the trunk of our front yard tree, scribbling away in a red notebook. She encouraged me to start my own.

     I certainly am not the kind of diarist that feels compelled to write every single day, even if it's just about the weather or where I went or what I ate. I am also not the kind of diarist that can turn ordinary events into something extraordinary or profound or, at the very least, entertaining. Most of the time, I write only when I feel like writing, or when something happens that warrants recording—though there have been events, like the death of my father, that I simply couldn't write about. Yes, I go through phases when I feel obliged to write purely for the sake of exercising my writing muscles, which, from time to time, turn to flab (I'm going through one of those phases now, which is why I feel obliged to write this blogpost).

     As I type this, I reflect on the fact that I haven't written in my journal for many months. I feel a small twinge of guilt when I see the black Moleskine lying on the shelf near my bed. Sometimes I open it to my last entry and say to myself, Oh, you naughty girl, you really should write something. But then, the next moment, I think, Why? If I don't feel like it, why should I? Do I have anything important to write? Even if I don't, why can't I just write?  My life is small and uneventful, but so was Emily Dickinson's, and look what she managed to put on the page! Why can't I do the same?

     The answer that always comes is, of course, that Dickinson was a genius poet and I am not. Pepys was a master diarist, and I am not. I can only write what I write, when I can write.

     Still, like anyone else who has kept a journal for years, faithfully or not, my journal is unspeakably precious to me. It is my best friend, my closest confidante, my therapist—cliché, but nonetheless true. Sometimes after a long hiatus, I have a writing burst and everything I've held back in those silent months flows forth uninhibited, things I never knew were in there. It's like having a reunion with a great friend I haven't seen in a long time. Chatter, chatter, chatter. As if we'd never been apart. So I'm not greatly worried.

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.

Blogging A to Z: "M" is for March and May

A few memories of Marches and Mays at the Houston Grand Opera.


3 May 1993   Things are really jumping at the opera! The second cast of Aida is up and running; we fired Thomas Booth after the piano dress and hired Michael Sylvester. Then the tenor in Barbiere fell ill; Kip Wilborn was whisked in, he sang Sunday matinee from the pit; today we start staging him just in case he has to go on. Now it seems that Bartoli, God forbid, is getting the same bug. I hope she stays on because Tamara is in no shape to step in, vocally. Someday she may be a good Rosina, but not this week.

9 May 1993   I wish I had gone to Wednesday's performance of Barbiere. Apparently, it was a night to remember. Palacio had been ill for the past week or so, so we brought in Kip Wilborn to stand by. Anyway, Palacio was really sick by the Wednesday night performance and was removed by David Gockley after the first scene, and Kip finished the show. Then during the curtain calls, a piece of equipment that hangs on the DL wall fell and hit a dresser. He was rendered unconscious, suffered compound fractures in his leg for which he had to have surgery; furthermore, the accident triggered an epileptic seizure, of which he hadn't had one in ten years, and which caused temporary short-term memory loss. But he's on the mend now, thank God.

16 May 1993   I suppose Frida is going OK--the stagings are sometimes a zoo; the director, the choreographer, and the puppet master all doing different things at once, everyone's talking and putting in their two cents' worth, and who the hell is in charge? Even the music rehearsals--Ward had to command quiet more than once, which rarely happens in a music rehearsal, at least in the opera world. Things like ensemble and integrity of tone are apparently of no real value to anyone but the music staff; the actors don't seem to care. And that bitch-on-heels of a director is driving me nuts.

27 May 1993   I must say, Ward has been wonderfully patient during these Frida rehearsals. This cast is so unbelievably chatty! I guess in opera, we're used to a certain code of behavior; we're not used to everyone talking all the time, especially when the conductor is running the rehearsal. The other morning, we had a brief music rehearsal of the finale and Ward was making a change in a certain spot. As usual, as soon as they stopped singing, the cast broke into general discussion and murmurings; then one of them piped up to Ward, "Could you repeat what you just said, please?" Ward asked her in return, "Were you talking?" "Yes." "Then I won't repeat it." I nearly guffawed!
     Then there's the girl who is habitually late, or meandering around the sixth floor without telling stage management where she is. I was supposed to have a coaching with the three calaveras, and she was the only one missing at the appointed time. When she sauntered nonchalantly into the room a good five minutes into the coaching, Shawn, the ASM, told her she was late, to which she replied, "I've been here the whole time." She doesn't get it. Merely being in the building doesn't constitute being on time for your call. Space cadet.

18 March 1994  First day of Traviata chorus stagings. Harry Silverstein is the ideal director to chase away the 10 a. m. drowzies. The man is nuts.
     During break, a small group of us went out for a smoke by the stage door. A white stretch limo and a Wagoneer pulled up to the curb; from the second vehicle emerged Cecilia Bartoli, arrived to rehearse the recital she's giving tonight; from the limo emerged an obvious companion of hers--an absolutely gorgeous male speciman, tall, slender, broad-shouldered, dressed in shades of muted blue, hair slicked back into a ponytail. A walking advertisement for Drakkar Noir. I'm afraid I gaped a bit, and I might even have left a small pool of drool on the pavement.

15 May 1994   We closed Turandot last Tuesday. I finally, finally got the Act II procession right, banda-wise. John smiled at me on the monitor; I wished he could see me smile back and hear my "thank you." The banda players were very complimentary afterwards, shook my hand and told me I did great.
     But oh, the agony I went through during rehearsals! The second orchestra staging was the worst. Understand, first of all, that I and the poor banda were situated in the catwalks, six floors above the pit. John kept picking on me incessantly over the monitor; he wanted every note perfectly in line with the orchestra, pick-pick-pick, I'm behind one bar and ahead the next, over-and-over-and-over, pick-pick-pick. Finally, it was intermission before Act III, and I went out to the loading dock for a much needed smoke. As soon as I sat down with my smoking buddies from the chorus, I burst into tears, babbling, "It's too hard, we're too far from the pit, it's never gonna be perfect, he's just got to accept that! I'm trying my damnedest, but it's never gonna be perfect!" They tried to console me, but I kept crying, non-stop, shaking all over. A nervous wreck. (However, you will recall, dear Journal, that this is the time of year when I usually have a meltdown. End of the season, and all that.) Top of Act III, I had to conduct chorus offstage left, which I did with the tears still spouting and the nose running. "Has Leticia got a cold?" "No, she's crying!" Back upstairs in the catwalk, I was still crying. The banda were very sympathetic. They knew what my problem was, since they could hear everything John said over the monitor. I took up my baton for our next entrance, my hand was shaking, and I could barely see the monitor through my tears. Somehow, I made it through, but I was still crying when I got home, and kept it up till the wee hours. I wanted to strangle John. He knows how hard it is; he conducted banda for Julius Rudel at NYCO in the early years; he knows what it's like to be constantly picked on. Now he's on the other side of the monitor, and he's doing it to me.
     But when he smiled at me onscreen during that last performance, I felt our old good feeling was restored. He's given me a lot of grief during the past five years, but deep down we have a solid respect for each other.

Note: Over the years, John DeMain and I forged a wonderful working relationship. He could be tough sometimes, but I wouldn't have missed those productions for anything in the world.

Blogging A to Z: "J" is for January, June, & July

Okay, I can't come up with a satisfactory "J" topic either, so I'm posting more journal extracts about my experiences at the Houston Grand Opera--this time, from entries written in January, June, and July.

20 July 1991   Here I am, recording the events of the past few days!
     Annie Get Your Gun going well; good reviews.
     Lohengrin preparation going very slowly; late start.
     Hoffmann preparation not going at all.
     Jean Mallandaine officially ousted from her postition as Head of Music Staff--and from HGO altogether--replaced by Richard Bado.
     John DeMain officially resigned, but will do some shows over the next 2 years. Smitten with his new daughter.
     Shauna Bowman Unger brand new mother of brand new boy.

28 May 1993   Frida is a mess and everyone who's seen a run of it says it's boring and too episodic. Ward is ready to kill both the accordian player and the guitarist. X, who plays a few of the smaller roles, has been a pain-in-the-ass diva. The production meetings have gone on till 1 or 1.30 in the morning. All in all, a pleasant and relaxing experience in the world of Musical Theater.
     And tonight we do it in front of an audience, Lord help us.
     The only really good thing that's come out of this is that my working relationship with Ward has gotten much easier and more comfortable. He really is a nice guy. He's incredibly tense and nervous about this show, which is perfectly understandable, and he's reached the point where Robert Rodriguez (the composer) seems more of a nag than a help to him.
     There are definite advantages and disadvantages in having the composer in on the rehearsal process. One of the advantages is that he tells you how the piece should go. One of the disadvantages is that he tells you how the piece should go.
     There have been several little scena's during this production period, one of which occurred between Richard and X (pain-in-the-ass diva). Richard is conducting all the off-stage singing. Now unless I'm wrong, and please correct me if I am, the off-stage singers are supposed to watch Richard, who is watching Ward on a monitor (the reasoning behind which is that a monitor can mysteriously go out, but a live backstage conductor can peek through he set if need be). X, however, chose not to watch Richard, and he, after conducting to the back of her head several times, told her, "If you continue not to look at me, I'll have the sound man turn off your vega (body mic)." He related this incident to me and Pat Houk and Jim Ireland. In the meeting following that rehearsal, Jim informed the director, "Please make it clear to X that regardless of what she's used to doing, as long as she's working in this house, she'll do as she's told. We'll replace her if we have to; that's never a problem." In that same rehearsal, X had bitched at one point about singing in the dark (the lighting was by no means set yet) and when we repeated the scene, she walked on stage holding a flashlight to her face.

18 June 1993   Production threw a party for Jim Ireland to celebrate his 50th birthday. I played for Ward and Richard; they sang a parody of "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling" ("When Irelands Eyes Are Flashing"), after which, I ate half of the available amount of guacamole, then left. I hate parties.

3 June 1996   I love coming here to Panini. I sit here eating my mezzo sei or mezz'otto or mezzo nove (those ae my favorites), and when I'm done, Ellie or Vittorio brings me my doppio macchiato, and they either yell to me from behind the counter, or if there are no more customers, they sit with me and chat. Facciamo quattro chiacchiere. Around 1.00 Ellie brings her soup to my table and eats, while Vittorio stays behind the counter. Or if he's not there she sits with me till a customer walks in, then she mutters under her breath, "Accidenti!" ("Damn!") and gets up to attend to him. When it's very busy, Ellie works the register and Vittorio takes the orders and hands out the sandwiches as they're ready, callng out in his sing-song Caprese accent, "Number twaynty-sayven! Oo ees number twaynty-sayven?"

30 July 1996, (in New York performing our production of Four Saints in Three Acts for the Lincoln Center Festival)   In the morning, went strolling along the water with Sandy Campbell, Barbie Brandon, and Audrey Vallance. Then to Little Italy for lunch and browsing with them, plus Kathy Manley, Brett Scharf, John-the-Acrobat, Pat Houk, Kim Orr and Kimberly Lane. Afterward, Brett, Kathy, Sandy, K. Lane, John, Barbie, and I wandered around Greenwich Village. After an hour or so of very hot walking, Brett, Sandy, John, and I went on to Lincoln Center, stopping for a rest in the park before rehearsal. There was a woman on the next bench, must have been around 150 years old, with an unbelievable cartoon profile and a shock of white hair. Four or five dogs ran round her playing, their leashes trailing free behind them. Every two minutes or so, she would call out, "Donny!" and make this extremely penetrating whooping sound. "Has anyone seen a black dog on a leash?" she would call out at the top of her lungs to the park at large. We left her still calling for Donny, and went to rehearsal. On being released early, Nathan Wight, Kevin Moody, Mark Swindler, Susan Stone, and I went up the Empire State Building. Incredible--the lights of New York beneath a full moon.
     Monday, cast free day. Went with Jonita to play for her Sarasota audition, took her to lunch at Sarabeth's, then to Patelson's. In the p. m. to dinner at Carmine's Bar (W44th) with Richard, Barbie, Mark S., Kevin, and Denise Thorson. Fabulous meal; the chicken cacciatore was top-notch. All of us but Richard went on to A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum with the extraordinary Nathan Lane. Wildly funny--at least, we thought so; but the family in front of us, obviously tourists from some podunk Bible Belt town, sat frozen as statues through the whole show; not one of them cracked a smile.
     Tuesday--two sitzes, morning and afternoon, then with Eric Edlund and Derek Henry to some beer joint run by Trappist monks (or were E and D pulling my leg?); then tried to get tickets for Blue Man Group, waited for returns, but no luck; so down the street for a wonderful dinner at Time. A nice evening, despite the Blue Man disappointment.

1 August 1996 (still in New York)   Very early dinner at Pasta d'Oro, then the opening of Four Saints, which was highly successful. Afterwards (the show only runs about an hour and a half), Nathan Wight and I went to see Cold Comfort Farm. We laughed and laughed and laughed.

28 January 2002   Another relatively light day at work. We had a Mice and Men notes session over which Cesca Zambello presided (the original director of this production, but she just came in for the final orchestra stagings). It is a well-known fact that Cesca hates prompters, and she tried her damndest to get rid of the prompter (me) in this production, but Patrick was adamant. So today, with her sitting but three feet away from me, I bellowed out cues in my most authoritative manner, revelling in the knowledge that I was annoying the crap out of her. I can be ornery. When the situation warrants it.

Blogging A to Z: "I' is for Intermission

No, I am not going to write about intermissions. This post itself is an intermission. I can't seem to choose a satisfactory "I" topic, including "Intermissions," so I'm taking an intermission from the alphabet challenge to do one of my journal retrospective posts, which is what I do when I can't think of anything else to write.

Here are some journal scribblings from some past Aprils when I worked at the opera:

7 April 1991   Cecilia Bartoli absolutely delightful! Couldn't be more than 5'2", girlish, vivacious, genuine, and funny. And adorable on stage. Doesn't have much English yet, but everyone in the cast is Italian and the director, though British, is fluent. I had forgotten that this is her American operatic debut. What a coup for HGO!
     Last night at about a quarter to six, the power went out in the Wortham and we had to rehearse a couple of blocks away, on the the Music Hall stage. The balky upright piano was on the house floor, way in the corner off DL--that was the closest it could go. Ward was also on the house floor, conducting at the center of the apron; so, in order to see him, I had to turn my head all the way sideways. Plus, the singers were marking, and from that distance I couldn't hear a damn thing. It was not fun. So of course, when Ward yelled at me, "You're behind!" I could have punched him.

8 April 1991   Yesterday was probably the most bizarre day I've ever experienced at work. By the time I went in, which was about 1.00, not all the power had yet been restored. We had lights, etc. on the sixth floor, but no plumbing. One had to use the facilities in neighboring buildings. Which was easy enough to deal with, if we were a simple 9 to 5 workplace. But last night was final orchestra dress for Aida. So, due to insurance considerations (no lights in the lobby), the invited audience got uninvited; and, due to the absence of lights in the dressing rooms, we scrapped costumes and makeup. Bottled water and porta-potties were sent for. We had no lights onstage except work lights, no video or sound monitors, no intercom system. And conducting backstage without a video monitor was an adventure. It was like opera in the old days.

23 April 1995   For some stupid reason, I decided to dress up for the show today. I pulled out my straight black skirt and silk blazer, panty hose and spectator pumps. My feet hurt, my sleeves feel snug, I can't bend at the waist, but hey, I look good.
     Now that this season is nearing the end, I've been giving considerable thought to the advantages and disadvatages of my firendships with Jen, Ana, and Mary. They're all younger--about 8 to 10 years younger than I--and they still, especially Mary and Jen, have one foot in college. What a difference those ten years make! There have been many occasions when they went out after an evening rehearsal (around 10p) and asked me to go with them; but frankly, after a long day of rehearsals, there's nothing I'd rather do more than go home and crash. They do party a lot. It'll catch up to them. They'll learn. Mary would say to me, "We're going to a movie after this; you wanna go?"
     I answer, "I have a 10 a. m. rehearsal tomorrow." 
     "So? So do I. Besides, you're always up late anyway."
     I could say I'm too old to carouse every night and expect to have all my brain cells working during the day; I need to concentrate for these rehearsals; and there is a big difference between staying out late and staying up late. But I just smile and say no.
     Well, let them enjoy their youth. The day will come soon enough when they'll have to muster all their discipline and sacrifice their nightly partying for their art. Ana is a bit more mature. She knows when to rest. Jen would rather be at the beach. Mary would finish off a bottle of wine one night and wonder why her voice sounds fuzzy the next day. But they have good hearts, all of them.

5 April 1996   Piano dress (Norma) last night was certainly an event for me. Carol (Vaness) didn't want to sing; she didn't even want to mark. So I sang the entire role for her from the pit while she walked it onstage. It was the MOST FUN I've had in a long time! I marked a couple of high notes, but most of it I sang full voice and was surprised at how un-tired I was afterward. Joe gave me a good technique!
     I also had to conduct the banda, which plays between the cavatina and cabaletta of "Casta Diva"; so when it came time for them to play, I left the pit and ran backstage, still singing. My banda players realized then, with a shock, that I had been singing the role. It was very funny.
     Afterward, Carol saw me backstage, grabbed me by the shoulders, and gave me a shake, saying, "Why the hell aren't you singing?"
     I was too chicken to tell her that I felt safer being a coach.

18 April 2001   There have been quite a lot of goings-on with Don Carlo, but suffice it to say that this production has been a true and extreme example of Instant Opera. My job as prompter has never been so arduous; not even Resurrection was so nerve-wracking, because we had sufficient rehearsal time.

My Life 10 Years Ago

My life 10 years ago? I barely remember, frankly. Probably because it bore so little resemblance to my life today. Still, it's amusing to look back in one's journal and laugh - or groan - or wince. Or all three.


2002

3 February   Semi-finalists (for the Studio) party yesterday OK. Large River Oaks house filled with Americana, wonderful folk art portraits, etc. Good food. A bunch of us ate around the island/breakfast bar in the airy kitchen, much jollier and easier than balancing one's plate on one's knee while perched primly on a couch. Again, hung out with J_ and S_. He keeps relating colorful facts and anecdotes to her about me. They are disgustingly in love, she billing and cooing, and he solicitous and adoring. I nearly threw up.
    I was never able to bill and coo with __ in public, since our relationship was clandestine, so I've never experienced firsthand the joys of being nauseatingly romantic in front of other people. Am certain, however, that it must give one a sort of smug satisfaction.
     This promises to be a very busy week, and my day off isn't till Sunday, which will have been a week and a half since my last day off, which I didn't take because I gave an outside coaching to D_ and made the chorus master copy for Abduction. So I'll be right grumpy by the time Sunday rolls around, what with all that, plus suffering from bearing witness to nauseating lovers' exhibitions of affection, and Valentine's Day looming up - as if I really need further reminding of my state of blessed singleness.

8 February   This very busy week of Studio semis and finals is over. I got to play the concert segment of the finals last night - the Cesare duet, the final duet from Carmen, and the audience sing-along of "God Bless America." The Handel was, I'm happy to report, the highlight of the entire evening. M_ and A_ and I were much more attuned to each other than in the scenes program; there was a wonderful hush over the audience; many compliments afterward. I felt I played well - surprisingly, I received many more compliments on my playing of the Handel than on the Bizet. I guess I underestimated the sophistication level of the audience.

9 February   Yes, today is Jeff Bowen's birthday, and yes, it is totally sad that I would, at 42 years of age, still remember the birthday of the boy I had a hopeless crush on in the 7th grade.
     I have become a Sex and the City addict. But I can't decide if I watch it to feed my fantasy of what I wish my own singledom were like, or if I watch it to make myself feel better that I'm not on that horrible "dating-having sex-hoping it turns into a relationship-breaking up-being temporarily disillusioned-putting back together your shreds of hope-telling yourself you're still fabulous" carousel.

17 February   Life plods on. I should be learning Samson and Delilah, but I keep putting it off. And I can't seem to decide on a novel to read.
     Maybe my dream of the unfinished poem the other night has something to to do with my inability of late to finish anything. But my whole life seems to be in limbo right now. Even work - J_ showed me an article in the Houston Press about the rather alarming effect of Enron's demise on HGO. It mentioned layoffs. Can HGO survive this? We've made it through difficulties in the past, but this one seems to be of much greater proportion. Frankly, I don't know what I would do, should worse come to worse. The thought of relocating is too much for me. I don't have that "vagabond gene" that so many people have; I want to stay in one place. Fear of change, I suppose. Embracing change as the only constant in life is something that has always eluded me.
     Oh, this "nothing time"! Nothing happening, every day pretty much the same. Better to feel something than nothing - even if it's teeth. (That's a line from Impromptu.)

On the Conversion of St. Paul

    

     Today we celebrate the Feast of the Conversion of St. Paul. This feast is very meaningful to me, since the account of St. Paul's conversion in Acts was instrumental in bringing about my own conversion at age 14 -- rather, my first "reversion." I thought I'd share a journal entry I wrote on this day in 2005, when I was in the monastery.

     25 January 2005   As I took my meditation stroll in the woods this morning after breakfast, I stopped in the fork of the path and stood there for several minutes, gazing at the misty rays slicing through the pines and pouring their warmth on the night-chilled ground, and I was reminded of God's grace. It is always there, but never quite the same from moment to moment or even second to second. Like the sun, it shifts with the inevitable changes of weather, adapts to the turning of the earth. Sometimes its light is filtered through mist; sometimes it shines refulgent and almost unbearable in its generosity; and still other times it is completely hidden, but never extinguished, by clouds. And when the earth is turned away from the sun, plunged in darkness and obscurity, it is sometimes hard to remember or indeed believe that, somewhere on the other side of the darkness, the sun continues, and will always continue, to burn.
     It is equally fitting that these thoughts of the light of God's grace should come to me on this certain Feast of St. Paul, who was struck down, brought low, and raised up by the full force of God's blazing grace and mercy. So overwhelming was the light, that his eyes had to be closed before he could fully withstand its burning truth. He, like all of us, had to be made blind to everything that had stood between himself and that light, so that he could ask God in true humility, trust, and openness of heart, "Lord, what will you have me do?"
     At Mass this morning, I asked St. Paul to open my eyes that I might see the light of truth and that my faith might be emblazoned on my heart as it was on his.

Long Ago on This Date, I Wrote . . .

1998:  Billy Budd rehearsals going well. I'm having more fun on this show that I thought I would. Being one of only three females on a production is rather a good thing!

     Literally every day someone tells me I look good and comments on how thin I've gotten. I am now as small, if not smaller, than I was in college. But -- as I sit here eating my chocolate chip cookies -- it's a light dinner for me tonight!

     I love to come here (Panini) when both Vittorio and Ellie are in a good mood. Their banter is very entertaining. Just now, Ellie was trying to tell Vitto, "These are cookies; those are biscotti." And he informed her, "In Italy, they are the same -- biscotti and biscotti" (pronouncing it alla Neopolitana: bish-cotti). I find his accent sort of charming.

2001:  Well, one positive thing about all this -- I'm playing really well. Curious, how that works. I don't know if I'll see him today; our schedules don't jive. But maybe he'll come in to the sitz for a while.

     Couldn't sleep very well last night -- Così was running through my head and wouldn't stop.

     I'm sitting at the bar at the Angelika, which has become almost like a second home to me.

     I really should try to get more sleep -- I'm really stanca morta. But the Così rehearsals are always lively, and I do love to play. Especially Mozart. Patrick is a joy to play for, a real master with this rep, except I think some of his faster tempi aren't quite fast enough. But he's so damn musical and sensitive.

     My appetite has lessened, and that's always a bad sign -- a sign that I'm on an emotional rollercoaster again. When I fell in love with A_, I couldn't eat a damn thing and went from a size 12 to a 6 in record time.

     If anything ever developed between me and X, I wonder how the boss would take it? Not well, I bet. He'd see it as a potential distraction, a negative influence on our work. But you know, as long as I'm happy, I work better and play like a goddess. He remembers, though, all the sturm und drang I went through after A_ left the first time, and it did affect my work in a bad way for a while. Why am I so intense? Why does everything have to be life or death with me?

2002:  Another Sunday morning spent in bed, reading the paper (or rather, perusing the advertisements and the TV program), and a bit of Thoreau and Emerson. From Circuit City ads to Walden. Hmm. I'm not sure Henry David would approve!

     I'm much too harsh with myself sometimes. About the music thing. My capacity is still there. Maybe I just had an "off" day yesterday. And now I have Corelli playing on the stereo. What is it about Corelli I love so much? His music is, in a sense, undemanding; it reqires only your most basic and simple intellect -- the best and most reliable kind. Maybe that's why much of 20th century music doesn't appeal to me: it takes too much work; and art -- the sheer experience of it -- shouldn't, I think, be so complicated. It should rather bring forth the child in us -- unquestioning, accepting. Call me a simpleton if you will. But immediacy is valuable in such matters. It eliminates that "elitist" idea which alienates so many people from even bothering to try and experience art. Simplify, simplify, simplify! In art and in life. For the two are, or should be, interchangeable.

     My reading is going through one of those phases where I leisurely read bits and pieces from this and that: Thoreau and Emerson, Vera Brittain's diary, C. S. Lewis. Non-fiction is easy that way. Novels require an extended, uninterrupted concentration which I simply can't give right now. Summer is the best time for novels.

     Oh, how I love Vera Brittain! She and I and Emily Shore might have been great friends. Vera has convinced me that I must read The Story of an African Farm and Plato. So much of philosophic writing has thus far flown over my head, but I think I can comprehend it now. Of course, in the case of Plato, etc., much depends on the translation. A_ likes Plato. "Likes"? Well -- for want of a better word. "Ascribes to"?

     Will go and shower now, and try not to waste the rest of this day. Life is all too short.

     Think of me, my dearest A_. My letter should reach you soon.

 

2003:  I don't know if I told you that I had applied, through Vocations Placement, for a vocations test. Natalie called and told me of two Benedictine monasteries: St. Scholastica in Ft. Smith, Arkansas, and St. Benedict in Canyon, Texas. The latter is a small, conteplative order (St. Scholastica is an active branch and very large) that takes candidates up to age 60!

     If all goes well and according to God's plan, I will be going on a retreat in July to St. Benedict. But I also want to plan retreats to the Priory in Lacey, WA, and most especially to the Abbey of Regina Laudis in Connecticut, to which I feel very much drawn because they have retained all the old traditions, including the chant in Latin and the full habit. Now that I know the true meaning of the habit, I can't imagine wearing anything else! Why would any contemplative wan to wear ordinary clothes?

     If it is not God's will that I enter the cloister, then I hope to be an oblate.

On This Day, I Wrote in My Journal . . . .

It's sort of interesting to look back and see what you wrote on a particular date in different years, different stages of your life. Here are a few entries I wrote on past January 3rds.


1995:  Another example of the cruel but necessary happened today. "J" played a staging rehearsal this morning for Porgy, and, as Richard summed it up to me afterward, "it was a disaster." Apparently, she couldn't keep a tempo, and distracted John so much that he couldn't concentrate on what the principals were doing. Richard told me she will not be playing any more stagings after today. He'll speak to her this afternoon. The sad part is, she doesn't seem to have a clue. At the end of this disastrous rehearsal, she said to Richard, "I didn't think it went that badly, huh?" I feel for her, particularly since she and I have become friends, but if she hinders the rehearsal process then she has to go. It's a fact of opera. A good pianist, one that can not only play the score, but one that has a solid sense of rhythm, can follow a conductor well, and can play orchestrally, is so crucial. Most people don't realize how difficult it is, being a répétiteur -- even a lot of pianists don't realize. It's a skill - a multi-faceted, highly disciplined skill.

1998:  Sometimes I think I have too many ambitions. I didn't used to be this way; my life seemed much narrower and easier, albeit somewhat paler in many ways, when I was younger. Now, looking at the stacks of books I've been meaning to read, and contemplating all the subjects I've been meaning to learn about, I'm overcome by the uneasy feeling that I'll never be able to get around to it all; there's not enough time. And on top of all that, I unfortunately do not have the kind of mind that can retain vast amounts of information. I've read many books, but I can't remember the plots of most of them. I only remember whether I liked them or loved them, or was devastated by them. I remember if a book made me cry, but I don't remember why. Sad thing.

2001:  I don't quite know what I'm doing or where I am. Off balance. I hate being off balance. What do I need to be doing this for; I'm 41 years old, damn it, I can't be mooning around like some kid. Comes a time when you have to face up to the fact that you've -- to use a dull cliché -- given the best years of your life to a man who ultimately couldn't make it up to you. And you have to face up to the fact that you're alone and you're likely to stay alone. It's as if I started digging myself into a hole 21 years ago and it's taken me this long to realize just how deep it's gotten. I don't know how to get out. And now what? Just keep plugging away, doing my work, trying not to care that my heart is shriveling up?

2003:  Scotti, my therapist, said something interesting about that dream I had Christmas morning, about Carol and the gunman. She pointed out two sexual references -- the man in the blue shirt, and the gun -- and that Carol was really myself, the newly religious part of me, defending myself from the sexual part of me because of my thoughts about monastic life.
     Went to dinner and the movies with Peter, Susan, and Kay. Patrick joined us for dinner, but had rehearsal afterward. So the four of us went on to see Chicago, which was fabulous.

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.

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. . . .

City Mouse Meets Robin Redbreast

From my monastery journal:

     27 February 2005   What a grace God sent me today! I went out to the cemetery lane, despite the chilly grayness and gathering clouds, to pray my rosary. After not having seen robins all my pre-cloistered life, I beheld a whole flock of them among the various trees along the lane. There were dozens sitting in the Chinese tallow near the diveway gate—the tallow has no leaves just now, of course, but it is sprinkled with tiny white berries whch made a striking contrast to the scarlet breasts and black heads of the robins. Some would flit down to the grass, hopping and pecking the ground for worms, their breasts all puffed up to their beaks. I'm told they're actually from the north, on their journey south. I suppose they are the ones I see at dawn, coursing over the monastery in huge masses.

     As I made my way back from the cemetery, approaching the same tallow, which was still abundantly ornamented with robins, I saw coming toward me dear little Sr. Mary Sybillina, one of our oldest sisters and a foundress of this monastery. She didn't notice the birds as they flew en masse to a higher, neighboring tree, startled at her approach. But after she passed me, I stood by the tallow and waited; and sure enough, as soon as they saw she was gone, they came back—warily, a few at a time, until they once again filled the white-studded gray branches. A moment later, Sister came back, noticed my fixed upward gaze, and followed my eyes. She stopped, too, and stared in wonder for a moment.

     Watching those robins, I thought of his Precious Blood—yet I was filled with joy. How can one not feel joy at the sight of those dear birds?

THE ROBIN TREE

I caught my breath in awe at that fair sight;

Such wondrous gifts at ev'ry turn may be!

A tallow, and a winged coterie

Of scarlet breasts among its berries white—

A robin tree!

Like dancing drops of blood on spotless wool

They flitted branch to branch with dizzy glee,

Three dozen strong or more, a symphony

Of whirring wing and chirping fanciful—

O robin tree!

Entranced, I found I could not turn my gaze

From such an entertaining jamboree;

It was indeed a pefect harmony

Of vision fair and merry roundelays—

That robin tree!

But as I gazed, my thoughts did turn to Him

Whose breast is scarlet, too, but with the blood

From many a cruel blow for love withstood,

Who writhes with pierced hand and straining limb

Against the wood.