Then: 17 August 2009
It has been over a year since I started this volume, and I am thoroughly ashamed of myself. I've all but abandoned you, and the poetry hasn't been all that forthcoming either. My last poem was over a month ago. If it weren't for my reading—which isn't much, admittedly—my brain would surely atrophy. I lead the life of my mother and father and have none of my own. Or should I say rather, that I have no life outside that of my mother and father? I have devoted myself completely to them.
I try not to think of the future—too frightening—and when I do feel frightened, I try to submit myself to Providence.
Too many memories haunt me. Part of me wants to cleave to them as some sort of confirmation of I'm not sure what, and part of me thinks it's perhaps better if I try to put my past lives in a drawer, close it firmly, and never consciously think of those lives again. What pleasure does it give me to think of them? None. Only pain and regret.
All the regrets I have about my two and a half years in the monastery have yet to be sorted and clarified, and finally—hopefully—converted into a more tranquil, philosophical vein. Right now, I'm still torn between resentment of not being completely understood by the sisters, not having been given enough of a chance, and guilt that I just didn't try hard enough to overcome my need to be the authority in all matters musical and linguistic. Sometimes I think that I wasted the gift of my vocation through sheer pride and obstinacy; and in those moments when that thought torments my peace, I long to have a wise and holy confessor to whom I can pour out my soul. Then again, if I hadn't left, I wouldn't be here to relieve my mother of some of the heavy burden of caring for my father, nor would I have the gift of healing the rift, at least in part, that has long existed between my father and me.
If I hadn't left opera, I would have spiraled rapidly down the shaft of frustration and dissatisfaction that I had already begun to descend. My friends, dear as they were to me, most likely would not have offered enough to sustain me through my increasing restlessness. My success as a coach would have continued to fuel my pride and my intolerance of what I perceived to be mediocrity. In short, I would have become hateful to myself and undeserving as ever to remain in God's grace.
No, I am better off where I am, living a humble, hidden, and hopefully useful life. My demons continue to taunt and tempt me, but I try my best to stay close to Jesus and Mary. If my writing never gives any pleasure to anyone except a very small handful of people, I will be satisfied, and not seek anything more.
Now: 28 October 2012
It's a perfectly gorgeous day, one that sets your heart rejoicing the second you go out the door and into the refreshing, golden crispness of autumn. The sky is endlessly brilliant and only the smallest breezes disturb the treetops.
I'm back in a writing slump after a month of relative productivity, but never mind. I've learned a good deal from that month, received much encouragement and affirmation, and rest in the renewed confidence that I still have it in me to write good poetry. My muse may not be consistent or even reliable, but it isn't dead!
Mom and I live a very quiet life. The monastery has rid me forever, I think, of the old restlessness that made me jump in my car and wonder where I could go to run away from myself. I was only running away from emptiness. Now I stay at home for contentment. Every night when I hug my mother and wish her a good sleep, I feel grateful and blessed. Life is found inside oneself.
I no longer feel regret for my time in the cloister. I can now accept peacefully my own shortcomings and my failure to fulfill the vocation God gave me. I look on my present life as his generous gift of a second chance and am happy with that. He has given me back music, too, in a measure I can deal with serenely, without stress or anxiety, just the pure joy.
My musical past, too, I can now look back on without regret. If my temper and intolerance held me back from accomplishing more than I did, I can only smile ruefully and move on. What have I missed, after all? Nothing at all. I've only been given more than enough, more than I ever deserved.
I have the peaceful, useful life I have always, at my heart's core, wanted.
