These are a few (!) of my favorite things ...

     'Tis the season for The Sound of Music to be shown on TV, though I'm not quite sure what-all it has to do with Christmas. Perhaps because it's a "family" movie, it seems appropriate to air it during a "family" time of year.

     At any rate, 'tis also the season for making lists (and, yes, checking them twice).

     My favorite novels and films are already listed in the left sidebar. So here are more of my favorite things:

 

Non-fiction books: Practically everyone who knows me knows I love everything Helene Hanff wrote. In fact, I wrote a whole post about her and her delightfully chatty, autobiographical books. They know, too, how much I love the ever-amusing travel memoirist Emily Kimbrough, of whom I wrote in this post. Like Helene Hanff, I am a tremendous Anglophile, so I also love Beverley Nichols (a man, not a woman, in case you didn't know), especially A Thatched Roof, A Village in a Valley, and his trilogy Merry Hall/Laughter on the Stairs/Sunlight on the Lawn.

 

Food stuff: Wowee. Let's see. I could eat pasta every single day. I like it simply prepared, though if you offered me a plate of cannelloni, I wouldn't spit in your eye. Seafood is a biggie with me, especially salmon, halibut, monkfish, shrimp, scallops, and lobster. And I looooove a good steak, prime rib or rib eye, medium rare. I'd have to say my favorite overall cuisine is Italian (oh, big surprise), then French and Chinese. I only like Filipino if it's my mother's. No one else's can compare. I never go out to Filipino restaurants anymore (heck, I have a hard time even finding Filipino restaurants) because they simply don't measure up to my mom's cooking.

     My most favorite dessert in the whole world (probably) is coconut cream pie. Not coconut meringue – coconut cream. Chocolate silk pie. Chocolate mousse. Chocolate pot de crème. Cream puffs, St. Honoré, St. Tropez (just about anything with pastry cream; I just love pastry cream).

 

Music: Baroque, baroque, and baroque for relaxation and "mood." Corelli first of all, Bach, Handel, Purcell, Monteverdi, all that ilk. I prefer instrumental, however; surprisingly, I seldom listen these days to vocal or choral. Piano repertoire – Mozart, Chopin, Beethoven, Brahms, Rachmaninov, whatever. I'm not fond of Debussy, Ravel, Prokofiev. As to non-classical, I like old standards and singers such as Nat King Cole, Ella Fitzgerald, Jane Morgan, Vera Lynn, Rosemary Clooney, early Doris Day, Helen Ward, Helen Forrest, Mel Torme, Vic Damone. I never tire of the Beatles, especially early to mid-Beatles. Vintage Judy Collins, Joni Mitchell, Bob Dylan. Peter, Paul, and Mary. A special fondness for Blood, Sweat, and Tears and Crosby, Stills, and Nash. Yes, I am a child of the 60's and early 70's.

 

TV: Come on; do you even have to ask? Okay, besides Frasier: The Mary Tyler Moore Show, M*A*S*H, The Paper Chase, The Antiques Roadshow, Chopped!, Iron Chef America, House Hunters International and, of course, Dancing with the Stars. I used to love Candace Olsen's old show Divine Design, and that great travel show of the early to mid-90's, Travelers. I miss Samantha Brown's European show. She's a kook.

 

Ways to spend time: Reading, antiquing, book hunting (in antiquarian bookstores), discovering great restaurants. Movies.

     My favorite part of the day is when I'm in prayer. I dedicate the first hour and a half of the morning to God, plus an hour in the evening and a half hour before bedtime. Nothing, however, compares to sitting in silent adoration before Jesus in the Blessed Sacrament, either exposed in the monstrance or hidden in the tabernacle. If I could, I would spend hours a day doing just that.

Spiritual writers: My favorite go-to books in this area are the ones written by, mysteriously, "A Carthusian," particularly They Speak by Silences. This beautiful little volume is comprised of very short (most of them shorter than one page) meditations and instructions written by a Carthusian monk to a novice. G. K. Chesterton, C. S. Lewis, Elisabeth Leseur, Peter Kreeft, Scott Hahn, Pope Emeritus Benedict XVI (also his writings as Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger) are others I consult regularly. Among the canon of Saints: Catherine of Siena, Thérèse of Lisieux, Teresa of Avila, Francis de Sales, and Pope John Paul II are my top faves. Of course, Thomas a Kempis' great classic Imitation of Christ; and I have also begun to use the Carmelite book of meditation Divine Intimacy by Father Gabriel of Saint Mary Magdalen.

 

Scripture: I find endless strength in the Gospels of John and Luke, as well as John's first epistle and Revelation, Romans (most particularly chapter 8), Galatians, Ephesians, the epistles of Peter, most of Isaiah, much of Jeremiah, Sirach, and of course the Psalms. So much more; impossible to list here.

Midweek Musings & Musicale

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

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

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

 

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

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

 



 

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





Saturday at the Opera: In an Old Studio

I wrote this poem in 2009 as an homage to my coaching studio at Houston Grand Opera. The wonderful Joyce DiDonato (who knew my studio very well!) kindly published it a couple of years ago on her blog (I've since changed a couple of punctuations and added a break in the middle of the poem), so that is its credited "first appearance"—very appropriate, don't you think?

In an Old Studio

There used to be a piano in this room,
a mid-size grand, whose lid was always strewn
with scores of Verdi and Rossini. 
On the walls hung photos of the Tuscan hills,
a poster of a street in old Milan—
they've left their imprint, ghostly squares against
the graying of the years—and on this spot,
a music stand held up the legacy
of genius waiting to be issued forth
through chosen throats.
                                             Be still a minute. Listen.
Distant phrases of a long-lost life
will breathe across your brow and tell the tale
of striving for sublime exactitude,
of discipline and repetition, of
the just dissatisfaction with an end
that's less than art. Then close your eyes to touch
the keys that are no longer there, and you
will hear the splendor that was crafted in
this room, and leave it with the cadences
of ancient passions sighing in your soul.

© Leticia Austria 2009

Ears without Eyes

     A few years ago I gathered all my piano scores that were in solid physical shape and weren't rife with my personal markings and sold them to Half Price Books, in hope that some earnest piano student with limited funds would snatch them up. Snatched they were; in fact, when I returned to Half Price a couple of weeks later, most of my scores were gone. I wasn't surprised, really; piano scores of the better editions can be very expensive when bought new, especially for poor students.

     Besides needing the shelf space for my ever-expanding library of books, I sold my scores because I decided once for all to give up playing the piano, even for personal pleasure—"personal pleasure" for me never could last long, as my temper and hyper-perfectionism always got the better of me. I did, however, keep a few: Mozart sonatas, Chopin nocturnes, a handful of concertos. Some things one cannot part with, for any reason. It would be like losing a limb. (Another reason why I made a very poor nun.)

     Now that I can once again listen to piano music without the emotional pain—for which I am infinitely grateful—I find it peculiar in a sort of amusing way that listening is so difficult for me without actually seeing the music. It occurred to me last night, as I listened to the chiaroscuro  of Schubert's D959, that I would better understand not only the music but also Kempff's interpretation (for that was whose performance I was listening to) if I had the score in front of me, and could see the actual markings. Only in that moment did I realize just how much of a hindrance my musical history was to simple aural learning. I thought of all the music lovers in the world, those with a genuine, refined, informed taste, who can't read a note of music. How do they "learn" the music without seeing it? * That one could indeed learn merely by listening is a notion I never seriously had to consider till now—now that I had no score to consult whenever my ears prompted the question, "Why did Kempff do that ? Why did he make that specific choice, if it was  his choice and not an actual marking in the score?"

     I don't regret for a moment the basic reason behind selling my scores, but now I do regret not being able to consult them, to which end, I have ordered the Complete Schubert Sonatas (unfortunately sans  the "fragments") in the very edition I once owned. I anticipate its arrival as I would the arrival of a dear friend I've not seen in a long time. Its renewed presence in my life will not stir up old, painful memories, but will only enrich and enhance my newly found "personal pleasure" in listening to music.

* I'm not referring to "playing by ear," which is another thing entirely; I'm referring to getting to know a piece of music intimately through study.

    

To Music, from an Old Lover

My dear,

I sometimes thought I’d die without you—you who shook my soul and filled the wasteland of my womb with fertile singing. Yet I left you fully conscious of the risk of slow and agonizing death, or of an ever-bleeding wound where ancient ecstasies had hymned and sighed. I knew I could expect the wrenching of my heart whenever I perceive you suffering beneath the unrefined or disrespectful treatment you so often have to bear. I suffer with you, as a faithful lover should, regretting the predicament in which I placed myself and you. Perhaps, though, I presume too much—you have survived for centuries without me; and although I feel as if I’ve loved you since you first began to use your charms to soothe the savage breast of man, you owe me nothing. Rather, it is I who owe my very life to you. Although I chose to leave you, you could never part from me. You are the organ of my thought, the beat that pulses through my veins, the breath that feeds my being until death—and I remain, at heart,

                                                                                     Forever yours

I had originally written this poem, four years ago, in strict iambic tetrameter, which on paper made it look long and narrow, with very short lines, not at all like a letter. I decided to reconfigure it, preserving the iambs, but converting it into a prose poem so that it looks and feels more like a real letter. 

© Leticia Austria 2012

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.

My Greatest Inspiration

     For most of my life, I have been a victim of what I call "lazy ambition." My head was always full of lofty musical goals, most of which I knew I was capable of attaining, but a deplorable lack of motivation kept me from attaining them—that, and being by nature a yellow-bellied chicken. All the more peculiar, considering I was also competitive to the point of pettiness; I resented the accomplishments of other people with talents like my own, thinking, "That should be me getting that job/award/compliment, I'm a much better pianist than he/she is!" Meanwhile, my piano was getting dusty from lack of use. Perverse, I know.

     In school and college I was also unmotivated but, while I had musical aspirations aplenty, I had zero scholastically. Deep down, I knew I was a lot smarter than my grades showed; I simply didn't care. The classic Underachiever.

     After being accepted into the Houston Grand Opera Studio, my primary goal was to land a job on the HGO music staff. But it had to do with simply earning a living, not so much with realizing my potential as a pianist and coach; although indirectly, by virtue of the fact that I put in more practice time than I ever had in my life, I did make some advances in that respect. However, whatever motivation I had managed to fire up subsided quite a bit once I did land the job. Within five years, it came dangerously close to burning out altogether. My playing grew more and more mechanical, my coaching dry and superficial. I was becoming complacent, both as a musician and as a person, and began to question why I was in opera at all. Some of my colleagues exhorted me to conduct, but after just one perfomance, I discarded the idea.

     My life changed quite suddenly around my 36th birthday, when I met the great love of my life: a wonderful, talented, and intellectually brilliant man I'll call "C." Unfortunately for me, C was and still is very happily married and a father, so I have never told him my feelings, but am perfectly content and greatly privileged to share with him a friendship based on common interests and deep mutual respect. For the past sixteen years he has simply been The Distant Belovèd, and while I have come to know and accept his faults, I've chosen to hold up his many merits as inspiration by which to better myself. His intellectual curiosity, which is insatiable, has stimulated my own and spurred me on to expand my tastes in reading, art, and music, as well as my knowledge of Italian, which is his native tongue. He has made me see, all unknowingly, what a waste I made of my mind the first thirty-six years of my life.

     So I began studying like a fiend, setting goals and attaining them. Improving my Italian was my first priority, and to that end I went to Italy twice to do a total immersion program. My biggest personal project during those first years after meeting C was writing a translation of Torquato Tasso's play in verse, Aminta. Not an easy task, that, even—as C himself told me—for an Italian, as Tasso's language is very archaic. To make the task even more challenging, I decided the translation should be in prose and in period English, which meant I had to limit my vocabulary and idioms to those in use before 1600. It took me about two years to come up with a satisfactory draft but, with C's help on a couple of particularly difficult passages, I did accomplish what I set out to do. I had and have no intention of publishing it (who am I, after all, in the academic world?); I only wanted to prove to myself that I could do it. And it was fun!

     There were other projects—translating more plays, studying Latin, poetry, and art, taking up drawing and bookbinding. A whole exciting world opened to my eager eyes and, more importantly, I was ready to see and learn.

     Of equal if not greater consequence was the influence C had on me as a musician. After meeting and working with C, my coaching underwent a marked improvement. My playing also took on a depth it didn't have before. I had a new enthusiasm for my work, a desire to be the best coach and pianist I'd always known I could be. I wanted to be worthy of the respect C had for me as a musician, and I began to think of all those wasted, gray years of old as my life "B. C."—"Before C." Now I had discovered what I could accomplish with true motivation, there was no turning back. I even made another attempt (actually, two) at conducting, with the added encouragement and help of HGO's Music Director, Patrick Summers, but finally and firmly concluded that it was not for me. I wrote to C about it and he agreed, writing back that he thought my "true destiny was to be a pianist/coach."

     Though my present venture as a poet began with writing spiritual poems in the monastery, C has been my primary muse. My ongoing collection of love poems, The Distant Belovèd, written for him, is one of the things I'm most proud of in my life so far. Not every piece in it is "up to snuff" by my poetic standards, but every piece is straight from the heart. I've promised myself that someday I'll send it to him, as thanks for everything he's unwittingly done for me.

Compensations in the Life of a Spinster

     Somehow, I always knew that I'd never get married. I know, I know—"you never know." But I knew. And I know. I mean, come on, I've already passed the half-century mark. Not that my life has been lacking in romance, serious relationships, messy relationships, downright wrong relationships, joy, heartache, passion—any of that. And Lord knows I've had my fill of yearning from afar, otherwise known as "unrequited love," which fortunately became a very productive poetic inspiration, alla Dante and Petrarch.

     Ever since I can remember, my romantic nature has dominated my life, manifesting itself in crush after crush on boys who were more interested in my friends than in me. Metaphorically speaking, I was always the bridesmaid, never the bride. To my youthful reasoning, my being constantly passed over was due to my looks: olive skin, flat nose, full lips. Your basic Asian-American geek, with thick glasses to boot. Keep in mind, this was back in the '60s and early '70s, before "exotically ethnic" was a turn-on. Back then, we girls all wanted to look like Cheryl Tiegs. Of course, when I got to college, it was a whole different ballgame and I was actually grateful for my looks, but as a pre-teen and adolescent, I was too insecure and shackled by social anxiety disorder to rely on my personality; in my eyes, I had none. All I had was musical talent, which tended to intimidate boys rather than attract them to me.

     That same musical talent proved to be a boon in other ways, a compensation for many heartaches and ego bruises. It gave me my life and my living, to quote John Denver, and quite an exciting, rewarding life and living they were, too. Music boosted my self-confidence and eventually tamed (though not quite cured) my social anxiety disorder. The piano became my confidante and faithful companion, though, as in all intense relationships, we had our bitter battles and dark days of not speaking to each other. I admit, I was even abusive at times, beating my fists on its keys and screaming expletives, knowing damn well it couldn't fight or scream back. But the piano never deserted me. Ultimately, I had to desert it, having come to the realization that we could never live together in harmony.

     I exchanged that great, all-consuming relationship for a much easier, less demanding one—the organ. I don't call myself a real organist, mind you, though I did teach myself, with the aid of a good book, proper organ technique (very different from the piano), including pedals; and like a real organist, I wear bona fide organ shoes when I play. However, I have absolutely no interest in playing solo organ music; all I want is to play hymns and play them very well. My organ playing is purposely limited to Mass, and in the chapel where I play, it is not necessary to have a solo prelude and postlude; just the hymns and the sung parts of the Ordinary. In this way, I am able to avoid a lot of practicing, which through my thirty-seven years as a pianist has proved to be a major threat to my sanity and blood pressure.

     All in all, music has been a wonderfully satisfying compensation for a rocky and sometimes non-existent love life; even when the piano and I were on the outs, we always loved each other deep down.

     I mentioned earlier that an unrequited love may spawn poetic inspiration. In my case, it spawned The Distant Belovèd, an ongoing, ever-expanding collection of sonnets and lyrics. At this writing, it consists of over fifty pieces (and many rejects). I write other kinds of poetry as well, not just love poems, but I had to find a creative way to—now, the Italians have a particularly charming word for it—sfogarmi, vent myself. When I first began The Distant Belovèd, I had no intention of ever having it published, either in part or as a whole. It was purely personal, an extension of my journal. But my sister, after reading a few of the poems, convinced me to submit them, and I am happy that some have found a home in small poetry journals, along with several of my non-love poems. Who knows if I'll ever try to get the whole of The Distant Belovèd published? Editors today don't seem to go for love poems, especially of the formal variety (formal poetry is poetry that has meter and/or rhyme, as opposed to free verse, which has neither), and some of mine do, I suppose, border on what they would call "sentimental." But hey, it's hard not to be sentimental about love. And what exactly is "sentimental," anyway? If it brings a smile to the lips or a tear to the eye, is it such a literary crime? Does that make me a hack? The Nicholas Sparks of poets?

     So poetry has been another great compensation, though not exactly lucrative. . . .

     But the biggest compensation of all for being a spinster is being able to spend these past few years helping my parents. I will always be grateful to have been here for my father when he needed me and my mother most; now that he's gone, I can still be here for my beloved mother. Maybe deep down I always knew, as Beth March did in Little Women, that I was never destined to fly far from home, and that my true ministry lies right here with those I love most. I regret nothing, and have everything to be thankful for.

     And I care not one whit that I ended that sentence with a preposition.

OFFERING

You gave me a heart too large
for the tiny life I've led.
Hard-pressed have I been to know
what to do with the surplus,
the virgin flesh burgeoning
in the hollow of my breast.
What will You have me do, then?

Would You take it partly spent—
or give it, like the talent
that was buried in the field,
to one less fearful than I?
Or would You have me fill it
with as much unspoken love
as any one heart can hold?

How many times have I stood
in the marketplace, this heart
too large in my trembling hands,
this blushing eager maiden
of a heart; but no one came.

My heart will not go empty.
I will sow it with the years'
silent loves and silent wounds
and reap a harvest of prayer,
place it at Your gate, in hope
that its yield may be enough.


["Offering" was first published in Dreamcatcher]

The Anxiety-Ridden Chorus Master

     It is one of the greatest ironies of my life that I spent so much of it working with choruses, given that I've always had a deep-rooted aversion toward that job. I wrote before that I was enlisted at a very early age (third grade) into accompanying for school choir concerts; by the time I was in middle school, I was official accompanist and rehearsal pianist for our mixed choir and madrigal group. (It wasn't until seventh grade that my choir director discovered I also had a good voice and had me sing in all the a cappella pieces.) Had I known that being rehearsal pianist also meant actually taking over in the absence of the choir director, I would have turned tail and run.

     There was one particularly painful day in the eighth grade when Miss E. had to be absent and she asked me to take the class, with one of my classmates at the piano. My pianist belonged to that elite group of pretty, popular girls that lived in the richer neighborhood; they were already under the impression (thanks to the veneer of cool aloofness behind which I hid my social anxiety disorder) that I thought my musical gifts made me superior to everyone else. In truth, she and her group, many of whom were in the choir, intimidated me to the point that I was certain my nervous shaking was visible to all as I took my place that day behind the director's music stand. I had to stand there in front of all those "prove yourself to us" faces and the ill-concealed smirk of my pianist, push my anxiety as far down into my shoes as I could, and just give it my best. I got through that agonizing hour, but not without witnessing, after the bell rang, my pianist and her friends giggling and mimicking my nervously rigid conducting gestures. Perhaps anyone would have been hurt by this, but I was a hyper-sensitive child with low self-esteem; a more confident child would probably have shaken off the dust from her shoes and moved on. As it was, the wound they inflicted that day, perhaps unconsciously, rankled deep in me through my year as student director for our high school choir, and much later throughout my fifteen years as Assistant Chorus Master at the Houston Grand Opera. Not even the genuine affection and respect the HGO Chorus and I had for each other could quite cure my aversion for running rehearsals and sectionals.

     Behind it also were the high expectations of my teachers and elders, my own high standards (which grew more and more impossible with each passing year), an enormous fear of failure, and the equally enormous if irrational fear of being found out as a sham. For all my talent and training, and all my bravado, I was still at the core that awkward, inept, and insecure child.

     You might be asking why, then, I consented to be HGO's Assistant Chorus Master. Deep down, I knew I could do it, and do it well. I had all the necessary tools for what that job entailed, including, by that time, good conducting skills (thanks to lessons from two gifted and generous conductors, Ward Holmquist and Patrick Summers). And I had the unflagging support and confidence of the Chorus Master, Richard Bado, for whom I had, and will always have, tremendous respect. So I forced myself to ignore the sickening churning in my stomach before every rehearsal and sectional I had to run, and told myself (to quote my fellow S. A. D. sufferer, Mr. Darcy) "I will conquer this!" And conquer it I did. That terrified young girl who was mocked by her peers grew up to be a good Assistant Chorus Master (and, for some shows, Chorus Master) -- even if she never really liked being one.

    

Enter "Ms. von"

     When Peter Martinez moved away to graduate school, I had been studying with him for two years. It was now time for me to study with his teacher, one of the best piano teachers in the city, Myrna von Nimitz. I was then 11 years old.

     "Ms. von," a native Texan, had just moved into a large, newly built colonial style house on the north side of town. She and her Russian husband Igor filled their home with Louis XV furniture; valuable period paintings covered the walls and bronze statuary perched on every table. A Steinway concert grand dominated the front room. These surroundings were a bit overwhelming for me, as was the person of Myrna von Nimitz herself: I remember her as tall, though she might not actually have been; her slenderness and the white-blond hair sculpted smoothly into a high upsweep made her seem so to me. Large, expressive, almond-shaped brown eyes framed by precise, dark brows were the only things that lent color to her ivory face; the surprisingly small, pale mouth beneath the narrow nose was a mere textural element. Elegantly dressed, shoulders fashionably stooped, she would sit in a low Louis XV chair by the piano, one poodle in her lap and another lounging at her feet, a cigarette dangling from her long, languid hand. She was in her early- to mid-thirties at that time, though she could have been almost any age from any era. A true original.

     Peter Martinez's youthful maleness had exacerbated my social anxiety disorder, but Ms. von's flamboyant elegance and refined tastes fascinated me. Perhaps that was the beginning of my own Niles Crane-like fondness for the finer things in life; in fact, I know it was. Still, I remained mostly silent in my lessons, and Ms. von tried her best to draw me out those first few months, to no avail. Then one day, as I was playing the Bach G minor Concerto, I was suddenly and profoundly moved by the music; so much so, tears began streaming down my face. This was not the first time music affected me to the point of weeping, but I had always kept my tears to myself. Ms. von, perplexed and concerned, took me out to her wooded back yard and proceeded to ask me if I was having trouble at home or at school. When I didn't answer, she then began to talk of random things to put me at ease, until finally I stammered out, "It -- it's just the music. It's so -- so beautiful."

     Ms. von was not only relieved by my confession, she was delighted that I had a genuine love for music, and, as she told me afterward, a deep soul. From that moment on, I regarded her as a friend and mentor.

     The summer after my freshman year in high school, Ms. von took her piano students and a few college students to Europe -- a two-week tour of the continent, then a month in London taking music courses at Goldsmiths College. It was not only my first time abroad, but my first time flying. I might have known I'd be a bad flyer. To this day I cannot board a plane without first taking something for motion sickness. However, the half pack of cigarettes I smoked before boarding that day probably didn't help! I was only fourteen at the time, but my attire and bearing made me seem at least four years older -- and I don't exaggerate. People were always mistaking me then for a college student. My mother frowned on jeans and insisted that her children dress neatly at all times; Ms. von further influenced my taste in clothes. My social anxiety disorder, still very much with me, was the true reason behind my cool, seemingly composed and confident exterior. If I couldn't speak to anyone with ease, then I could at least give the impression that I didn't want to speak to them.

     My outer composure and mature appearance backfired, however, when one of my London professors began to have a personal interest in me. I was completely unaware of this until Ms. von told me she had had a word with him, telling him I was only fourteen. In my total innocence, I thought he took time to play duets with me just because he found it fun. I still saw myself as ugly and stiff, though Ms. von often told me I was growing up to be an attractive and poised young lady.

     Throughout my high school years, I competed in many competitions, always placing near the top, but never capturing a top prize until my senior year, when I finally won the San Antonio Symphony Young Artist Competition. Performing, too, became a frequent thing. I revelled in being onstage, though I did always suffer considerable nerves before walking out. Once I was behind the keyboard, however, the audience became a faceless, harmless presence, and I could lose myself, my feelings of awkwardness and inadequacy, in the music. For that short precious time, I felt accepted.

The Young Pianist

      In the few years between that fateful piano recital where Myrna von Nimitz (or "Ms. von," as all her students called her) evaluated my talent, and the time I actually began studying with her, I continued lessons with Mrs. Woliver, then with a jolly, Charlotte Greenwood-type woman named Mrs. Plewes (who also gave me my first lessons in music theory), and then with a college student of Ms. von, Peter Martinez. By the time I had my first lesson with Peter, I was in the fifth grade and had begun accompanying choir concerts at my elementary school -- this, though I didn't know it then, was the start of a long career working with choruses. My classmates were well aware of my ambition to be a concert pianist; some were drawn to me by my musical abilities, a few kept a wary distance, and others were simply indifferent.

     Other than Mr. Trent in the second grade, I had never had a male teacher. I suppose if Peter had been much older, more of a father figure (like Mr. Trent), I would have felt a bit more comfortable with him; but his being a college student and not much older than my siblings caused my already painful shyness to deepen. I was highly susceptible to crushes (still on boys who preferred blue-eyed blondes) and anyone of the male persuasion younger than my father made me nervous. Every week Peter came to our house, smelling wonderfully of English Leather, and I would sit shaking at the keyboard, hardly uttering a word. It was a wonder that I progressed at all, but he was a very good teacher and brought out the best in me. He introduced the art of phrasing and articulation into my playing, taught me the principles of rubato and romanticism with my first Chopin pieces, and helped me to "loosen up" with the Gershwin Preludes. He also furthered my studies in music theory. However, my lifelong battle with what I call "lazy ambition" reared its head during this period -- I no longer enjoyed practicing, and put in only the bare minimum between lessons, not even an hour a day. Because of my natural ability, I was able to get away with it, which was very unfortunate, especially in later years.

     Under Peter's tutelage, I entered my first competitions, earning consistently high marks; I also gave, at age 11, my first solo recital, and in the following year served as accompanist for the first time in a solo vocal recital given by my middle school choir director. It was in this vocal recital that I played my first art songs -- among them Brahms' "Botshcaft" (in six flats, thank you very much) and a group of Berg -- as well my first operatic arias, "Ain't It a Pretty Night" and "The Trees on the Mountains" from Carlisle Floyd's Susannah, and Norina's aria from Don Pasquale. I also earned my first fee as an accompanist, so starting my professional career.

     As my talent developed, so did my monstrous ego. Playing the piano well was the only thing that set me apart from my peers and made me feel special. Scholastically, I was falling off a bit, my laziness again the culprit. Popularity-wise, I still felt ugly and awkward, too shy with boys and intimidated by prettier girls. The keyboard was the only place I felt, not just equal, but superior. So I cherished that feeling of superiority and held onto it like a life preserver. My parents were, as parents are understandably wont to be, very proud of their child's talent, and showed me off to their friends at parties; my sisters, however, kept me in my place, again, as is siblings' wont. I can't say they (my sisters) made a conscious effort to bring me down off my musical high horse; they just treated me in the usual way older sisters treat younger sisters, sometimes coddling me, sometimes ignoring me, and sometimes being plain rotten. Most people would say that specially gifted children should be treated normally, to compensate for and balance their "specialness" and guard against conceit; in my case, however, starting out with an abnormally low self-esteem, I made it my mission to build myself up as much as I could through the piano. I simply came to love feeling special, and, like any addict, the more attention paid me because of my talent, the more I craved it.

The Quest for Silence

     This world is inundated with noise. So much so, that we have grown uncomfortable with silence. But it is in silence that we can speak more clearly to God, and in silence that God's voice is most clearly heard.

     When I was a professional musician, my days were filled with sound—making it, hearing it, evaluating it, refining it. When silence did, in rare moments, emerge like a sudden sun ray through storm clouds, its "noise" was deafening and discomfiting, a waste of the aural sense, a mere blank space. A mockingbird's recital, the tiny tapping of rain, even the distant hum of traffic— anything was preferable to that most uneasy of companions—total silence. Quiet was easier; quiet was the soft white blanket I could lay over sound, muffling it, but never banishing it altogether.

     Total silence became important to me when I recovered my faith and needed to communicate with God in the depths of my soul. I didn't want the silence that is simply a void; I didn't want the mere emptying of distracting or negative thoughts which is its own end and which has become so popular in recent decades. I wanted to meet God in the silence and allow him to fill the void, to let him become my thought and my very conscience. This is the goal of Christian meditation, the goal of the Christian contemplative, whether in the cloister or in the world.

     I have been to New York City many times, but I especially remember the first time I went there after leaving the monastery. Granted, I had been back in San Antonio for some months; but San Antonio, and the kind of life I live here, is calm and quiet compared to Manhattan (then again, most cities are). Just before that particular visit to New York, I had spent ten days at the Abbey of Regina Laudis in Connecticut, a period of peace in the company of people whose daily goal it is to maintain a state of prayerful recollection. Arriving in Manhattan literally straight from the abbey, my senses were assaulted by the cacophony of traffic, the scurrying of crowds, and, I have to say, general rudeness and lack of simple consideration. On nearly every face was that focused yet unseeing gaze of someone completely absorbed in his own teeming thoughts and the business of the day. Not one looked happy or at peace.

     Now, before you bombard me with objections and arguments, I realize that I'm making a huge generalization and that my impressions were strongly colored by my stay at the abbey; there are many things I love about New York, and I always look forward to my visits there; but I couldn't help being struck by the disheartening realization that God is becoming more and more drowned out by noise everywhere—the noise, both actual and metaphorical, of "living," and the noise inside our own heads. For nearly two and a half years in the silence of the cloister, God was at the center of my consciousness, my pulse, my speech. I mourn the loss of that silence, as I sit here typing this with the television on not three feet away (not my choice, my parents'). It has become a struggle, day to day, to find those precious pockets of silence in which to still my mind and body and listen to the deep stirrings of the Spirit. I strive for prayerful recollection while going about the business of my day, but I know how essential silent prayer and contemplation are, if only for fifteen minutes a day, to one's spiritual growth and health. The quest for silence will and should never end.

Return to Regina Laudis, Part Two, and the End of My Vocation Story

     17 April 2007    Twins were born yesterday evening! Zephyr, one of the ewes, was the first to give birth this year at the abbey, and she bore twins. I went as usual with Mother Jadwiga to feed the sheep, and Mother told me that Zephyr was in the final stage of labor. When we got there, she hadn't yet lambed, so I dished out the feed, went to supper, and when I returned to the barn an hour later, there was a little dark brown lamb lying on the hay being tenderly cleaned by its mother. The dear little thing was struggling to stand up, but its long spindly legs would not cooperate. Mother told me it was a girl. Such a cute little helpless thing! Her ears stuck straight out from either side of her head like an airplane's wings; her little tail kept fluttering like a butterfly, and her tiny piping of a bleat was enough to break your heart.
     Mother said, "There's another lamb in the water spout," meaning a second one was still to be born, but poor Zephyr was having a hard time. So Mother felt inside and found something amiss -- I think the poor lamb's hind leg was splayed out so that it couldn't go through, and it was a breech. Mother went to get help, leaving me alone with poor Zephyr, who kept baa-ing and looking at me with imploring eyes. I kept murmuring to her, "I know, sweetheart; I'm sorry I can't help you, but I don't know nothin' 'bout birthin' lambies!"
     After what seemed an eternity, Mother finally returned with Mother Rachael, who obviously didn't know nuthin' neither. Mother Jadwiga instructed her how to hold Zephyr, told me to keep the little brown lamb in her mother's sight so she wouldn't panic about her baby, and proceeded to pry the unborn lamb out. So I picked up the little one and just couldn't resist cradling her in my arms before laying her before her mother. When I did give the lamb to Zephyr, she began to lick her again, then, as I was kneeling very close, Zephyr looked up at me with a woebegone face and licked my hand in gratitude.
     After a few moments, Mother Jadwiga gasped in weary but triumphant relief, "We have a baby!" and brought the newborn, still covered in its membrane, to Zephyr's muzzle. It lay motionless on the hay while Zephyr' warm tongue cleaned off the membrane; Mother Jadwiga picked up the newborn, held him upside down, and gave him a few good shakes to clear mucus from his breathing passages, after which he began to stir.
     He has grayish-beige wool with black markings and a cute little snubbed face. He looks nothing like his sister!
     There are five more ewes due withing the next week or so, so maybe I'll see more newborns before I leave. What a beautiful experience!

     18 April 2007    Strange --  I was so certain that this was the place for me, this abbey. But I'm beginning to have my doubts. Maybe it's because I'm not sure what I'm looking for in religious life. I know I need people, the support and security of some kind of community, but I also crave solitude, silence, time to be still before the Lord. There is so much activity here, sisters running or driving to and fro various parts of the property, barely making it to Office, changing in and out of their work habits.
     I suppose this kind of life, constantly caring for the land and the animals, really takes you out of yourself, and maybe I need that, or something like it, but to a lesser degree. I hate running around, living in a state of perpetual motion. Then again, there are many other things I could work at here -- pottery, cheese making, book binding -- that don't require so much running around.
     And where do my musical gifts fit into all this -- or should they? Are they at all compatible with the life I so desperately want?
     Is there a place for me?

     Epilogue: I have since, four years after that second visit to the abbey, discovered the answer to that question: there is a place for me, if God wills it; but I have to be completely willing to take all the musical gifts that he gave me, place them back in his hands, and say with my whole heart: "Fiat voluntas tua. (Thy will be done.)" The truth is -- and I can finally admit it to myself -- I just wasn't ready, deep down, to give them up completely when I entered the Monastery of the Infant Jesus. I thought I was, I said I was, but the truth is, I wasn't -- or, more accurately, my ego wasn't. Intellectually, I knew they could eventually be given back to me, purer, untainted by my pride; but emotionally, it was a different ballgame. 
     Today, I use my musical gifts only to play the organ for Mass on Sundays. I've given up the piano for now, given up vocalizing every day, and devote myself to helping my parents. Do I miss those things at all? Sometimes. But I have to say that life feels much freer, not being under the heavy yoke of the quest for musical perfection, not being a slave to my own impossible standards and becoming a shrew in the process. As I said before, the true gift of music is in the loving of music, not in the perfecting, and not even necessarily in the doing. The quest for Christian perfection is, as Jesus tells us, a much lighter yoke -- and far more rewarding.
     I have not given up hoping that God will eventually lead me again to the cloister, but if he doesn't, I'll be content knowing I tried my best to follow his will and say "yes" to his grace. 
    

Return to Regina Laudis, Part One

     10 April 2007    After a fast flight, I arrived in good time yesterday evening. The sun was still shining, so I got to see the charms of Woodbury this time (last visit, I arrived in the winter-dark evening). Sr. Margaret Georgina met me at Southbury's Crowne Plaza Hotel, where the airport shuttle drops off, so I didn't have to call a very expensive cab.
     Apparently, I just missed Patricia Neal! She is a great friend and long-time regular visitor of the abbey, and was here for Holy Week to do some of the readings at Mass.
     Today I had a very nice parlor visit with Mother Noella. We talked a lot about Mom and Dad and what this time means to them and to me. If God wants me to be a Benedictine here at Regina Laudis, then I will be -- but in his time, not mine. If it hinges on my parents' need, so be it. Fiat!
     They put me in the St. Scholastica room this time, the nicest room on the second floor. There are two beds with old-fashioned wooden head and foot boards and covered with very pretty blue and white coverlets; an antique bureau, bedside table, and a small writing desk at the front window which overlooks Flanders Road. The other window faces north. It's a small, cozy room, and I like being able to see the sunset as I sit here at the writing desk.
     I went for a walk this afternoon, and discovered a route that will do very nicely for my daily constitutional -- up to the creche (which unfortunately is closed for the season) and back to the art shop, then up the hill to the chapel for Vespers. I sat for an hour today before Vespers, underneath the organ loft. Father S. practices in the afternoons, always with a metronome, wearing the loudest organ shoes possible. As he plays a lot of Bach & Co., the pedalling is detached, but the stomping of his shoes drowns out the bass line and even, at times, the metronome!
     Finally, at about a quarter to five, he stopped and left. I was all alone in that big chapel. For just a few moments, there was complete, profound, utter silence. I have never heard such a huge, spacious silence. Ever. But of course, it didn't last; how could it, as long as there are people around outside, loading trucks, driving off, etc. But for just those few moments, I heard what true silence really sounds like. It is sublime.

     11 April 2007    A glorious morning! Couldn't ask for better weather, especially when working outdoors, raking leaves and pulling weeds, which is what I did. I worked with Mother Dorcas, a spry little twig of a nun, must be in her 70's, bright bue eyes and sparkling humor. I discovered untapped sources of strength, pulling up roots 3/4 of an inch in diameter, running six feet or more in length. I'll be sore tomorrow.
     As I walked toward the old chapel for some quiet relection before supper, I saw a car dropping off Lady Abbess, Mother Prioress (Dolores Hart), and Mother Placid. Lady Abbess saw me at some yards off and waved; I waved back but didn't recognize her till I got closer, then felt rather abashed. I shook her hand, said it was so nice to meet her, but couldn't remember how to address her, because I'm so used to saying "Sister." After the obvious pleasantries -- how is your visit, wonderful thank you -- she said, "Well, you've seen all our foibles now" -- referring to the rather glaring catastrophies committed by the nuns in some of the chants at Mass -- "I don't know if you did as much liturgy where you were" --referring to Lufkin -- "We're just really tired." They had just finished recording their third CD in addition to all the extra singing during Holy Week. I murmured something in response which I hoped sounded sympathetic.
     I'm beginning to think that my musical gifts and experience are a drawback, rather than an advantage, in monastic life. I forget sometimes how intimidating my credentials seem to others. Though I've not yet had a parlor visit with the Abbess and Prioress, I know, from Lady Abbess' words to me, that I'm already cast in a certain light; not exactly a preconceived notion -- but I know very well that my training and experience in the music business has, as it always does, colored their perception of me, though perhaps only slightly. I wouldn't accuse them of any kind of prejudice -- I give them the benefit of the doubt as Christians and religious to have an open mind. Whatever their perceptions are of me now, I assume them to be unconscious ones; but I'm still very sorry they should have to exist at all.
     I wish I could keep my past career a secret until people know me for who I am as a human being. I sometimes think it grossly unfair that my music should have such power over how I am perceived by others -- it causes them to regard and treat me with a certain reserve, and unless they have the wherewithal to persevere in their acquaintance with me, they may never know who I really am.

On the Peculiar Breed Called Musicians

Music may be a universal language, but the language of musicians certainly is not. I remember receiving a rude shock when one of my fellow novices in the Monastery of the Infant Jesus asked me what a bar line is. Having been a musician surrounded by other musicians for most of my life, it simply never occurred to me that someone wouldn't know what a bar line is. But then, I'm sure the incredulous look on my face when I was posed that question is exactly the same look any computer-savvy techno-geek would give me if I asked him the kind of questions I'm likely to ask. "What's an URL?" (Yes, I do know what an URL is -- now. And my fellow novice now knows what a bar line is.) The bar line question was just one tiny incident among many in the cloister that prompted me to write the following passage in my journal:

     9 January 2005   It struck me last night that I really have no one to talk to about the things I love to talk about -- music, opera, books, films. No one in the novitiate, that is. There are some among the professed sisters and temporary professed who know literature and films, but even the few who have had musical training have not had enough to talk about it on the level to which I've so long been accutomed. And then, just as I was beginning to feel genuinely depressed about all this, I received a letter from the very person who embodies the kind of friendship I miss. His letter made me ache bitterly for his companionship and understanding, the understanding of two people with the same likes, dislikes, opinions, experiences, and vernacular. Yet I can't talk to him about this deep instinct telling me I need to be here in the cloister precisely because I love him and all those dear to me. I would bear any cross for them, even the sacrifice of that daily physical companionship which has been one of the great joys of my life. I can be a far better friend and greater help to them here, through this life of prayer and penance, than I ever could be in the world.

     I think I wrote in an earlier journal about musicians being a peculiar breed unto themselves. They have their own way of thinking and feeling and they speak a language all their own. No one, but no one, can truly understand the soul of a musician except another musician, and that is the absolute truth. A musician may come to be understood by non-musicians on a certain level, but that very deepest level is accessible only to those of the breed. It goes beyond understanding: it is empathy. I've been blessed, until I entered the cloister, only to have had relationships based on this particular empathy. I indeed lived in a kind of cloister, inhabited only by those of my own breed, and I never had to worry about not being understood or accepted; artistic temperament, a certain amount of moodiness, and rages directed at no one in particular, were the norm rather than the exception, along with pronouncing foreign words properly and debating the merits of Bösendorfer vs. Steinway. They were common traits of our peculiar breed. Suddenly to be plunged into an entirely different cloister with an entirely different breed that cannot understand your peculiar language or customs is not only a shock to the system, it is crucifying. But I took the plunge in faith, and in faith I will continue to swim blindly, with no life preserver save that of God's grace.

It's ironic that today I seem to suffer the opposite problem, though not quite to the same degree: I now feel out of the music loop, and more in the poetry and religion loop. Not that I don't have musician friends who are also religious; I have many, but they and I now tend to talk more about spiritual rather than musical things. My way of thinking and speaking has changed. Music is a crucial element in my life and always will be, but in the past it was crucial because of my own ability to produce it. Now I simply love it as one of God's great gifts. And another VERY important thing: I now know that using an outdated browser is like using Schirmer editions of Rossini.

On the Gift of Music and the Mystery of Religious Vocation

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