On Waking Early

      Granted, “early” is relative. One man’s “why am I up so early” is another man’s “I’m a lazy slob.” When I worked in opera as a coach and rehearsal pianist, I cursed the days that began at the ungodly hour of 10 a. m. Though we were guaranteed a 12-hour night (that’s twelve hours from the end of the previous day’s rehearsals, not twelve hours from the time you actually lay your music-spinning head on the pillow), 10 a. m. meant for me rising at 7—insult to injury, considering how long it always took to wind down the night before from the day’s labor. It wasn’t just the physical fatigue, though that was enough; it was the intense mental concentration of coaching singers one-on-one, and/or playing long rehearsals under the added pressure of following a sometimes very exacting conductor. Both body and brain were oatmeal by 10 p. m. You’d think I would just conk out as soon as I got home, but, ironically, my body would be too tired and my mind too full of residual music to sleep. Morning was the absolute worst time of day.
     After fifteen years of the late-to-bed-late-to-rise opera life, I followed a call to religious life and entered a Catholic monastery, where we retired every night at 9:30 and woke at 5:20. Surprisingly, it didn’t take me long at all to adjust to my new schedule—if you rise at such an early hour, it’s easy to fall asleep at night, and the busyness of monastic life is different from the busyness of operatic life; where the latter is physically and mentally exhausting, the former is oddly restorative. The monastic horarium is very structured; every minute of the day is accounted for, even times for recreation and rest. I found myself actually being grateful for the sameness of the days; yet there was always variety in the sameness; each day’s liturgy gave a different tenor to the routine. The most surprising thing of all was that I actually came to love the morning with all its promise and newness. Between morning Office and Mass, there were about forty minutes for private prayer/meditation, to be done wherever one felt was most conducive to this holy task. If the weather allowed, I would make my meditation in the woods, where the nascent sunlight would filter through the saplings lining the enclosure wall and create natural “stained-glass windows.” There, in that light reminiscent of His resurrection, I would let the Spirit lead me where it willed. Morning became a true renewal and reawakening for mind and soul.
      Now, away from both opera house and cloister, I have compromised somewhat, rising at 6:30. There are no woods in which to contemplate God’s handiwork and celebrate the gift of a new, fresh day; I can’t take meditative walks in the depressed neighborhood in which I now live; but I’ve made my bedroom a monastic cell of sorts, and always devote the first hour of my day (and the last, as well) to prayer. Morning is still, as it was in the monastery, my time for garnering strength from Him Who is my strength. But every once in a while during my meditation, a rogue thought flits through my mind: how different my mornings are now from my old opera life routine of cigarettes and grumpiness!

The Way along the Wall

This is an early poem, first drafted when I was a novice, revised a couple of years later. The little sketch was done during one of my many solitary strolls through the monastery grounds. There was a short path along one of the "arms" of the enclosure wall that I particularly loved and called "The Avenue." I wanted to memorialize it in this poem and sketch.

 

The Way along the Wall

"The Avenue" is dapple-most
on ochre afternoons.
Along this path the breezes murmur
their most wistful tunes,
the only sound
save the dry-leafed ground

beneath my feet.  I watch the light
play shyly on the wall,
the longed-for boundary that nestles
those who heed the call
in arms of stone
to be God's own.

I savor this way of wood and wall
that lies so straight, serene,
between the here, the now, the chosen,
and what once had been.
Still—I know that yesterday
is but a dappled wall away.

Poem and sketch © Leticia Austria 2009

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

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.

My Favorite Wildflower

     Many, many years ago—I think I must have been in middle school—I saw my first wild rain lily. It had finally rained hard one dry summer, and a couple of days after the storm I found a single white flower in our front yard, rising above the grass, straight and pristine as a ballerina en pointe. My first instinct was to pick it and put it in my room, but then I thought, it looks so right where it is. It was there for only a couple of days and I never saw another one in our yard since. I never forgot it, though, and later learned that it was a rain lily.

     Years later when I was in the monastery, I loved taking walks in the woods within the enclosure walls, and delighted in the various wildflowers that bloomed there, though I didn't know much about them. I had entered in the summer, a particularly dry one, and after the first heavy rainfall I noticed lilies had sprouted up—these, however, were not snowy white, but pale pinkish-purple, delicately striped. There was an old book in the novitiate library about Texas wildflowers, and I learned from it that this particular kind of rain lily grows in wooded areas. I also learned that the rain lily bulbs lie very deep in the ground, so deep that they sprout blooms only after a heavy enough rain breaks a long, long drought.

     Something about that fact moved me deeply. Maybe it was because I was going through so many difficulties, so many tests of patience and tolerance, during those first months as a postulant. Thinking of those flowers lying dormant for so long, patiently and confidently waiting for the rain from heaven to bring them forth from the dry earth, was a great help to me. I've loved rain lilies ever since. Now whenever I see them, standing tall and exultant after their deep sleep, I rejoice in God's sustaining grace and my belief in resurrection is renewed. We are, after all, more to God than the lilies of the field.

The Rain Lily

Beneath this crusted soil I shall await
the rain. Beneath the weight of withering roots
of weeds, I'll bide my time. It is the fate
allotted me. Inert yet resolute,

I have the shell of unremitting trust
in which to sleep, the pearl protection of
the waiting yet to rise, of those who must
depend upon the water from above

to fall and break the drought. For it must fall
someday, as surely as this ground is dry.
It is the compensation for us all.
The day will come when I shall see the sky.

["The Rain Lily" © Leticia Austria 2009. First published in The Road Not Taken: A Journal of Formal Poetry ]

Source



God is Not in the Music

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

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

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

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

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

Withdrawal

     I was a smoker on and off from the age of fourteen, and between the ages of 30 and 43 smoking was a full-blown daily habit. Mind you, I was never a four-pack-a-day-er, but one pack a day was certainly something to sneeze (or cough) at. Stress was my excuse, and smoking, so I chose to believe, relieved stress.

     When I accepted God's invitation to religious life, I gave up smoking -- just like that. The fact that I didn't experience any of those terrible withdrawal symptoms I'd always read about, told me I was never really addicted to cigarettes; I was just inexplicably stupid for a very long time. I have never even slightly craved a cigarette since.

     Once in the cloister, I gave up another habit perforce: sodas. My drink of choice for years in secular life was Coke, then, when it came out, Cherry Coke. I drank far more Coke than water or anything else. But in monastic life, soda is a treat reserved for big feast days and picnic days; it is drunk on fewer than ten days out of the year. Did I miss it? At first, yes. But now I'm happy to say that my time in the cloister cured me forever of my soda habit. Now I only drink it in fast food joints, which is to say, not often at all.

     During my recent two-week holiday with family, I was totally without a computer the first week. Did I miss it? Yes, but not sorely. I suspect that, were I deprived altogether of a computer of my own, and in times of necessity had to use someone else's, I wouldn't lament for long, but would adapt quite quickly and relatively painlessly. I would still want to write this blog and check my Facebook and Twitter accounts once or twice a week, but I really wouldn't miss surfing the net for long hours, or playing Word Drop, or doing crosswords online. There are, as my readers know, too many books on my shelves and too many unwritten poems buried somewhere in my mud-and-dry-leaf-encrusted depths, for me to suffer from the want of ways to occupy my mind.

     There was one thing, however, that I did very sorely feel the lack of during my holiday: Frasier. Or, more accurately, the brilliance of David Hyde Pierce. Now that, for me, is a true addiction, and I'm sure I would suffer deep and agonizing withdrawal, were I ever (God forbid) forced to give it up! 

Three Sunday Mornings

     It's a Sunday morning in the year 2000; time, about 9.00; place, my apartment in Houston. I awaken sans alarm clock, since I don't have to be at the opera house till 2.00 for a chorus staging. Since I am still an agnostic at this time, I have no thought of going to Mass. Instead, I get up to grind my coffee, brew it in my french press pot, and retrieve the newspaper; then, armed with steaming cup (Italian pottery) and said newspaper, I head back to bed, put some Mozart on the CD player, and settle down for a leisurely morning of reading, sipping, and listening. I wonder where I'll have lunch.

     Fast-forward to 2003. It's Sunday morning, same city, same place, but I have set my alarm for 7.30, despite having had a four-hour piano tech the night before, followed by a half-hour production meeting, and not getting home till nearly 1.00. I am determined to go to the 9.30 Latin Mass at Holy Rosary. I could go to a later service, but I love the Latin and the chants. This particular Sunday is a day off for me, so I look forward to lunch with my journal at my neighborhood La Madeleine, followed by an afternoon of book hunting.

     A Sunday morning in 2005, The Monastery of the Infant Jesus in Lufkin. I awaken in pitch darkness to the silvery tinkle of the rising bell, which is rung by one of the novices. It's 5.20. The tinkling continues as the novice goes down the narrow hall of the novitiate past the other cells; I get up from my hard, narrow monastic bed and feel with my feet around the cold linoleum floor for my slippers. Standing up, I weave groggily as I silently pray a Hail Mary. Then I quickly throw on the tunic of my work habit over my long muslin nightgown (because nuns are not allowed to be seen in their nightgowns), straighten my cotton night veil (because nuns are never allowed to have their hair uncovered) which has gone askew in my sleep, trudge down the hall to the toilets, then trudge back to get dressed. As I don tunic, belt, scapular, cape, and veil, I say the prayer that accompanies each one, thus reinforcing in my mind the symbolism behind every component of the holy habit. These prayers are a custom long dead, but having seen it done in a movie, I asked my novice directress if I might do it. (Unfortunately, I have now forgotten all those beautiful short prayers.) Once dressed, I go out into the dark to the main building. I have about fifteen minutes before Office, so I step into the small oratory situated on the other side of large windows behind the altar and tabernacle. If I keep the lights off, no one in the chapel will be able to see me through the windows. I kneel behind the tabernacle with only the cool glass separating me and the Blessed Sacrament, and place myself in the silence of Christ's presence. No words go through my head. I simply focus on his presence. Ten minutes later, I join the rest of the community in the chapel to prepare my breviary and hymn book for the Office of Readings and Morning Prayer. At exactly 5.50, one of the chantresses quietly goes out to the hall to ring the bell. Our day of prayer and contemplation has begun. After Office, individual meditation; at 7.00, Holy Mass (on weekdays, Mass is at 7.20). By 8.15, I'm sitting down to breakfast. If it were five years earlier, I'd still be fast asleep in my bed in Houston.

An Exercise in Frivolity

     One of the things I resort to when going through a poetical low patch (euphemism for "writer's block") is writing lyrics to well-known tunes. It amuses me and keeps my meter/rhyme muscles in shape. I was called upon several times to use this skill, if you can call it that, when I was in the monastery -- e. g., for our novice directress' feast day one year, I wrote funny lyrics to the Brady Bunch theme, and all the novices sang it for her at recreation. We were a big hit. My "crowning achievement" (*snort*) was a little musical in eight vignettes about a young woman who enters the monastery and has to face a family dilemma just before her clothing day. That is, I wrote the book and lyrics, but the music for all the songs was, shall we say, appropriated from The Sound of Music. I had hoped that we, the novices, could perform it on the next St. Louis Bertram celebration (he's the patron saint of novices and novice directors), but, alas, it was not to be.
     One of the songs is about a struggle every postulant goes through -- learning to use the breviary. For those who don't know, the breviary is the book used every single day, several times a day, by ordained/vowed religious for praying the Liturgy of the Hours (also called the Divine Office), either together as a community, or in individual recitation. The common pronunciation, in America at least, is "bree-vree." Yes, the dictionary says otherwise, but for some reason I've always heard it "bree-vree," so that's how I say it, too. Anyway, learning how to use the breviary is a tortured process; hopefully, as a postulant, you are guided through it daily by your "angel," an older novice assigned to help you with all the practical aspects of monastic life.
     So here is my song about learning to use the "bree-vree." It is to be sung to the tune "How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria?"


POSTULANT:  How do you solve a problem like the breviary?
     How do you figure where to go, and when?
     How do you find your way around the breviary?
     I think I have got it, and then I get lost again!
     Many a day my "angel" tries to help me,
     Many a time my neighbor lends a hand.
     How can I expect to pray, and trip all along the way?
     When will I ever reach the Promised Land?
     Oh, how do you solve a problem like the breviary?
     How can I ever hope to understand?

NOVICE MISTRESS:  When I entered, it is true, I was clueless just like you,
     And I never knew exactly where we were ...

PRIORESS:  "It gets easier," they said, but inside my muddled head
     The memorials and the feasts were all a blur!
     But at last there came a day when there shone a hopeful ray,
     And the tangled muddle vanished from my brain.

NOVICE MISTRESS:  Until then, you must expect --

POSTULANT:  -- to become a nervous wreck?

NOVICE MISTRESS:  It's a penance!

PRIORESS:  It's a challenge!

POSTULANT:  It's a pain!!!

ALL 3:  How do you solve a problem like the breviary?
     How do you figure where to go, and when?
     How do you find your way around the breviary?

POSTULANT:  I think I have got it --

PRIORESS:  -- and then you get lost --

POSTULANT:  -- again!

PRIORESS and NOVICE MISTRESS: 
     Many a day my "angel" tried to help me,
     Many a day my neighbor lent a hand.

POSTULANT:  How can I expect to pray, and trip all along the way?

PRIORESS:  When will you ever reach the Promised Land?

ALL 3:  Oh, how do you solve a problem like the breviary? ...

     (Sudden, long pause while the SIGN CHANGER enters, carrying a sign which she places on the easel. On it is written: "Tomorrow's Liturgy: Paul Miki and Companions - Memorial - Common of Several Martyrs." The POSTULANT reads it silently, emits an anguished groan, then continues singing:)

POSTULANT:  How can I ever hope to understand?

Departure

     I left the Monastery of the Infant Jesus in November, 2006, two years and four months after I entered, and six months before I would have taken temporary vows. Not a day has passed since that I have not thought of my all too short life within those walls.
     My departure had nothing and everything to do with my relationship with God. During my last months, he gave me many graces, some in the form of heavy crosses; much new light of knowledge, a greater understanding of his love; in short, I felt closer to him than ever. Yet, too, there was the tiny seed of that other knowledge that grew steadily day by day, the knowledge that he wanted something else of me. I never doubted it was his will, not just mine, that brought me to the cloister, and my confidence on that score was confirmed by the prioress, my novice directress, and many of the other sisters. They and I felt I did have a monastic vocation, and perhaps I do still. But it became clear that God wanted me to be somewhere else in the meantime.
     When the prioress, Sr. Mary Annunciata, called me to her office to tell me she had concluded, after long weeks of prayer, it was best for me that I leave, she again said that she believed I had a vocation, but not with them and perhaps not with the Dominican order. She strongly suggested I try the Benedictines. My musical and literary gifts would be able to flourish with them, as they put great emphasis on the development and use of individual talent, more so than any other order. So why didn't I go to the Benedictines in the first place, you may ask? Precisely for that reason. From the very first whispers of my call, I wanted to find out who and what I was without my talents. They were and are a great part of that "who and what," but they also clouded the issue for me to such an extent that I no longer knew myself -- my whole self. My better self.
     There were many tears when I said goodbye to the sisters, theirs and mine. The bond of religion is a strong one, but the bond that cloistered contemplatives share is unique. Only we can truly understand why we have chosen to sacrifice our life in the world to give ourselves utterly and completely to God in prayer and penance for that same world. The contemplative vocation was, is, and always will be, something of an enigma to those who have never felt a calling to it. Many consider it an aberration, even un-Christian. Then again, how many thought Jesus was an aberration? How many still do? It is for those very people that the contemplative religious life exists at all. And it will exist till the end of earthly time.
     I took my prioress' advice, and after leaving the Monastery of the Infant Jesus, I visited the Benedictine community that I had had my eye on long before, ever since I began my discernment: the Abbey of Regina Laudis in Bethlehem, Connecticut. . . .


UNDERSTANDING

Closing the door behind her,
autumn crispness cool upon
her now bare head, she clearly
sees the room she has just left.
Her mind recalls the soft white
of tunic and scapular
hanging limply on the hook,
the once flowing fall of veil,
still scented from her shampoo,
lying motionless on the
wooden chair. And now, pausing
just outside the cloister door,
she covers her ears to block
something she has not felt for
a long time -- the chilly wind.


But what is she taking away with her?
The proper way to fold a fitted sheet?
Folded properly, with patience, it fits
better on the shelf with the other sheets.
She understands the worth of that lesson.
She understands that freedom was found in
the scarcity of things, that prayers could speak
louder in silence, that a narrow cell
could not confine the heart. She has learned well.
She knows, too, that the simple veil she wore
protected her ears and mind from the chill.


["Understanding" was first published in Time of Singing]

Nuns Having Fun, Part Two: Picnic!

     Oh, how I loved picnic days in the monastery!
     The obvious date for a picnic is, of course, July 4, and the nuns of the Monastery of the Infant Jesus do celebrate Independence Day in that manner; however, they are in Lufkin, which in July is unbearably hot and much too humid for the comfort of people who wear full religious habits. What is the solution? To have a second picnic day on October 12, Columbus Day! That way, one can enjoy all the outdoor activities that couldn't be enjoyed in July! Perfectly sound reasoning.
     On both picnic days, the festivities begin with a ceremonial flag raising. On every other day of the year, the "canonically youngest," that is, the sister who entered the monastery most recently regardless of her age, raises the flag by herself and takes it down before sunset. She is also responsible for dashing out at any threat of rain to bring the flag safely indoors. On picnic day, all the sisters congregate round the flag pole just after breakfast, wearing their light work aprons over their habits. A large box filled with broad-brimmed hats is brought out; each sister dons her choice of "bonnet" for the day, takes a song book from another box, and joins the others in a semi-circle around the pole. At this point, Angie the cloister cat comes slinking over to see what's going on; she reclines at the feet of the prioress and watches, tail flicking, as I, with the aid of another novice, raise both the U. S. and Texas flags while all the sisters sing the national anthem. Other patriotic songs follow (hence the songbooks -- we sing multiple verses of each song); then we all disperse, chattering away, as the rule of silence does not apply on picnic days. Most of us make a bee-line for the refectory where, laid out on the long serving tables, are all sorts of goodies, sweet and salty (including, of course, the infamous popcorn), to be consumed at will throughout the day. There are sodas in the fridge and ice cream bars in the freezer (hence the aprons).
     Snacks obtained, some of us proceed to the community room for games -- not just board games and canasta, but bean bag toss, ring toss, bowling (miniature), and ping pong. Outdoors, there is a badminton net set up, croquet, and of course, we could always shoot baskets since the monastery has a basketball hoop. A few of the sisters like to rollerblade, helmets over their veils, scapulars flying as they charge back and forth down the unfortunately rather short concrete drive. Quite a sight, that.
     The monastery has also been given a golf cart, which comes in very handy for the less mobile elder sisters if they want to be taken for a spin on the paved loop through the walled-in part of the wooded property. There is another part of the property, the larger part of the 72 acres, that is only fenced in and is not nearly as manicured as the smaller, walled-in part. A path was once cleared years ago that winds through the dense woods, but Nature has since obscured it almost completely. Nevertheless, on one picnic day, a few of us decided to take the golf cart as far as it would go on that old path, which wasn't far at all, so we abandoned the cart and walked the rest of the way -- not an easy thing when wearing an ankle-length habit. Fallen branches and even a couple of small felled trees threatened to rip the hems of our tunics; low-hanging branches could at any moment catch on our veils and strip them right off our heads. I, a City Mouse, saw several species of mushroom in what I thought were fantastically improbable colors and in equally fantastic sizes. "Are there snakes?" one of the other City Mice asked of one the professed. "Oh, yes," was the nonchalant reply, whereupon a non-stop stream of silent Hail Marys ensued.
     Meals on picnic days are eaten anywhere one likes, indoor or out; conversation abounds, and sodas are plentiful (you may have surmised by now that sodas are a seldom-enjoyed treat). In the late afternoon, there is usually a movie. Someone donated one of those gargantuan flat-screen TVs -- he already had one, then won one another in a raffle, so he gave his old one to the monastery. Movies are donated on a regular basis (the sisters also possess both a DVD player and VCR), all of them Catholic or generally spiritual in nature. Naturally, The Sound of Music is a favorite. Narnia was also a big hit.
     The only things that remain inviolate even on picnic days are Mass and the Divine Office, both of which occur at their usual times. Contemplative nuns and monks are bound by pain of sin to pray the entire Divine Office every single day of their lives; it is their most important work, the primary reason they are in the cloister in the first place. I will say, speaking for myself, since I did not live the life of a contemplative for very long, I found it difficult to concentrate on the Office amidst the festivities and gaiety of picnic day. As much fun as it was to talk and play all day, I was grateful that such days were few and far between. Conversely, their infrequency also made me appreciate them even more. We in the secular world sometimes take our leisure time for granted, especially the leisure time we spend with our family and loved ones. I began to see more clearly that life without prayer is fallow, and prayer itself is fallow without the charity that is cultivated through relationships, be they familial, social, or the spiritual friendship of those who are called to the cloister.
    
   

Nuns Having Fun, Part One

     Recreation is a very important element in cloistered religious life. After all, even nuns have to have a break! It also provides them the chance to know the women with whom they must live for the rest of their lives, women whom they didn't choose themselves but who were chosen by God. There are occasions, too, when two or more sisters must work together at various jobs around the monastery; although the rule of silence forbids them to hold casual conversations while working and limits verbal intercourse to the absolutely necessary, they do come to know each other somewhat through their mutual work. Recreation, however, is the time for more camaraderie, freedom of expression, and just plain fun.
     Most houses in most contemplative orders allow time in their daily horarium for two recreations. In the Monastery of the Infant Jesus, the first recreation, which is scheduled at 1:00 after dinner, is separated; that is, the professed sisters have theirs in the main community room, and the novices would have our own in the novitiate community room. This room is dominated by four large tables which are usually pushed together to form one huge one; around it, all the novices, postulants, and the novice directress would gather, sometimes doing little projects as we chat. Many of the sisters make rosaries, either of the "knotted" variety, or with chain, to give out to the missions. Unfortunately, I never mastered that particular skill. One of my fellow novices tried to teach me how to make the knotted kind, to no avail; my knots kept unravelling. God in his infinite goodness gave me many gifts, but making rosaries isn't one of them; nor is darning, which is another thing sisters are fond of doing during recreation. The vow of poverty compels nuns to make things last until they fall apart beyond all repair, including the knee socks they all wear (they still refer to them by the quainter term, "stockings"). Holes in toes or heels, rips or runs in the legs, all must be darned. My first few feeble attempts at darning came undone, inevitably, in a single washing. Chastened, I asked my novice mistress what I could be doing wrong; she asked me, "Are you using the right thread?" There's a special thread for darning? Who knew?
     The second recreation takes place after supper, around 6:40. All the sisters -- professed and novices -- gather in the large community room in the main building, again bringing little projects or just a readiness to be sociable. The only rule is, there must be more than two in a group -- "pairs" are considered exclusive rather than sociable, a consideration which, I suspect, stems from the long-established taboo about forming "particular friendships" in the monastery. A very good thing, that, for many reasons; one of which (the most important) is that religious must emulate Jesus in all things, including loving everyone equally and with detachment (which means not "cleaving"). Another very good reason is that forming particular friendships creates factions, which will eventually and inevitably destroy the unity of mind and heart so crucial in a monastic community -- "unity" being half of the word "community."
     My favorite recreation of all was Sunday evening. It's a half hour longer because it's Game Night. Board games are brought out -- Uno, Clue, etc., usually a jigsaw puzzle as well, and there is always the canasta group, which consists of a small core of die-hard canasta players, plus an ever-evolving satellite band of rookies. The die-hards are among the oldest of the sisters, and they tend to make up their own rules; so if you are at all familiar with the game going in, you have to be prepared to forget everything you once learned and conform to their peculiar form of canasta. I did learn, but have since forgotten completely how to play, both their way and the real way.
     Game Night's other chief characteristic is the snacking. Now, you have to remember (or perhaps you didn't know) that "snacking" in the worldly, secular sense is not done in monastic life. You have your meals, and necessary glasses of water or juice in between, and that's it. Maybe some crackers, if you have to take something with prescription medicines. So the Game Night snacks -- which always included among them the sisters' favorite, popcorn -- are indeed a treat. They are put on a cart by the cook sister, and the cart is pushed around to the various gaming groups by a novice or postulant at the proper time, about halfway through the recreation period. Once when it was my turn to push the cart, I accidently knocked over the very large, almost full barrel of freshly popped corn. Fluffly kernels scattered everywhere. In the old days, I would have been ordered, as penance, to clean the mess by myself and eat the popcorn (e-e-e-w!!). Fortunately, it was 2005, so a few of the other sisters helped me clean up, and one of them (bless her old-school-nun's heart) offered to eat the popcorn. I suppose I could have remonstrated and taken on that penance myself, but -- I'm sorry -- I just couldn't bring myself to do anything so unsanitary! I was a bad nun!

"We'll put on our own show - right here in our cloister!"

     It all began on the Memorial of St. Louis Bertram, the patron saint of novices and novice directors. That day is also the traditional "feast day" of all novices and novice directors/directresses, a day of games, having jolly meals together, talking and laughing, and generally taking a break from monastic life, except of course for Mass and the Divine Office. Festivities for this day take place in the Gate Parlor, which is the largest visiting parlor in the Monastery of the Infant Jesus, and is a small, separate building all its own (which means you can make lots of noise without disturbing the rest of the community).
     So there we were, the novices, our novice directress Sr. Maria Cabrini, the prioress Sr. Mary Annunciata, and a few others, having dinner in the Gate Parlor and chatting about this and that. I don't remember exactly what prompted it, but I told them about the Christmas madrigal feasts my high school and college choirs did every year -- we would wear Elizabethan costumes, sing Elizabethan carols, and the "guests" (audience) would feast on roast beef, potatoes, and flaming plum pudding. I guess my enthusiasm got the better of me, because they were completely taken with the idea, especially our prioress, Sr. Mary Annunciata, who had been an English major and librarian before becoming a nun.
     Sure enough, a few weeks later, my novice directress, Sr. Maria Cabrini, told me Sr. Mary Annunciata suggested that the novices put on a madrigal feast for Epiphany. Oh, dear, I thought, what did I get myself into? I knew the sisters enjoyed doing little plays and concerts, even making rudimentary costumes and scenery, but it never entered my mind that they would want to do a madrigal feast! The first thing I considered was costuming. Now, you have to understand that nuns cannot take off their habits except to sleep. They are not even allowed to remove the cape or the scapular, and God forbid they should remove the veil. So I devised a costume that, if I do say so myself, was rather ingenious: a second "scapular," to be worn over the cape, the front panel belted empire style with a sash that tied behind and underneath the back panel, which was left loose and flowing. We used all the nicest fabrics to be found in the many cartons of donated "remainder" fabrics kept in the hobby room.
     The headdress was a more perplexing problem. I eventually decided on an Ann Boleyn-type crown, made by attaching heavy cardboard crescents to plastic headbands. Because of the curve of the band, the cardboard stands up like a crown. We novices had great fun decorating each crown with a different design, using sequins and beads. They were actually quite beautiful, and the sisters could wear them right on top of their veils for a surprisingly authentic look.
     As to the music, I chose a mix of traditional and lesser-known carols, mostly in English, with a little German and French thrown in. I wrote simple but effective arrangements for two and three parts; I even wrote an original composition entitled "Responsum Mariae," which is a setting of the second part of the Angelus, "Ecce ancilla Domini; fiat mihi secundum verbum tuum" ("Behold the handmaid of the Lord; be it done unto me according to thy word"). I wanted to tell the whole nativity story beginning with the Annunciation, alternating music with Scripture readings and poetry. In order to involve the whole community, I assigned the readings and poems to sisters I had not chosen to sing in the choir. (I was given permission to choose the best voices for the singing.)
     December of that year turned out to be a terrible time for preparing a show: bad colds caused many music rehearsals to be cancelled, then there were two deaths among the sisters that month. The madrigal feast had to be rescheduled for the Feast of the Annunciation, March 25, which was also our prioress' feast day. We could still retain the nativity theme, and I could dedicate my "Responsum Mariae" to her. Actually, the postponement was a good thing; Sr. Mary Annunciata gave me permission to set up a rehearsal schedule, telling me I could have as many rehearsals as I needed, as long as they took place during recreation so that the regular horarium would not be disrupted. I scheduled ten hours -- the music itself was not that difficult, since I kept in mind when writing the arrangements the fact that most of my singers had no formal musical training; indeed, some of them couldn't read music at all. German was limited to two verses of "Silent Night" and "Still, still, still"; the only French they had to learn was a short chorus of one carol, the verses of which I sang myself as a solo. Distributing other solos among the stronger musicians helped reduce the actual amount of music for the untrained.
     In the end, it was quite a success. All the sisters were given a copy of the script so they could follow along and stand up when it was time for their readings. Sr. Mary Annunciata was thrilled with all the work we did; the costumes were beautiful, and my choir did me proud. The only not-so-successful element, I think, was the plum pudding. . . .

[The piece I wrote specially for our madrigal feast. Later, I set the whole Angelus for women's voices, continuo, and oboe obbligato; however, except for this movement, it has never been performed by the sisters.]

On Being the Monastery "Busboy"

     I really came to enjoy the job of monastery laundress and was rather sorry when I had to move on and learn another job, that of server at dinner (the midday meal, and biggest meal of the day).
     Having lived on my own for many years, and not being fond of cooking just for myself, I frequently took pleasure in eating alone in restaurants all through my secular life, a pleasure I had actually begun to enjoy when in college. By nature a loner, I've always liked taking my time with a meal, reading a book or writing in my journal as I did so, and not having to make conversation; however, I was not always averse to eating with one or two very good friends with whom conversation was effortless and even, at times, completely unnecessary. Once I entered the monastery, solitary meals became a thing of the past except on "Our Wednesdays" -- a sort of vacation day from regular monastic life, when meals are "pick-up" and may be eaten outdoors or in the recreation room, as long as silence is still kept. Otherwise, meals are communal, in the refectory; there is no conversation, but one listens to the reader. The one thing I had a real problem with was the actual length of the meal, which was a decidedly unleisurely 15-20 minutes.
     As quickly as those 15-20 minutes passed, they seemed downright luxurious compared with the few minutes in which the weekly server must eat in order to carry out her duties. But I'm jumping ahead of myself. Let's go back and start with the server's pre-dinner duties.
     As dinner server of the week, I leave the chapel the very second Midday Prayer is over and make a bee-line for the kitchen. There, I set up the tall, 4-tiered rolling cart on which the sisters will scrape and stack their cafeteria trays and dishes at the end of the meal. I fill with hot water the deep, compartmentalized tray in which they will place their dirty silverware, and set it on the cart along with a large rubber tub for disposing paper napkins and food scraps (since religious are bound by the vow of poverty to eat everything on their plates, there's usually little waste). All that done, I set the readied cart by the swinging door to the refectory, ready to be rolled out as soon as the meal ends. Meanwhile, the cook sister has put all the food platters on a smaller, two-tiered cart; when she is done, I take the cart into the refectory and arrange the platters in order on the tables: proteins first, followed by starches, vegetables, then salads on one table; on the second table, breads, dessert, fruits, water pitchers, and milk jugs (fruit juices are in a nearby refrigerator). Serving utensils having already been set out on the tables that morning, I put them with the appropriate platters, leave the lids on the hot foods, and set the emptied cart by the wall.
     It's time now for me to take off my apron, get my food, and eat. But, knowing I don't have a lot of time, I'm careful not to "load up" my tray. As I eat, the sisters come randomly in and form two lines on either side of the room. When everyone is in, one of the other novices, or a postulant, goes out to ring the Angelus bell; I stop shoveling food into my face and stand up as the reader begins the Angelus. When she finishes, I go to the serving tables, remove the lids from all the hot platters and place them on the carts. That done, I say, "Sister, ask for a blessing." The reader says the blessing, then all the sisters file to the serving tables to obtain their food while I resume shoveling my own into my face.
     Only four or five minutes later, while everyone is eating and listening to the reader, I put my tray on the serving cart, don my apron again, and clear the serving tables -- very quietly, which is not easy to do when dealing with large platters, cymbal-like metal lids, and big, clattery spoons. Everything goes back on the small cart. For some reason, the cart always looks twice as loaded going out as it did coming in, much the way a suitcase always seems smaller when packing at the end of a trip than it did when packing for the trip. Nevertheless, I try to clear as quickly as possible, because I know the most time-consuming and nerve-wracking part of the job is coming up. As I push the cart out of the refectory toward the kitchen, I pray that none of the big metal lids will slide off and clatter to the floor, startling all the sisters and momentarily drowning out the reader.
     Now for the putting away of the leftovers. I have never mastered the knack of finding the right-sized containers for this task. More often than not, I discover too late that the container I've chosen is too small and I have to find another. While I search for ideal containers and put the leftovers in the huge walk-in refrigerator, I listen with one ear for the reader's voice giving the end-of-meal blessing, which tells me I had better put it in high gear -- because two or three minutes later, sisters on dishwashing duty will be coming into the kitchen; if I have not scraped all the serving platters and pots and pans and put them on the counters to be washed, the sisters will stand waiting in their canvas aprons, unconsciously making me even more clumsy and nervous. I say "unconsciously," because they actually sympathize and don't want to hurry me. They've all been there.
     You've probably surmised by now that I didn't exactly relish being dinner server. Fortunately, the job was reassigned weekly. Unfortunately, there were only two other novices besides myself at the time. The jobs of laundress, dinner server, refectorian (a fancy name for refectory janitor) and supper cook, were rotated among the three of us. "Cooking" supper is very simple, as that meal usually consists of one hot dish -- a canned vegetable, or canned tapioca, or canned rice pudding, simply heated up; eggs already boiled that morning and waiting in the fridge, yogurt, and bread with jelly and/or peanut butter; so that job isn't at all bad. But whenever it was my turn to be dinner server, I prayed fervently that God would send us more vocations that hopefully stayed long enough to become novices, which would make the duty of server come around less often for us all.
  

Laundress for 28 Nuns, Part Two

     When I received the habit and was told that, as a novice, I would have to take on the duty of laundress, I was at first horrified. The thought of washing clothes and linens for 28 people sounded like a nightmare to me, surpassed in horror only by the thought of cooking for 28. My novice directress, Sr. Maria Cabrini, assured me that it was a very popular job among the sisters, mainly because it afforded the laundress much time alone in a separate building; it was very quiet (the sound of the machines notwithstanding) and the laundress could spend a lot of time reading between loads. The delicious prospect of solitude finally sold me on the idea.

     Nuns don't have a vast wardrobe: each sister has two everyday habits (changed weekly), several cotton undershirts (changed daily, because the habit is only changed weekly), a work habit (only worn when doing heavy work, like painting or clearing tree limbs after a storm -- and how often can that be?), a special habit that is worn only on Christmas, Easter, and the day of profession (it looks exactly like the everyday habit, but is made of a slightly fancier grade of cotton/poly), two petticoats, two nightgowns, two work aprons; plus socks and unmentionables, which are washed in personal net swish bags for convenience as well as privacy. That is the extent of whatever each sister wears on her person. But when you add to that every week: bathtowels, bed linens, cleaning rags, kitchen aprons, kitchen towels (which number in the dozens), and take into account that each habit has three parts (excluding cap and veil, which each sister washes herself) -- you've got a lot o' laundry!

     Monday morning is the busiest, as this is when habits are washed and "spotted," and for spotting, the laundress is aided by the other novices, postulants, and novice mistress. Though the sisters are responsible for taking spots out of their own habits, the Monday morning team checks all the habits again after the laundress washes and dries them, removing even the tiniest pinhead-sized spots with a wide array of chemicals found in dry cleaning businesses.

     Tuesday morning, the laundress rises extra early because Tuesday is steam press day. The monastery possesses one professional steam press, which to my mind resembles a large panini press in the shape of an ironing board. In fact, I often wondered if it could be used to grill enough sandwiches for the whole community's dinner -- 28 panini in one fell swoop! But I digress. The laundress must rise extra early in order to light the steam press' pilot light. This is not as easy as it may sound. The pilot light is in a small utility closet, very close to the floor, hidden underneath and behind various pipes. The laundress, armed with her handy long-reach torch lighter, all but turns herself upside down to find the pilot, even using a hand mirror if need be. Once lit, it takes the steam press about 20 minutes to heat to the proper temperature.

     Pressing the habits is done in shifts: tunics, then scapulars, then capes. The first sister on pressing duty comes in at around 5.20, giving her half an hour before Morning Prayer to press as many tunics as possible, hopefully getting most if not all of them done so that the second sister, who takes over immediately after Morning Prayer, can move on to the scapulars, getting as many of those done as she can before Mass, so that the third and final sister, taking over after breakfast, can get to and finish the capes before Midmorning Prayer. After Midmorning Prayer, all the novices and postulants, and the novice mistress, come into the laundry to fold scapulars and capes. The tunics are hung on rolling racks. Folding must be done and everything taken to the seamstress sister's workroom by Midday Prayer. The seamstress sister puts all the habits in order, according to laundry number, in the long hallway closets where they may be picked up by their owners by Saturday evening.

     Now, you may be wondering why, if the fresh habits aren't picked up till Saturday evening, they have to be washed and pressed by Tuesday midday. I often wondered that myself. I do know that the steam press, which uses a great deal of power, can only be used one day a week for only a few hours (in the morning, so that the temperature in the laundry won't be so unbearable). But why Tuesday? Beats me. I tried not to ask too many questions. But getting all the hardest work over with early in the week makes the rest of the week very easy for the laundress. After Tuesday, she can revel in all that promised solitude between loads of linens, kitchen towels and swish bags. And believe you me, I did.

Laundress for 28 Nuns, Part One

     Now that I was a novice and beginning my canonical year -- that is, the first year of the novitiate -- there were new jobs I had to learn. One was laundress. I don't know how laundry is handled in other houses, but in the Monastery of the Infant Jesus, one sister, usually a novice or a sister in temporary vows, does the laundry for the entire community. To make her job somewhat easier, laundry is divided into categories: nightgowns and habits (including petticoats, but not caps or veils), bed and bath linens, cleaning rags, and swish bags. Swish bags are net bags in which are washed all intimate items, keeping yours separate from everyone else's. Each category is given its own wash day, but swish bags -- because of the nature of their contents -- could be washed on any day. 

     Also making the job easier are the appliances. In the large laundry room, which shares a separate building with the main storage room and the hobby room, there are three washing machines: the main washer, huge, computerized, and formidable in its terrible efficiency; a regular machine of the sort found in every average home; and the old manual washer with its partner, the extractor.

     I must devote some few lines to these last two appliances, because I had never seen the likes of them before, nor do I expect to see them again. First of all, the manual washer is used only when in a hurry and the big computerized washer is occupied. It stands taller than me, is of solid steel, and has a glass porthole door. Detergent is deposited in a small chute at the top. At the side are two levers which open and close valves inside the barrel, one for hot water, the other for cold. When the valves are opened, the barrel fills with water, the temperature of which is determined by your manipulation of the two levers. Since it takes a moment or two for the barrel to fill with the desired amount of water (depending on the size of your load), I would usually try to multi-task and attend to something else in the meantime. Once, however, I completely forgot I had left the valves open, only to be rudely reminded of the fact by the deluge gushing out the porthole and onto the cement floor. I was later assured that I was by no means the first laundress to flood the laundry, and it is for that very reason the floors are bare cement with a very large drain grid set near the manual washer.

     When the water level is correct and the valves safely closed, you then push a button to start the barrel agitating and to release the detergent. The agitation will stop on its own a few moments later, at which point you may start it again for further agitation, depending on how dirty the items are, or you may drain all the soapy water and refill the barrel with fresh rinse water. When all this is done and the last of the rinse water drained out, and since the washer has no extracting mechanism, it is then time to use the washer's partner, the extractor.

     The best way to describe the extractor is to liken it to a giant salad spinner; in fact, I'm convinced this is how the idea of the salad spinner was conceived. The extractor is a large, round steel tub into which you heave your water-weighted laundry, taking the greatest care to arrange it evenly around the center cone. The laundry loaded, you clamp the lid shut and turn the machine on, whereupon the inner tub begins its hurricane-force whirl. (If you have not arranged the laundry evenly, the extractor will wobble violently and very noisily, and threaten to catapult itself through the roof.) Water drains through a pipe and into a hole in the floor; you watch for the steady stream to reduce to a trickle, then to a slow drip, then you turn the extractor off. But wait! Do not open the lid until the inner tub has come to a dead stop and all is silent within, if you value your hands and all ten fingers!
     After my introduction to these two quaint contraptions, I gave fervent thanks for the fancy computerized washer and the gargantuan dryer.
    

    

  

On Receiving the Habit of Religion

     The date was set for my clothing day, and I couldn't have asked for a better or more appropriate one. In the year 2005, May 29, a Sunday, fell on the Solemnity of the Body and Blood of Christ. Since I had chosen as my mystery the Passion and Cross of Jesus, this day was perfect; but it was made even more perfect by the fact that May 29 was Sr. Mary William's birthday. Sister, who died in December of 2004, had championed my vocation indefatigably and was my role model and spiritual mother. I was very sorry that she didn't live to see me receive the habit, but, being clothed on her birthday, I felt she was blessing and looking down on me from heaven.

     I was very excited to be measured for my habits (one to wear, one for spare). The Dominican habit is, I've always thought, one of the most beautiful of all religious habits: a loose tunic, creamy white, with long, deeply cuffed sleeves, and cinched with a black leather belt from which hangs a large black rosary; over that, the white scapular -- a panel in front and a panel in back, sewn together at the shoulders, the sides left open, a sort of over-long bib; over the scapular, a short white cape, ending just above the elbows, with a stiff stand-up collar; a white cap, shaped like a bathing cap; and over the cap, the waist-long veil -- white for the novice, black for the professed. Underneath, a full cotton petticoat skirt. The best thing about the petticoat is that it has two over-sized patch pockets that are accessed via slits in the sides of the tunic. A nun could keep all her wordly possessions in those pockets (which, I realize, is not saying much; nevertheless, they are huge pockets). White knee socks and black shoes or sandals complete the outfit.

     Before her clothing, a postulant takes a 10-day retreat. I spent much of mine taking long, meditative walks in the woods, talking to Jesus in my heart. I found pieces of petrified wood, many small enough to be used in the making of a mosaic cross, which I had in mind to make by Lent the following year. I spent extra time before the Blessed Sacrament, contemplating the face of my Beloved, and wrote poetry and long letters to Jesus in my journal. A clothing retreat may or may not be directed by the novice directress; I opted not to be directed, since solitude was still a very important part of my personal spirituality. In fact, I was beginning to feel there was too much "togetherness" in the novitiate - recreating together, having class together, working in the laundry together, having adoration time together, putting up Christmas decorations together. . . . The effects of all my years of independent living were not so easily erased. I heartily wished the monastery had a real hermitage for sisters to use on their retreats and monthly Moses Day. However, I knew that, once a sister is professed, has moved out of the novitiate and is living in the professed sisters' dorm, she enjoys a bit more solitude.

     Time was, the reception of the habit was a public event that took place in the monastery chapel, very much like a wedding: invitations would be sent and the sister would wear an actual wedding gown. After the preliminaries, she would then go into a private room to have her hair cut off, be dressed in the habit, and re-enter as a novice. Nowadays, the ceremony is closed to the public and takes place in the chapter hall with only the sisters to witness; the big public events in the chapel are the profession of temporary vows, when the sister takes the black veil and becomes an actual nun; and the beautiful profession of solemn (final) vows, when the bride of Christ receives her ring from the local bishop and symbolizes her death to the world and to her former life by lying prostrate before the altar.

     On the day of my clothing, the sun shone bright and warm, the infamous Lufkin humidity settling like a heavy blanket over the town. I remember very little of the actual ceremony, being in a kind of daze. I had struggled so hard to arrive at that day. My hair, which had grown past my shoulders during my postulancy, was tied into a pony tail; Sr. Mary Annunciata cut it off with little trouble. Then Sr. Maria Cabrini took me into a small room and helped me put on my crisply pressed habit and white veil. When I went back out, the closing statements of the rite were pronounced by Sr. Mary Annunciata, and my new name was revealed: I was now Sr. Maria Simona of the Passion and Cross of Jesus.

(Photo by Sr. Mary Jeremiah, O. P.)

 

Acceptance to the Novitiate

     The reception of the habit, a. k. a. clothing day, a. k. a. investiture, marks the end of a prospective nun's 9- to 12-month postulancy and the beginning of her novitiate, which for Dominicans lasts two years. As I approached the end of my own postulancy, I admit to having felt a bit apprehensive. The nine months since the day I entered the monastery had been anything but smooth sailing. I was 44 years old at the time, well beyond the average age; I had lived on my own for many years and so was set in my independent ways; I had come from a 30-plus-years-long career as a professional musician and had spent the last 15 of those years in the company of and working with the best and brightest in the opera world. The transition into the austere, confined, and humbling life of the cloister, and singing seven times a day with 27 women, most of whom had no musical or vocal training whatever, was, to tell the truth, Calvary for me. I had to die to my old life, and that death was slow and torturous. I had to adjust to the fact that I owned nothing and had to share everything. I had to ask permission to use, take, or throw out every object I wanted to use, take, or throw out. I struggled in vain to blend my operatically trained voice to the untrained voices of the others. I had to learn to be a pray-er who sings, rather than a singer who prays. I tried my best to close my musician's ears, squelch those instincts which had served me so well as an opera coach, and ignore the out-of-tuneness and incorrect rhythms that I heard every single day from my fellow sisters. I had to resign myself to the fact that I couldn't correct the out-of-tuneness or incorrect rhythms--I was a postulant; it wasn't my place. Nevertheless, I fixed my eyes on the day I could wear the habit and white veil of a novice, knowing full well that, although many graces come with the reception of the habit, Calvary was by no means over for me.
     It was in this frame of mind that I awaited word of my reception. All the professed sisters were gathered for Chapter and would vote whether I should be accepted as a novice. In my mind's eye, I saw one too many of those infamous black balls being cast into the box. While they voted, I sat trembling in the darkened chapel, the novices waiting with me, all of us in silent prayer before the Blessed Sacrament.
     I thought of the long battle with my novice directress over the selection of my name in religion. Now that sisters could choose their own names, rather than the superior choosing for them, the choice had to have some personal significance for the chooser. I had made my choice even before I ever entered: Sr. Maria Simona. Every Dominican nun must have the name "Mary" or some form of it, because Mary is considered the patroness of the Dominican order; but the other part of her name is up to the prospective novice. I chose "Simona" for three reasons: firstly, Simon of Cyrene. I identified very strongly with his story, his sudden and seemingly random calling. Secondly, Simon Peter, whom I love dearly for all his failings, but particularly because Jesus forgave him his vehement denial, eventually exalting him to leader of the apostles and the Church. Thirdly, my father's mother was a Maria and my mother's mother was a Simona, so I would be honoring my family as well. My novice directress, Sr. Maria Cabrini, objected to the fact that Simon of Cyrene is not a saint in the Catholic canon of saints (I've no idea why); but he is a saint to me, since he helped Jesus to carry his cross. Sister tried her best to convince me to take the name Peter. As I said, I love St. Peter very much, but I'm just not crazy about the name!
     Then there was the matter of my mystery, which is the second part of a nun's name and signifies an important aspect of her particular spirituality; for instance, my novice directress' full name is Sr. Maria Cabrini, O. P., of the Sacred Heart. ("O. P." stands for the Order of Preachers, official name of the Dominican Order.) Sister has a deep devotion to the Sacred Heart of Jesus, so she chose that as her mystery. I had a tremendously deep devotion to the Passion and Cross, so my full name would be Sr. Maria Simona of the Passion and Cross of Jesus. Sister was concerned that I was perhaps a bit too fixated on the Passion, that I didn't look beyond it; but I assured her that wasn't the case at all--I was well aware that Christ rose from the dead!
     Sister also worried that because Simon of Cyrene wasn't a canonical saint, he had no feast day on the liturgical calendar. A nun's feast day, celebrated every year instead of her birthday, is the same as her saint's feast day; in the event that there is no such day, the nun chooses her feast day based on her mystery. My mystery was the Passion and Cross, but I obviously couldn't choose Good Friday (the most important days are of course sacrosanct); neither could I choose the Feast of the Precious Blood, because that was already taken by another of my sisters. So I chose the very beautiful Feast of the Exaltation of the Cross, September 14. After finally (albeit only partially) convincing Sr. Maria Cabrini, my name and feast day were handed in to the prioress, Sr. Mary Annunciata.
     The other important hurdle before being received for clothing was the written examination. This covers all the basic aspects of religious life. Luckily, I passed it with flying colors!
     All these things, plus my fervent prayers, passed through my mind as I waited in the dark, silent chapel. After what seemed an interminable time, Sr. Maria Cabrini came to escort me and the novices to the community room where all the rest of the sisters were assembled. We walked in, and the novices sat in their assigned seats while I approached Sr. Mary Annunciata, who, according to the rite of ceremony, asked what was my request. I then formally asked to be accepted for reception of the habit, and to my joy, Sister replied that my request had indeed been accepted! I then sat with the novices and listened to Sr. Mary Annunciata deliver a short talk in which she dropped hints as to what my name in religion would be (a fun tradition, causing the other sisters to try and guess the name, which would not be revealed until the actual clothing ceremony).
     As soon as Sister finished her talk, I went back to her to begin the "kiss of peace" round the circle of sisters, tears of relief and joy springing from my eyes. It was raining heavily outside, but I actually took that a good omen: rain is supposed to be God's blessings, and the Little Flower had rain on her Clothing Day.
     A date had to be set for the ceremony; I had to be measured for my habits, which would be sewn by the seamstress, Sr. Mary Magdalene; and I looked forward to a blessed 10-day retreat before being clothed as a novice of the Order of Preachers.

An Exericise in Humility

     Sometimes in films about nuns there is a scene where the nuns are gathered in a room; one steps forward, kneels before the prioress or mother superior or novice mistress, and states her "faults" for that week (she broke silence twice, arrived late to Office once, etc.). Then the superior gives her a penance (an extra chore, or extra prayer); the nun then kisses the floor, goes back to her chair, and the next nun gets up and follows the same procedure. This custom is called the "Chapter of Faults" and takes place on a regular basis (usually weekly) in all monasteries. The procedure has changed somewhat over the years, and from order to order and house to house. At the Monastery of the Infant Jesus -- in the novitiate, anyway; I never got to find out how the professed sisters do it -- they no longer kneel before the novice directress and they no longer kiss the floor in an act of humility. However, the basic elements of stating their faults in front of their fellow sisters, asking their pardon, and receiving a penance, remain the same.

     "How humiliating!" some may say. Well, yes, that's the whole point. It takes humility to admit one's faults and ask pardon, and even more humility to make reparation for your faults.

     A "fault" in the monastic sense is not the same as a sin. Faults are infractions of the rule, that is, the "laws" governing the day-to-day life and customs of a religious order. Each order in the Church has its own particular rule, usually drafted by the founder of that order, but some orders adopt the rule of another order as their own: the Dominicans, for instance, follow the Rule of St. Augustine. All rules, however, take their cue, if you will, from the grandfather of monastic Rules -- the Rule of St. Benedict. It is the model on which all others are based.

     Yes, confession is good for the soul, including the difficult and humbling confession to a fellow human being; it cleanses you, frees you, and receiving forgiveness heals the wound between you and the one you offended; moreover, in the larger, more mystical sense, it heals the wound you inflicted on the Body of Christ, which is the Church. Even when a sister asks pardon for breaking silence, a seemingly small thing, she confesses that she has broken a code of behavior which was forged to keep order and peace in that house. She is placing herself, rightfully so, below the higher law of obedience, and humbling herself before her fellow human beings. She is placing herself last, as Jesus himself would do.

     After I experienced my first Chapter of Faults, I couldn't help thinking back to the "notes sessions"  at the Houston Grand Opera. A notes session takes place at the end of a run-through, or perhaps between performances after a show has already opened. The cast, stage director, conductor, head coach, prompter, and stage management gather together; each member of the cast, one by one, in front of all his colleagues, receives notes from director and conductor (or head coach): every mistake in staging, every mistake in diction, and every musical mistake that singer has made, is pointed out. Most singers -- almost all, in fact -- consider this to be a necessary part of their profession and take their notes for the good of the show. They know that the performance as a whole, the product they present to a paying audience, is more important than themselves.

     Obedience -- exercising humility -- is for the common good as well as for an individual's good and ultimate sanctification. That is why God gave us commandments and why the government drafts laws. When we disobey through lack of humility -- when we act out of pride -- we wound others as well as our ourselves. To confess and make reparation is to heal one's soul and to help heal the Body of Christ.

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.