The Bond of True Friendship

When I left "the world" to enter the cloister, my deepest sorrow was not, as one would think, leaving my family, but leaving my friends. My family, I knew, would always be there for me and I would be always in their hearts, and they would certainly visit as often as was permitted; but how many of my friendships would survive what could have been a lifelong separation? If I had remained in the cloister, taken solemn vows, it was quite possible that I would never again see any of them, unless they made the trip to Lufkin to visit, or to witness my Solemn Profession.

 

I did receive letters from some of my friends, and one of them did come for a brief visit. One, however, wrote to me far more often than the others. Oddly enough, it was a friend I hardly ever saw in person (and still see only rarely). I was so very grateful whenever my novice directress handed me an envelope scrawled with his familiar handwriting! It was during those two and a half years, enclosed in the monastery walls, that I learned how true a friend he was and is.

Forgetting

Forgetting is the thing I fear the most.
I can't forbid the fading of the day,
nor can I draw the curtains of your heart
against the void of predatory night.
The music we have shared, the scattered days,
are feeble beams of light across the sea
of separation, circumstance, and time.
That there may only be what there
has been, I won't regret. The one thing I
could never bear is that you would forget.


Assurance

"How could I forget you? Be sure of my eternal friendship,
     as I am sure of yours." ~ from a letter

There is a passacaglia in my mind
That plays its stately rhythm on those days
When faith becomes a nebulous, gray haze
And all bright hope lies languishing behind.
Its harmonies are simple, yet refined;
Its tune develops at a solemn pace;
There is comfort in its persistent bass,
A steady beat, dependable and kind.
Above all, its composer is most dear,
For it is you, who wrote it for my heart
When cloister walls had once kept me apart
From things familiar, things I held as mine.
It is my talisman against all fear
Of distance, and its thieving ally, time.


Definition of "passacaglia"
© Leticia Austria 2008, 2011

Succumbing to Emoticons

     Facebook can be a minefield. I've learned this the hard way. Actually, it's not just Facebook, it's any communication through the written word, especially "fast-food" versions, otherwise known as social networks. Twitter can be equally precarious.

     What I mean is, what you write, particularly in haste, can so easily be misconstrued and the person you are writing to so easily offended. With handwritten letters and even email, there is a certain luxury of leisure in which you may think a bit more while writing so as to express yourself clearly and accurately. Conversely, as too often happens given today's technology and faster pace, you are more likely to post/comment on Facebook or tweet on Twitter via handheld gadget and while out and about in public, greatly decreasing the possibility for careful thought before writing. But even in the calmer atmosphere of home, posting/commenting/tweeting is too often done haphazardly, with little consideration as to how things are expressed and how they may be interpreted. Consequently, the reader can take things the wrong way, respond in kind, even unfriend or block you, and you are left bewildered and even indignant that what you wrote could be so misconstrued.

     Enter the emoticon. When I first began tweeting and Facebooking, I held emoticons in deep disdain and was annoyed at the very sight of them. True to my nature, the more I saw them scattered about my screen the more I resisted using them. Words, I maintained, chosen with discrimination, would suffice to communicate clearly.

     Unfortunately, what I have discovered over time is that I am the kind of person who needs to think not once, not twice, but many times, and long and hard, before I type and press "Enter." I read something a friend has written on Facebook and I enter a comment that may be a kneejerk response, without pausing to think that I may be offending my friend. Then, also true to my nature, I spend the next several hours in genuine remorse, wishing I hadn't written so hastily and thoughtlessly.

     I finally have to admit that emoticons, abhorrent as they are to me, do indeed prevent a great deal of misunderstanding. The mere presence of a ☺takes away hidden, unintentional stings so that harmony may prevail. The emoticon is the written equivalent of the American South's ubiquitous expression "bless her heart," which can soften even the most bald-faced insult ("she looks like a beached whale in that dress, bless her heart").

     All that said, I steadfastly refuse to use the word "heart" as a verb. "Love" in any language is the most beautiful, if also often misused, word in the world. Besides, loving involves much more than the heart.

    

Ghosts I've Sought

     "Antique-ing" was a passion of mine back in the days when I could afford it. Even then, I could indulge only in the most modest way. Unfortunately, most of the things I wanted to collect had the potential of becoming too expensive—Bakelite jewelry, literary first editions, pre-twentieth century dip pens and inkwells—so I reluctantly had to leave many desirable items in the shops and just visit them from time to time, fondle them briefly, and walk away from them disconsolate.

     Just across the street from my last apartment in Houston, there was a small antique mall, one of those cozy, cramped, but relatively clean havens relished by nostalgia lovers like me. I would go there weekly, usually coming away empty-handed, sometimes bringing home a vintage fountain pen or some unopened jars of Skrip ink from the 1940's. One day, while rummaging through some handwritten letters and old postcards, I came across a little diary from the '30s, written by a teenager named Mary Edith More. It wasn't a comprehensive, detailed journal; only one of those day-a-page affairs that allow the diarist just enough space to record events in the most perfunctory manner. Still, browsing through a few entries, I found myself being charmed by Mary's brief accounts of her acquisition of a new dress and the latest film showing at her neighborhood cinema. Paraphrase: "Went to see Stand Up and Cheer. There was the cutest little girl that sang and danced. She was adorable!" Shirley Temple, of course.

     I found a few more day-a-page diaries of Mary's and decided to purchase them. Why? Firstly, they afforded me a firsthand look into everyday life in the 1930's; secondly—and this was crucial for me—I thought of how I would feel if my journals wound up in an antique shop, possibly never to be bought and read, or, worse still, if they were left to dust and worms in some trash heap. I felt a pang for poor Mary More and wanted to rescue the words she had taken such pains to write.

     When I took the diaries to the register I asked the clerk if he knew where they came from. It turned out that the clerk was also the man who purchased the diaries at a family estate sale. Apparently, when Mary's widower remarried, he and their son decided to sell all of Mary's personal property, which included, besides her diaries, the whole of her personal correspondence. I've no idea why they wanted to rid themselves of her effects, but I felt compelled to rescue them. At eight dollars per diary, this was one life on paper I could afford to save. So I bought all the diaries that day and had the clerk hold her correspondence for me until my next paycheck.

    Over the next few days, I got to know Mary Edith More from upstate New York. I was introduced to her friends, her brother, and her parents. I learned that, like most teenagers, she was obsessed with clothes and recorded each new purchase with typical adolescent rapture. I went with her to the cinema to see the latest Fred and Ginger film. I shed a tear when her father died. Unfortunately, I also learned that she was a terrible snob, judging from several derogatory remarks she made about Irish immigrants.

     When I brought home her correspondence, I discovered among it all the courtship letters exchanged between her and her future husband Bron, so I got to know him as well. If I remember correctly (it's been some years since I read the letters), Bron worked for a rubber plant during the war (his and Mary's reactions to Pearl Harbor were particularly poignant); after he and Mary wed, they moved to Houston where Bron worked for a petroleum company. Throughout their courtship, he wrote Mary many letters, two a day, almost daily; in reading them, I found out that he was a sensitive man, very patient and devoted—and, in my opinion, too good for Mary! He treated her much better than she him—and wrote more often, as well. In fact, Mary came across as quite a little snit. I liked her best friend Eleanor Bianco much better; her letters, and the letters of Mary's other friends, were highly entertaining and well written, unlike Mary's.

     Although I was somewhat disappointed that Mary wasn't a better writer or a more likable person (at least on paper), I was still so very glad that I got the chance to know her and her circle. When I entered the monastery, which was not long after I "met" Mary, I unhappily had to leave all her papers behind. I did not throw them out or sell them, but left them in my apartment for the next tenant, whom I knew and who had asked to take over my lease. She enjoyed the diaries and letters, too.

     Mary, I'm glad I rescued you from the antique shop! I'm sorry your husband and son discarded what was part of their own history. I toyed with the idea of getting in touch with them and giving them another chance to keep your things; but I thought, perhaps they have deeply personal reasons for selling them off in the first place. I only hope my own journals and letters have a better fate.