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!

Saturday, and I'm No Longer at the Opera

     For some inexplicable reason, I woke up this morning thinking of Massenet's Manon. Specifically, the Saint-Sulpice scene. No music, I couldn't remember a note of that scene, still can't, just the dramatic situation. I then thought, "How does 'La Rêve' go?" It took a rather long moment, then that plaintive introduction by the strings came into my head and an imaginary tenor voice began, "En ferment les yeux ..."

     I was surprised and a little dismayed that the aria took that long to come back to me. It is one of the most famous arias in the French repertoire. How many gezillion times in my 25-year opera career did I play it in auditions? How many tenors have coached it with me? How many performances of Manon did I see or prompt?

     Then I realized it was nine years ago I did Manon at HGO, and no tenor in the Studio sang it after that production while I was still there. So it's probably been nine years since I last heard "La Rêve." Nine years, it suddenly struck me. That's a long time. In the opera world, nine years is forever.

     I realized, too, that I left that rarefied world eight years ago and the invisible line connecting it to my spirit is growing thinner and more fragile with each passing year. I still keep in touch with many of my former colleagues, singers, orchestra personnel, etc., thanks to social networks, and though I treasure those contacts and intend to preserve them for as long as possible, my mind and spirit are elsewhere, and that the music is no longer a major part of my consciousness is an inevitability I'm learning to accept. Like the letting go of piano repertoire, the letting go of opera repertoire has to be complete before I can let the music return, purified and free of the shackles of my former coach mentality. I still can't listen to opera without coaching in my head, which spoils the joy of listening to it. It may take a while longer before I can listen without criticizing every single phrase, every word. But struggling to remember the tune of a famous aria is a good sign. It means that Leticia the Coach is beginning to fade away, eventually to be replaced by Leticia the Plain Ol' Music Lover.

Jussi Björling (1951)



Saturday at the Opera: La Bohème

     When I was in college, just beginning to love opera, I earned extra money playing for voice lessons and choir. I decided to use that money to start building my opera scores and recordings library. A very good source for cheap, used recordings in great condition (this was during the late 70's, early 80's, so we're talking about LPs and cassettes) was Half-Price Books, a chain that is still in existence, but limited to certain states. I can't tell you how many wonderful LPs I bought from Half-Price! And I have them still -- fortunately, I also have a turntable, so I can still enjoy the warmth and depth of sound which CDs simply don't have. My very first purchase, for a whopping five dollars, was the 1956 La Bohème with Jussi Bjoerling, Victoria de los Angeles, Robert Merrill, Lucine Amara, John Reardon, and Giorgio Tozzi, commonly known as "the Beecham Bohème." This was the only Puccini opera that conductor Sir Thomas Beecham ever recorded in full, and it is truly a gem and indisputed classic. In fact, many, myself included, consider this to be one of the two or three finest recordings of Puccini's beloved opera. (I'm also very partial to Karajan's recording with Pavarotti and Freni.) Certainly no opera collection is complete without it, and it is an excellent choice for a neophyte's first purchase.

    Here is a synopsis of the opera, for those who are not familiar with it. The excerpt below is the second half of Act 3 from the Beecham recording, beginning at Rodolfo's "Marcello. Finalmente!"



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.

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.

The Closure of a Life

The most difficult months of my life thus far began when I returned to Houston after my aspirancy in Lufkin. 

8 May 2004  I wondered today, for the zillionth time, what will happen to my journals when I'm gone. What is it in people that makes them want to be remembered? I suppose it's because our time on this earth is so short, yet we labor so hard just to live; we want someone to acknowledge and even appreciate our labors. I will have no descendants, no husband to cherish my memory. It is my dearest and most fervent desire that I be known, truly known, through my own words.

     Today must be the day I mourn my past and would-be loves. I felt very odd, very emotional, for some reason, and needed just to drive around. You know, old and faithful friend, that I am one of the world's biggest romantic saps, that I have always followed my heart rather than my head, and that my heart has led me to some rather bizarre places. My romantic sensibilities belong to another era -- or maybe they belong in the pages of a melodramatic, gothic, Victorian novel written by a middle-aged spinster who still dreams of experiencing that one "great love." In any case, I was never so happy as when I was miserable in love. And tonight it has begun to dawn on me that when I enter the cloister, I say goodbye to those wonderful heart-wrenching torments that in the past have made me feel alive and purposeful. Sad, aren't I?

11 May 2004

Carol called last night; we had a good chin wag. I needed to voice to someone all the bewildering emotions I’ve been feeling suddenly about this tremendous change in my life and how much more difficult it is than I thought it would be to say goodbye. I almost wish there would be no fuss at all, no acknowledgement of my leaving the company; I would just quietly disappear and avoid all the sadness and turmoil. But that wouldn’t be fair to those who do want to say goodbye to me. Carol very kindly offered to fly me out to Santa Fe for a few days in July. I think I will take her up on it; I think I can get all my packing and shipping done even if I do go.

13 May 2004      The music staff lunch yesterday was really nice. I only cried a little, when I read the card they signed and gave me. Otherwise, it was a lot of laughter and good will and questions about the monastery.

     It’s very hard to put into words everything I’ve been feeling. But if at any given moment it seems I might be overwhelmed by the emotions whirling inside me, I go back in my mind, very calmly, and retrace the path that has led me to this point.

16 May 2004      I received the call from Sr. Mary Jeremiah with the news of my acceptance.

     Why is it that, when it comes to the most profound and complicated times of my life, I find it difficult to write? There’s something in me that disdains the cliché “There are no words to express X” yet there is truth to it and a reason it was coined in the first place. These past two days have in many ways been the most confusing and difficult of my entire life. I didn’t think it was possible to plunge from the highest joy to near despair in so short a time. I don’t even think I can write about it now -- but I will sometime. I have to.

     My life is in Your hands.

20 May 2004     Last Saturday was very gloomy indeed. I of course prayed very hard for my family, especially my mother, and that God would give us all the strength necessary to accept his will.

     Saturday night, the 15th, was closing night of Barbiere -- my very last performance in the Wortham Theater. I played the chorus warm-up, and at the end of it Richard announced very quietly, “This is Leticia’s last chorus warm-up.” It was a small group of 16, but those 16 men applauded me warmly. Richard, who is not given to public displays of emotion, hugged me as I sat crying on the piano bench. Some of the chorus stayed to say goodbye to me personally. It was very sad for me. I continued to cry until half-way through Act I of the show.

      During the Act II finale, when the entire company came down to the footlights to sing the closing phrases, a few of the choristers looked straight at me in the pit where I sat at the fortepiano. The final cut-off came; I looked at Patrick on the conductor’s podium. He turned to me and blew me a kiss.

      As with every closing night, I went onstage after bows to say goodbye to the cast. I didn’t think Earle would ever let go of me -- he held me very tight, both of us crying. Same with Patrick. And Joyce.

      Oh, it was one of the saddest, hardest nights of my entire life! I’ll never forget the love -- the love that grew through these 15 years, despite the grumblings, the bad world premieres, the less than pleasant rehearsal periods, the frustrating and tedious (some of them) coachings. There is so much I’ve loved about my job -- Mozart, Handel, bel canto, playing continuo,  the many great and rewarding coachings, the many happy productions and rehearsal periods. And the people. I will miss them sorely.

      Saturday and Sunday, I busied myself with cleaning and packing, which helped much in the way of distracting myself from worrying about my family.

23 May 2004, Ascension Sunday      I’m feeling a bit melancholy right now. Understandable, I suppose. Fr. Victor told me that when he got accepted into seminary, he sat in his apartment surrounded by his packed boxes and cried. Sr. Mary Jeremiah told me that when she got her plane ticket to go to the monastery from Rome, where she was living at the time, she cried; she was so depressed. Isn’t that funny? I mean, funny-peculiar? I wonder if pre-wedding cold feet feels this way. But I’m scared. It isn’t the thought of entering the monastery that depresses me; it’s this transition time. All the goodbyes, the packing, the throwing out of things -- the closure. Closure of a life. It’s said that when a woman enters the monastery, she dies to the world. But it’s much more specific and personal than that. She dies to her previous life.

      For years now, I’ve been trying to discover what life really is. So much of the time I felt as if I were faking a life -- yet, at the same time, wondering if that’s what living was: “playing” at things. Trying to convince yourself that you’re this, that, or the other. And all the while suspecting you should be “that” instead of “this.” But it was all just a preview. Now comes the true search. Now I have to confront life without playing at it.

      All these goodbyes have made it very clear to me how much a single person can influence and play such a part in so many other lives. How many people each and every one of us touches! I had no idea I mattered so much to so many. Now I’m beginning to see the network my own existence has built. It is an awesome vision, at once gratifying and humbling. I have made a difference in the world. I matter. What a great gift life is!

24 May 2004     Started cleaning out my studio at work this morning, putting scores in boxes to store in the HGO library until further notice; leaving the coat tree, small wooden table, and stool to Peter; the Maria Callas life-size cutout to Marjorie; the "Golf in Italy" poster to Norman; and everything else to Jim to do with as he pleases, since he is inheriting my studio. Yes, this is hard.

     Vai, e non fermarti mai,

     Perché il futuro è lunica ricchezza che hai.

     Non conta ciò che hai,

     Ma solo quello che sei e quello che darai.

     Sei solo tu il giudice che hai;

     La vita che hai davanti sarà come vorrai.

                                 ~ Enrico Ruggeri

     Go, and don't ever stop,

     Because the future is the only wealth you have.

     What you own doesn't count,

     But only what you are and what you will give.

     You are the only judge you have;

     The life you have before you will be as you want.

A Taste of Monastic Life

Just to refresh your memory: before a woman officially enters a monastery, she usually makes a visit called an "aspirancy," which lasts anywhere from a few days to a few weeks or even months. This visit, during which she stays inside the monastery's enclosure walls as a temporary member of the community, enables her to experience firsthand the monastic life, the customs and horarium (schedule) of that particular community; more importantly, it gives both her and the community a chance to determine whether or not she has a true monastic vocation, and whether she is a right fit for that community and vice-versa.

The following passages are taken from my journal.


25 February 2004

     Tomorrow I leave for Lufkin. I can't seem to sleep. Guess I'm too excited. Such a completely different life, a completely different world from the one I live in now! Most of my life has been spent working in a business in which everything depends on talent, praise, and criticism. You are either being judged, or you're judging someone else. Your job hangs on questions like, "How well does she play? Is she a 'conductor's pianist'; does she play 'orchestrally'? Does she know how to coach? Do the singers like her?" I suppose success in any profession depends on ability, talent -- in fact, that's one of the world's biggest truisms -- but that can get all confused with the person, and sometimes in dangerous ways. It seems to me that the focus on one's talents vs. shortcomings can become so intense as to cause that person to believe that those are the only criteria by which he/she is deemed valuable. Especially in today's society, where too often a person's job is his life.
     No, life can be better than that. Now that I know I am valuable in God's eyes, regardless of the gifts he's given me, I never want to settle for, or rely on, the opinions and judgment of men. If tomorrow I lose the use of my hands, I am still precious in his eyes. I no longer want to care about praise and admiration and applause. But I know, because I've cared about those things all my life, learning not to care will be the most difficult thing I'll ever try to do.
     I'm beginning to understand that this is part of what St. Catherine of Siena calls "true discernment" -- a knowledge of self, and how God works in you and through you; the honest appraisal of one's faults, the things that hinder one's quest for perfection and union with God.


1 March 2004, Lufkin

     I arrived at the monastery last Thursday around 12.30 -- a beautiful day, crisp and sunny. I was immediately taken by St. Mary Veronica to be fed in the guest dining room, but only after a few minutes I was summoned to the Peace Parlor to be greeted by Sr. Mary Annunciata (Prioress), Sr. Mary William, and Sr. Mary Jeremiah.
     The meeting in the parlor was brief. I was then escorted by Sr. Mary Veronica to the enclosure door. This was the moment I’d read about in so many nuns’ autobiographies! There, in a narrow hallway just beyond a small vestibule, was the majority of the community, lined up in 2 rows, faces smiling in welcome. I made my way through them, alternating from one side to the other, embracing each sister. Some, of course, I’d already met on my previous visits. I came to the only blue-clad figure among them, their postulant Adrienne. She just entered at the start of the year. She kept saying, “Oh, I’m so happy you’re here!” It must be very lonely, the first months as a postulant.
     After greeting everyone, I was shown into the oratory where I knelt before a statue of Our Lady of Fatima, and Sr. Mary Annunciata said a blessing. Then the novices, Adrienne, Sr. Mary Jeremiah, Sr. Mary William, and Sr. Maria Cabrini took me through the main building, out along the cloister walk, and to the novitiate building for a “get-to-know-you” recreation, just the 8 of us. I was happy to see a grand piano in the novitiate’s community room. It’s a brown Aeolian in fair shape, but needs tuning and voicing badly. There was class in the afternoon (they have class every weekday except Wednesday, at 4). Right now we're studying the Gospel of John -- my favorite Gospel; I’m so glad!
     After supper, I went with the novices to work in the kitchen. My job was to help dry pots and pans and large utensils at the “pot sink.” Dishes, cafeteria trays, glasses, and silverware are washed in the “dish room,” which has one of those super-fast, restaurant-style dishwashers -- you fill up a big rack with dirty dishes, push them through a sort of mini-garage door; just a short couple of minutes later, ed ecco! Clean dishes, piping hot!
     Then evening recreation, this time with the whole community in the main building’s community room. That first evening, they had a “circle” recreation in my honor: all the sisters sat in a big circle with me and the Prioress, Sub-Prioress, and Novice Directress sitting at the top of it; I told them what I could about myself, and they asked lots of questions. Of course, they were extremely interested in my work and the world of opera.
     Friday I helped peel and core mounds of Granny Smith apples. Saturday mornings are devoted to housecleaning. My assignment was the novitiate's community room and computer room -- dust, vacuum, and mop. They of course use old-fashioned hand-wrung mops, Swiffers with their disposable mopcloths not being ecnomical and therefore not in accordance with the vow of poverty. Never mind the fact that hand-wrung mops can be very unsanitary!
     Monday morning, kitchen duty. I prepared toast points for dinner (their big midday meal), buttering the bread, topping each triangle with two kinds of cheese and a tomato slice, then Sr. Mary Thomas grilled them. I'm very good with assembly line work.
     After kitchen duty, I was taken to the laundry where I was shown by Sr. Mary Rose how to clean and vacuum the giant lint trap from their enormous dryer. The amount of lint that came out of that thing was enough to weave a whole set of sheets! Then I had to vacuum the very large laundry room. Someone needs to donate new vacuum cleaners to these sisters. The one in the novitiate looks to be circa the Viet Nam war. The one in the laundry ain’t much younger. Adrienne mopped the concrete floor after I vacuumed, then I helped fold and bring clean stuff back to the kitchen and novitiate. We finished with about 3 minutes to spare before Midday Prayer. I was famished! When we went in to dinner, I looked proudly at my beautiful toast points. . . .
     Meals are eaten in silence (except on special feast days and “picnic days”); as you eat, you listen to the reader who reads a biography of a saint, or a book or article on Church History, or something on the spiritual life, etc. In this way, you are feeding both mind and body. The refectory in a monastery is regarded as a holy place, because every meal taken there commemorates the Last Supper. Therefore, it is also one of the places where silence is generally kept, aside from the reading at meals.


4 March 2004

     I had a long talk with Sr. Mary Jeremiah about this and that -- what one does with one’s bank account, property, etc. before entering, and about visits and correspondence.
     You usually keep your bank account(s) open until you take vows, just in case things don’t work out and you leave the monastery. Upon entering, you bring a dowry (money) which is also kept aside until you take your final vows, again for security in the event you should leave. One doesn’t want to go back to the outside world without money! If you do take final vows, making you a cloistered nun for the rest of your earthly life, then you can close your accounts.
     The correspondence part I’m sort of disappointed about, being an avid letter writer. But postulants and novices can only write to friends a few times a year; to family, twice a month. Visitors (family and friends) can be received, except during Advent and Lent. If one’s family lives far away and can only come once or twice a year, they may stay (at a local hotel at the monastery’s expense) for two days, and a sister may spend the whole time (except for Mass and the Divine Office) visiting with them in one of the parlors; she may even take her meals there.
     We also talked about how much more difficult it is for someone my age to give up the world and enter into a hidden life. She was very reassuring and comforting: “God knows how much you’re giving up. And he wouldn’t ask you to make such a sacrifice if he didn’t think you’d be happy. We sometimes forget that he wants our happiness.”
     But this morning I couldn’t help thinking of all the things I’m giving up. As I took my morning stroll, pacing up and down the path to the cemetery, I thought of my life -- all I’ve accomplished, how much I have to give as an opera coach, how I’d never see the English countryside that I’ve wanted to see ever since I can remember; or Venice and Verona, which are more recent dreams. And so, after Mass, I prayed very hard to Jesus and Mary to help me fight these temptations and to remember always that the Spirit put this desire to be a nun in my heart for a reason -- his reason, not mine.


Part Two of my aspirancy coming soon. . . .













             

On My "Reversion" and Religious Vocation

     Some of my friends have asked me to recount how I received my religious vocation and the journey I took from there to entering the cloister. Though many books and articles have been written specifically about "the call" and how different people experience it and respond to it, I can't think it's an easy thing for anyone to discuss. It certainly isn't for me, mainly because it was such a complicated thing that happened in two stages. The first stage unfolded so subtly and over such a long period of time—the course of many years—that I was hardly aware it was happening. The second stage was more like the proverbial thunderbolt, or, to use a more contemporary vernacular, a boot in the rear.

     I can only say that an ever-growing restlessness and dissatisfaction with life as I was living it in the 1980s and '90s prompted me to re-examine the need for a spiritual center, which I once had as a child and adolescent, but in my late teens had pushed down and buried deep inside me while I pursued my musical career. In the beginning of that career, my talent was not to me "a gift from God"; it was simply something I was born with, and I developed it with a purely selfish, vain ambition and ruthless competitiveness. I loved my talent because it was mine (so I believed), and I loved that others admired and respected me for it. I found success and did indeed have a good career in opera, but eventually selfishness and competitiveness led, as it always does, to dissatisfaction. Dissatisfaction led to anxiety; anxiety led to the search for, as I defined it then, "something stronger than myself."

     Once I acknowledged there was something stronger than myself and my ambition, something that I couldn't control but could rely on always, then, and only then, was I open to the gift of faith. I was given the grace to question, to explore, and to learn. I was given the grace to see beyond myself and the ephemeral world I lived in. For this, and for my subsequent return to the Catholic Church, I must give some credit to my beloved mother, who prayed for me constantly during my years of faithlessness. She was my own personal Saint Monica, and I am forever grateful to her.

     In my quest to find a parish in Houston I felt at home in, providence led me to Holy Rosary, a parish run by friars of the Order of Preachers (commonly known as "Dominicans"). At the same time, I was also beginning to feel an inexplicable pull toward religious life. To this day, I have no idea specifically how or when it started, but suddenly—and this was the "boot in the rear"—I was reading everything I could lay my hands on about religious life.  I learned there are basically two kinds of religious orders: contemplative and active. Religious in active orders are sisters (technically not "nuns"). Their apostolate is teaching school or nursing, or doing some kind of charitable  or missionary work, and sometimes they live "in the world" while doing these things, or sometimes they live in convents. Mother Theresa's order, for example, is an active order. Religious in contemplative orders are nuns, but are addressed as "Sister" (or, for those who hold office, "Mother"). They live in monasteries called cloisters and their only apostolate is prayer and contemplating the word of God, which is why they are called "contemplatives." Nuns only venture outside the cloister for the most essential things, such as doctor's appointments or the death of their immediate family members, or for conferences and workshops. In the simplest terms, active sisters are "Martha"s and contemplative nuns are "Mary"s—and both are necessary to the Church and to the world.

     To say I was not bewildered and frightened by this pull toward religious life would be a lie. Frankly, I was scared out of my mind, and many were the times that I tried to convince myself it was just a passing fancy.  My life at that time was so settled into my work at the opera house; to give up everything for which I worked so hard for so many years and to which I had become so accustomed was unthinkable, akin to madness! Finally, I consulted both a therapist (who, thankfully, was a very faith-filled woman) and one of the priests at Holy Rosary. Both encouraged me to explore this mysterious and frightening thing that was happening to me, but they also cautioned me: "Take it slowly. Don't jump into anything without a lot of examination and (my priest told me) prayer."

     And so, I began my discernment in earnest. . . .