Continuing from my journal:
28 January 2007 When I arrived last night, I met the three other guests -- two friends from New York and a resident of Bridgeport, all very nice; they're just here for the weekend and leaving this afternoon. Then there's M. the intern, and a young woman I've yet to meet who is discerning a vocation to this abbey.
This morning began with Mass (for us, that is; we skipped Lauds). There are two places of worship at the abbey: the old monastery chapel, whch is smaller, darker, and "womb-like," to quote Sr. Emmanuelle; then there's the large new public chapel on the hill, Jesu Fili Mariae, where Mass is held and also where the nuns pray Vespers. The other hours of the Office are prayed in the old chapel.
The two women from New York decided to drive up to Mass. I opted to walk up the hill with L., the visitor from Bridgeport. The nuns tell guests, don't walk up the hill if you think you're not in great shape, which I am not, but I managed. It is a fairly steep climb on a tortuous, rough ribbon of path through the woods, and I sweated like a pig despite the crisp coolness of the morning.
The church is almost overwhelming in its open airiness (or airy openness; both are accurate), knotted wood surrounding you on all sides, an incredibly high, vaulted ceiling, and what I call "pin drop" acoustics. The chapel at the Monastery of the Infant Jesus is "L" shaped, the public sitting in one leg of the L and the nuns in the other, with the sanctuary in the corner; here at the abbey, the Jesu Fili Mariae chapel is oblong, the public sitting in the back half, the nuns at the front, and the sanctuary in the middle. Between the sanctuary and the nuns' section (which is called the "choir" in every monastery chapel) there is a high grille that has a door on either side, near the wall, and a window in the center through which the nuns receive Communion. At the start of Mass this morning, Sunday, the nuns processed in two lines from the two enclosure doors in the choir, through the grille doors into the public section, met at the back of the chapel, then, two by two, came up the center aisle and re-entered the choir through the grille door on house right (I still think in theatrical terms). They passed right in front of me, and I looked eagerly for Mother Dolores Hart. She was near the end of the line with Lady Abbess, wearing a jaunty black knit cap over her veil. She is taller than I expected, a bit taller than me. The abbatial chair and the chairs of the prioress and subprioress face the congregation, "upstage center," and the nuns are of course split on either side of them and facing each other.
I was surprised that some of the nuns, including Lady Abbess and Mother Dolores, came out to greet the congregants. I screwed up the courage to approach Mother. She was very sweet, and promised to pray for Dad; I told her that he, like herself, suffers from neuropathy. Her blue topaz eyes are enormous and penetrating, but not uncomfortably so, and her speech is rather halting and measured. We only spoke briefly -- I didn't want to appear over-eager, but I did tell her that she played an important part in my discernment. I hope I get to talk to her again.
At 11:00, I had a parlor visit with Mother Noella, "The Cheese Nun," so called because she is one of the world's leading authorities on artisinal cheese-making (there was a PBS show about her which is available on DVD ). It seems that all guests, whether discerning a vocation or not, are assigned a sister with whom to speak privately. (I should explain that, in the Benedictine order, nuns are called "Sister" until they take solemn vows, after which they are called "Mother," whether or not they hold office. The Abbess is "Lady Abbess," not "Mother Abbess.") Mother Noella and I had a very nice talk; she told me a lot about Benedictine spirituality, the charism of this particular community, and their formation process. As per Benedictine tradition, they work the land and live mostly on its yield; they place great emphasis on hospitality, welcoming guests throughout the year, though they do not hold formal retreats; they have a very popular internship program, in which one can learn about any aspect of Benedictine life, from farming to crafts to liturgical music and chant, while living on the abbey grounds for as long as one year. As for the formation process of a Benedictine nun, it is a very long one, longer than any other order except possibly the Carthusians. It can take nine years or even longer to reach solemn vows. Just entering as a postulant is much more difficult here than, say, at the Monastery of the Infant Jesus. A woman aspiring to enter must visit the abbey many times, not just once or twice, then become a long-term guest for some months, living in the guest house, while the community gets to know her slowly. She must prove, by her persistence, that she truly desires "to try her vocation as a Benedictine."
What I love about this community is that they emphasize development of the whole person through her unique gifts and interests; however, they have been criticized for it. I'm sure many would also look askance at the way they acknowledge and even tolerate ill temper, jealousies, resentments, etc. -- "tolerate" in the sense that they don't try to negate these very real and human traits. They don't believe in the band-aid approach of "say you're sorry; it means you care." (Whenever Sr. Maria Cabrini in Lufkin said that to me, I would reply, "But I'm not sorry, and I won't be a hyprocrite. I'll say it when I mean it." She was at first confounded by this, but later told me that my honesty was refreshing!)
To be continued. . . .
The Abbey of Regina Laudis' website: www.abbeyofreginalaudis.com
The Cheese Nun: http://www.amazon.com/Cheese-Nun-Sister-Noella-Marcellino/dp/B000FGG62K/ref=sr_1_1?s=movies-tv&ie=UTF8&qid=1318256070&sr=1-1
10 October 2011
09 October 2011
At the Abbey of Regina Laudis, Part One
Regina Laudis in Bethlehem, Connecticut is probably the most well-known Benedictine community of women in the country. Their three CDs of liturgical chant are very popular, as are their artisan cheeses and the recent biography of its foundress and first abbess, Mother Benedict Duss. The Hollywood film Come to the Stable, starring Loretta Young and Celeste Holm, is loosely based on the story of Regina Laudis' founding, though a children's hospital is substituted for the abbey. But perhaps the primary reason for the abbey's notoriety is its current prioress (second in command to the abbess), Mother Dolores Hart, who enjoyed a successful Hollywood career before entering religious life, starring in two films with Elvis Presley (Loving You and King Creole) as well as the beach classic Where the Boys Are and Francis of Assisi, in which she portrayed St. Clare, among others. Her sudden, unheralded renouncement of the glamour of Hollywood for the austerity of the religious life caused a great stir in the film community, and to this day Mother Dolores is featured quite often in the press, as much for her past career as for her present advocacy of neuropathy research (she herself suffers from the infirmity).
I first heard of the abbey when I saw a segment about Mother Dolores on 20/20 in 2002. Upon doing further research, I discovered their commitment to keeping alive the Gregorian Chant and their dedication to singing it well, even bringing in the late Dr. Theodore Marier to train them regularly in the Solemnes method. They also sing everything in Latin and wear the full habit; the abbey is on a 365-acre farm on which the sisters raise sheep and cows. All of these things appealed to me greatly. In the end, however, I decided against a community that was so musically oriented, as I wanted to "purge" the overly meticulous, too-highly-disciplined musician out of myself.
When, after over two years in the Monastery of the Infant Jesus, my prioress advised me to try the Benedictines, and specifically the Abbey of Regina Laudis, I took it as a sign that perhaps it was time to bring Leticia the Musician forth again. Perhaps she was sufficiently mellowed. So when I returned home to San Antonio I wrote the abbey to arrange a visit.
The following is from my journal:
28 January 2007, Feast of St. Thomas Aquinas I arrived at the abbey around 7 last evening, my flight out of Detroit having been delayed. I had to take a taxi from Southbury, and my driver and I had a very hard time finding what the abbey calls its front door -- you actually have to go through a large, glass-enclosed greenhouse to get to the actual door. I was fortunate that a young man met me as I hesitated outside the greenhouse -- turns out he's been at the abbey since last April, doing a year's internship in land husbandry. He led me through the greenhouse and into the tiny entry and rang the bell. He had to pick up a supper basket, which was passed to him through a small turn below the grille.
Presently, Sr. Emmanuelle, the guest secretary and the one I'd been communicating with, came to meet me. She took me to the nearby St. Gregory guest house, but left me outside the door, as she was forbidden to go into the house in the evening. I was instructed to speak to M., a young intern, which I did; she told me there was a supper basket waiting for me in the kitchen, then showed me to my room upstairs.
The St. Gregory is an 18th-century three-story farmhouse complete with warped, creaking wood floors, a dark narrow creaky stair with a very low banister (shorter people in the 18th century), and metal latches on all doors and cabinets instead of modern knobs. Drop latches -- it took me a while to figure that out; I thought they were the sliding kind at first, silly modern me.
Most of the furniture is very old; lots of dark wood, lots of wobbly legs, rickety backs, etc. The dining table, which can seat four normal-sized people or six very skinny ones, consists of 5 wide planks atop traditional X legs; no nails, just pegs holding it together. The adjacent living room, a perfect cozy size, boasts a large, simple fireplace with wooden mantle, plaster ceilings with the original dark wood beams, creaky wood floor, a '70s harvest gold 3-seater sofa that swallows you when you sit, a pair of low-backed armchairs with tattered floral upholstery, old chairs, occasional tables, and several table lamps (the ceiling is not wired). There are many radiators throughout the house to make it surprisingly warm -- almost too warm -- modern plumbing and appliances, and just enough food for breakfast (dinner and supper are provided in the women guests' refectory).
My room, the St. Catherine, runs the depth of the house above the living room. There are four beds, all on casters, all without headboards, dressed in quilts and the flattest pillows I've ever seen, but the beds are not the monastic, wooden-slab-with-six-inch-pad type. They are ascetic, however, comfort-wise. There is a fireplace, which I think is non-working, four windows, two antique bureaus, a small square writing table with terribly uneven legs, and a couple of straight-backed wooden chairs.
To be continued. . . .
I first heard of the abbey when I saw a segment about Mother Dolores on 20/20 in 2002. Upon doing further research, I discovered their commitment to keeping alive the Gregorian Chant and their dedication to singing it well, even bringing in the late Dr. Theodore Marier to train them regularly in the Solemnes method. They also sing everything in Latin and wear the full habit; the abbey is on a 365-acre farm on which the sisters raise sheep and cows. All of these things appealed to me greatly. In the end, however, I decided against a community that was so musically oriented, as I wanted to "purge" the overly meticulous, too-highly-disciplined musician out of myself.
When, after over two years in the Monastery of the Infant Jesus, my prioress advised me to try the Benedictines, and specifically the Abbey of Regina Laudis, I took it as a sign that perhaps it was time to bring Leticia the Musician forth again. Perhaps she was sufficiently mellowed. So when I returned home to San Antonio I wrote the abbey to arrange a visit.
The following is from my journal:
28 January 2007, Feast of St. Thomas Aquinas I arrived at the abbey around 7 last evening, my flight out of Detroit having been delayed. I had to take a taxi from Southbury, and my driver and I had a very hard time finding what the abbey calls its front door -- you actually have to go through a large, glass-enclosed greenhouse to get to the actual door. I was fortunate that a young man met me as I hesitated outside the greenhouse -- turns out he's been at the abbey since last April, doing a year's internship in land husbandry. He led me through the greenhouse and into the tiny entry and rang the bell. He had to pick up a supper basket, which was passed to him through a small turn below the grille.
Presently, Sr. Emmanuelle, the guest secretary and the one I'd been communicating with, came to meet me. She took me to the nearby St. Gregory guest house, but left me outside the door, as she was forbidden to go into the house in the evening. I was instructed to speak to M., a young intern, which I did; she told me there was a supper basket waiting for me in the kitchen, then showed me to my room upstairs.
The St. Gregory is an 18th-century three-story farmhouse complete with warped, creaking wood floors, a dark narrow creaky stair with a very low banister (shorter people in the 18th century), and metal latches on all doors and cabinets instead of modern knobs. Drop latches -- it took me a while to figure that out; I thought they were the sliding kind at first, silly modern me.
Most of the furniture is very old; lots of dark wood, lots of wobbly legs, rickety backs, etc. The dining table, which can seat four normal-sized people or six very skinny ones, consists of 5 wide planks atop traditional X legs; no nails, just pegs holding it together. The adjacent living room, a perfect cozy size, boasts a large, simple fireplace with wooden mantle, plaster ceilings with the original dark wood beams, creaky wood floor, a '70s harvest gold 3-seater sofa that swallows you when you sit, a pair of low-backed armchairs with tattered floral upholstery, old chairs, occasional tables, and several table lamps (the ceiling is not wired). There are many radiators throughout the house to make it surprisingly warm -- almost too warm -- modern plumbing and appliances, and just enough food for breakfast (dinner and supper are provided in the women guests' refectory).
My room, the St. Catherine, runs the depth of the house above the living room. There are four beds, all on casters, all without headboards, dressed in quilts and the flattest pillows I've ever seen, but the beds are not the monastic, wooden-slab-with-six-inch-pad type. They are ascetic, however, comfort-wise. There is a fireplace, which I think is non-working, four windows, two antique bureaus, a small square writing table with terribly uneven legs, and a couple of straight-backed wooden chairs.
To be continued. . . .
08 October 2011
A New Vocation
In March of 2003, I asked God to tell me his will for me. I asked this in the context of the discernment of my vocation to religious life, when I was struggling to decide whether I should or should not seek entrance to a monastery. As I wrote earlier, he gave me his answer very clearly, but I didn't feel at liberty to tell exactly how he gave it, and I still don't. All I can say is that the answer came in two parts. The first part was unmistakable: he was indeed calling me to contemplative religious life. The second, more enigamtic, part I didn't come to understand until after I left the monastery.
Since I had given up my job and my apartment, indeed my whole life, in Houston, I went back to my parents' house in San Antonio. There I discovered my new ministry, and the meaning of the second part of the answer: my father's peripheral neuropathy and dementia with Lewy body had been growing worse, rendering him ever less mobile and independent. My mother, though remarkably strong and energetic for her age, could not care for him by herself. It was clear that I had to stay with them and help.
God's wisdom is the cause and effect of all things. He knew that I would have been ill-equipped for this ministry, had I come to it directly from my life in Houston. I was not, in the remotest stretches of the imagination, a "caregiver." I was selfish, self-centered, self-serving, self-everything. Therefore, he wooed me slowly but surely back to his Church and placed me in the ultimate school of charity -- the monastery. There I observed daily the unflagging selflessness of the infirmary sister who took care of one of the older infirm, who dedicated nearly all her time and energy to her charge's needs. At the time I thought, could I ever be that selfless? Seeing them walk slowly down the halls of the cloister, the stronger, younger sister's hand firmly holding the hand of the older and weaker, I felt humbled and unworthy to be a nun; yet deep down, I was confident that, relying solely on God's grace, I could overcome my selfishness. Living in close quarters with 27 other women -- none of whom I had chosen to live with, some of whom I would never choose to live with -- taught me patience, tolerance, and discretion to an extent that wouldn't have been possible had I not followed the call to the cloister. God knew what I needed to learn charity. This was the unique path he forged for me.
Now I see very clearly God's will and direction in my life, and pray that I may always bend my own will to his, and say "yes" to grace. I know he'll never, ever steer me wrong. My monastic training is still strong with me; its principals guide me and keep my actions firmly rooted in the Gospel. Being as faithful as I can to the Divine Office keeps prayer a vital part of my daily routine. Striving to stay in a recollected and prayerful state, even when doing the most mundane chores, keeps God at the core of my consciousness. For all this, I am eternally grateful to my monastic vocation and the loving Father who gave it to me.
07 October 2011
Departure
I left the Monastery of the Infant Jesus in November, 2006, two years and four months after I entered, and six months before I would have taken temporary vows. Not a day has passed since that I have not thought of my all too short life within those walls.
My departure had nothing and everything to do with my relationship with God. During my last months, he gave me many graces, some in the form of heavy crosses; much new light of knowledge, a greater understanding of his love; in short, I felt closer to him than ever. Yet, too, there was the tiny seed of that other knowledge that grew steadily day by day, the knowledge that he wanted something else of me. I never doubted it was his will, not just mine, that brought me to the cloister, and my confidence on that score was confirmed by the prioress, my novice directress, and many of the other sisters. They and I felt I did have a monastic vocation, and perhaps I do still. But it became clear that God wanted me to be somewhere else in the meantime.
When the prioress, Sr. Mary Annunciata, called me to her office to tell me she had concluded, after long weeks of prayer, it was best for me that I leave, she again said that she believed I had a vocation, but not with them and perhaps not with the Dominican order. She strongly suggested I try the Benedictines. My musical and literary gifts would be able to flourish with them, as they put great emphasis on the development and use of individual talent, more so than any other order. So why didn't I go to the Benedictines in the first place, you may ask? Precisely for that reason. From the very first whispers of my call, I wanted to find out who and what I was without my talents. They were and are a great part of that "who and what," but they also clouded the issue for me to such an extent that I no longer knew myself -- my whole self. My better self.
There were many tears when I said goodbye to the sisters, theirs and mine. The bond of religion is a strong one, but the bond that cloistered contemplatives share is unique. Only we can truly understand why we have chosen to sacrifice our life in the world to give ourselves utterly and completely to God in prayer and penance for that same world. The contemplative vocation was, is, and always will be, something of an enigma to those who have never felt a calling to it. Many consider it an aberration, even un-Christian. Then again, how many thought Jesus was an aberration? How many still do? It is for those very people that the contemplative religious life exists at all. And it will exist till the end of earthly time.
I took my prioress' advice, and after leaving the Monastery of the Infant Jesus, I visited the Benedictine community that I had had my eye on long before, ever since I began my discernment: the Abbey of Regina Laudis in Bethlehem, Connecticut. . . .
UNDERSTANDING
Closing the door behind her,
autumn crispness cool upon
her now bare head, she clearly
sees the room she has just left.
Her mind recalls the soft white
of tunic and scapular
hanging limply on the hook,
the once flowing fall of veil,
still scented from her shampoo,
lying motionless on the
wooden chair. And now, pausing
just outside the cloister door,
she covers her ears to block
something she has not felt for
a long time -- the chilly wind.
But what is she taking away with her?
The proper way to fold a fitted sheet?
Folded properly, with patience, it fits
better on the shelf with the other sheets.
She understands the worth of that lesson.
She understands that freedom was found in
the scarcity of things, that prayers could speak
louder in silence, that a narrow cell
could not confine the heart. She has learned well.
She knows, too, that the simple veil she wore
protected her ears and mind from the chill.
["Understanding" was first published in Time of Singing]
My departure had nothing and everything to do with my relationship with God. During my last months, he gave me many graces, some in the form of heavy crosses; much new light of knowledge, a greater understanding of his love; in short, I felt closer to him than ever. Yet, too, there was the tiny seed of that other knowledge that grew steadily day by day, the knowledge that he wanted something else of me. I never doubted it was his will, not just mine, that brought me to the cloister, and my confidence on that score was confirmed by the prioress, my novice directress, and many of the other sisters. They and I felt I did have a monastic vocation, and perhaps I do still. But it became clear that God wanted me to be somewhere else in the meantime.
When the prioress, Sr. Mary Annunciata, called me to her office to tell me she had concluded, after long weeks of prayer, it was best for me that I leave, she again said that she believed I had a vocation, but not with them and perhaps not with the Dominican order. She strongly suggested I try the Benedictines. My musical and literary gifts would be able to flourish with them, as they put great emphasis on the development and use of individual talent, more so than any other order. So why didn't I go to the Benedictines in the first place, you may ask? Precisely for that reason. From the very first whispers of my call, I wanted to find out who and what I was without my talents. They were and are a great part of that "who and what," but they also clouded the issue for me to such an extent that I no longer knew myself -- my whole self. My better self.
There were many tears when I said goodbye to the sisters, theirs and mine. The bond of religion is a strong one, but the bond that cloistered contemplatives share is unique. Only we can truly understand why we have chosen to sacrifice our life in the world to give ourselves utterly and completely to God in prayer and penance for that same world. The contemplative vocation was, is, and always will be, something of an enigma to those who have never felt a calling to it. Many consider it an aberration, even un-Christian. Then again, how many thought Jesus was an aberration? How many still do? It is for those very people that the contemplative religious life exists at all. And it will exist till the end of earthly time.
I took my prioress' advice, and after leaving the Monastery of the Infant Jesus, I visited the Benedictine community that I had had my eye on long before, ever since I began my discernment: the Abbey of Regina Laudis in Bethlehem, Connecticut. . . .
UNDERSTANDING
Closing the door behind her,
autumn crispness cool upon
her now bare head, she clearly
sees the room she has just left.
Her mind recalls the soft white
of tunic and scapular
hanging limply on the hook,
the once flowing fall of veil,
still scented from her shampoo,
lying motionless on the
wooden chair. And now, pausing
just outside the cloister door,
she covers her ears to block
something she has not felt for
a long time -- the chilly wind.
But what is she taking away with her?
The proper way to fold a fitted sheet?
Folded properly, with patience, it fits
better on the shelf with the other sheets.
She understands the worth of that lesson.
She understands that freedom was found in
the scarcity of things, that prayers could speak
louder in silence, that a narrow cell
could not confine the heart. She has learned well.
She knows, too, that the simple veil she wore
protected her ears and mind from the chill.
["Understanding" was first published in Time of Singing]
06 October 2011
Nuns Having Fun, Part Two: Picnic!
Oh, how I loved picnic days in the monastery!
The obvious date for a picnic is, of course, July 4, and the nuns of the Monastery of the Infant Jesus do celebrate Independence Day in that manner; however, they are in Lufkin, which in July is unbearably hot and much too humid for the comfort of people who wear full religious habits. What is the solution? To have a second picnic day on October 12, Columbus Day! That way, one can enjoy all the outdoor activities that couldn't be enjoyed in July! Perfectly sound reasoning.
On both picnic days, the festivities begin with a ceremonial flag raising. On every other day of the year, the "canonically youngest," that is, the sister who entered the monastery most recently regardless of her age, raises the flag by herself and takes it down before sunset. She is also responsible for dashing out at any threat of rain to bring the flag safely indoors. On picnic day, all the sisters congregate round the flag pole just after breakfast, wearing their light work aprons over their habits. A large box filled with broad-brimmed hats is brought out; each sister dons her choice of "bonnet" for the day, takes a song book from another box, and joins the others in a semi-circle around the pole. At this point, Angie the cloister cat comes slinking over to see what's going on; she reclines at the feet of the prioress and watches, tail flicking, as I, with the aid of another novice, raise both the U. S. and Texas flags while all the sisters sing the national anthem. Other patriotic songs follow (hence the songbooks -- we sing multiple verses of each song); then we all disperse, chattering away, as the rule of silence does not apply on picnic days. Most of us make a bee-line for the refectory where, laid out on the long serving tables, are all sorts of goodies, sweet and salty (including, of course, the infamous popcorn), to be consumed at will throughout the day. There are sodas in the fridge and ice cream bars in the freezer (hence the aprons).
Snacks obtained, some of us proceed to the community room for games -- not just board games and canasta, but bean bag toss, ring toss, bowling (miniature), and ping pong. Outdoors, there is a badminton net set up, croquet, and of course, we could always shoot baskets since the monastery has a basketball hoop. A few of the sisters like to rollerblade, helmets over their veils, scapulars flying as they charge back and forth down the unfortunately rather short concrete drive. Quite a sight, that.
The monastery has also been given a golf cart, which comes in very handy for the less mobile elder sisters if they want to be taken for a spin on the paved loop through the walled-in part of the wooded property. There is another part of the property, the larger part of the 72 acres, that is only fenced in and is not nearly as manicured as the smaller, walled-in part. A path was once cleared years ago that winds through the dense woods, but Nature has since obscured it almost completely. Nevertheless, on one picnic day, a few of us decided to take the golf cart as far as it would go on that old path, which wasn't far at all, so we abandoned the cart and walked the rest of the way -- not an easy thing when wearing an ankle-length habit. Fallen branches and even a couple of small felled trees threatened to rip the hems of our tunics; low-hanging branches could at any moment catch on our veils and strip them right off our heads. I, a City Mouse, saw several species of mushroom in what I thought were fantastically improbable colors and in equally fantastic sizes. "Are there snakes?" one of the other City Mice asked of one the professed. "Oh, yes," was the nonchalant reply, whereupon a non-stop stream of silent Hail Marys ensued.
Meals on picnic days are eaten anywhere one likes, indoor or out; conversation abounds, and sodas are plentiful (you may have surmised by now that sodas are a seldom-enjoyed treat). In the late afternoon, there is usually a movie. Someone donated one of those gargantuan flat-screen TVs -- he already had one, then won one another in a raffle, so he gave his old one to the monastery. Movies are donated on a regular basis (the sisters also possess both a DVD player and VCR), all of them Catholic or generally spiritual in nature. Naturally, The Sound of Music is a favorite. Narnia was also a big hit.
The only things that remain inviolate even on picnic days are Mass and the Divine Office, both of which occur at their usual times. Contemplative nuns and monks are bound by pain of sin to pray the entire Divine Office every single day of their lives; it is their most important work, the primary reason they are in the cloister in the first place. I will say, speaking for myself, since I did not live the life of a contemplative for very long, I found it difficult to concentrate on the Office amidst the festivities and gaiety of picnic day. As much fun as it was to talk and play all day, I was grateful that such days were few and far between. Conversely, their infrequency also made me appreciate them even more. We in the secular world sometimes take our leisure time for granted, especially the leisure time we spend with our family and loved ones. I began to see more clearly that life without prayer is fallow, and prayer itself is fallow without the charity that is cultivated through relationships, be they familial, social, or the spiritual friendship of those who are called to the cloister.
The obvious date for a picnic is, of course, July 4, and the nuns of the Monastery of the Infant Jesus do celebrate Independence Day in that manner; however, they are in Lufkin, which in July is unbearably hot and much too humid for the comfort of people who wear full religious habits. What is the solution? To have a second picnic day on October 12, Columbus Day! That way, one can enjoy all the outdoor activities that couldn't be enjoyed in July! Perfectly sound reasoning.
On both picnic days, the festivities begin with a ceremonial flag raising. On every other day of the year, the "canonically youngest," that is, the sister who entered the monastery most recently regardless of her age, raises the flag by herself and takes it down before sunset. She is also responsible for dashing out at any threat of rain to bring the flag safely indoors. On picnic day, all the sisters congregate round the flag pole just after breakfast, wearing their light work aprons over their habits. A large box filled with broad-brimmed hats is brought out; each sister dons her choice of "bonnet" for the day, takes a song book from another box, and joins the others in a semi-circle around the pole. At this point, Angie the cloister cat comes slinking over to see what's going on; she reclines at the feet of the prioress and watches, tail flicking, as I, with the aid of another novice, raise both the U. S. and Texas flags while all the sisters sing the national anthem. Other patriotic songs follow (hence the songbooks -- we sing multiple verses of each song); then we all disperse, chattering away, as the rule of silence does not apply on picnic days. Most of us make a bee-line for the refectory where, laid out on the long serving tables, are all sorts of goodies, sweet and salty (including, of course, the infamous popcorn), to be consumed at will throughout the day. There are sodas in the fridge and ice cream bars in the freezer (hence the aprons).
Snacks obtained, some of us proceed to the community room for games -- not just board games and canasta, but bean bag toss, ring toss, bowling (miniature), and ping pong. Outdoors, there is a badminton net set up, croquet, and of course, we could always shoot baskets since the monastery has a basketball hoop. A few of the sisters like to rollerblade, helmets over their veils, scapulars flying as they charge back and forth down the unfortunately rather short concrete drive. Quite a sight, that.
The monastery has also been given a golf cart, which comes in very handy for the less mobile elder sisters if they want to be taken for a spin on the paved loop through the walled-in part of the wooded property. There is another part of the property, the larger part of the 72 acres, that is only fenced in and is not nearly as manicured as the smaller, walled-in part. A path was once cleared years ago that winds through the dense woods, but Nature has since obscured it almost completely. Nevertheless, on one picnic day, a few of us decided to take the golf cart as far as it would go on that old path, which wasn't far at all, so we abandoned the cart and walked the rest of the way -- not an easy thing when wearing an ankle-length habit. Fallen branches and even a couple of small felled trees threatened to rip the hems of our tunics; low-hanging branches could at any moment catch on our veils and strip them right off our heads. I, a City Mouse, saw several species of mushroom in what I thought were fantastically improbable colors and in equally fantastic sizes. "Are there snakes?" one of the other City Mice asked of one the professed. "Oh, yes," was the nonchalant reply, whereupon a non-stop stream of silent Hail Marys ensued.
Meals on picnic days are eaten anywhere one likes, indoor or out; conversation abounds, and sodas are plentiful (you may have surmised by now that sodas are a seldom-enjoyed treat). In the late afternoon, there is usually a movie. Someone donated one of those gargantuan flat-screen TVs -- he already had one, then won one another in a raffle, so he gave his old one to the monastery. Movies are donated on a regular basis (the sisters also possess both a DVD player and VCR), all of them Catholic or generally spiritual in nature. Naturally, The Sound of Music is a favorite. Narnia was also a big hit.
The only things that remain inviolate even on picnic days are Mass and the Divine Office, both of which occur at their usual times. Contemplative nuns and monks are bound by pain of sin to pray the entire Divine Office every single day of their lives; it is their most important work, the primary reason they are in the cloister in the first place. I will say, speaking for myself, since I did not live the life of a contemplative for very long, I found it difficult to concentrate on the Office amidst the festivities and gaiety of picnic day. As much fun as it was to talk and play all day, I was grateful that such days were few and far between. Conversely, their infrequency also made me appreciate them even more. We in the secular world sometimes take our leisure time for granted, especially the leisure time we spend with our family and loved ones. I began to see more clearly that life without prayer is fallow, and prayer itself is fallow without the charity that is cultivated through relationships, be they familial, social, or the spiritual friendship of those who are called to the cloister.
05 October 2011
Nuns Having Fun, Part One
Recreation is a very important element in cloistered religious life. After all, even nuns have to have a break! It also provides them the chance to know the women with whom they must live for the rest of their lives, women whom they didn't choose themselves but who were chosen by God. There are occasions, too, when two or more sisters must work together at various jobs around the monastery; although the rule of silence forbids them to hold casual conversations while working and limits verbal intercourse to the absolutely necessary, they do come to know each other somewhat through their mutual work. Recreation, however, is the time for more camaraderie, freedom of expression, and just plain fun.
Most houses in most contemplative orders allow time in their daily horarium for two recreations. In the Monastery of the Infant Jesus, the first recreation, which is scheduled at 1:00 after dinner, is separated; that is, the professed sisters have theirs in the main community room, and the novices would have our own in the novitiate community room. This room is dominated by four large tables which are usually pushed together to form one huge one; around it, all the novices, postulants, and the novice directress would gather, sometimes doing little projects as we chat. Many of the sisters make rosaries, either of the "knotted" variety, or with chain, to give out to the missions. Unfortunately, I never mastered that particular skill. One of my fellow novices tried to teach me how to make the knotted kind, to no avail; my knots kept unravelling. God in his infinite goodness gave me many gifts, but making rosaries isn't one of them; nor is darning, which is another thing sisters are fond of doing during recreation. The vow of poverty compels nuns to make things last until they fall apart beyond all repair, including the knee socks they all wear (they still refer to them by the quainter term, "stockings"). Holes in toes or heels, rips or runs in the legs, all must be darned. My first few feeble attempts at darning came undone, inevitably, in a single washing. Chastened, I asked my novice mistress what I could be doing wrong; she asked me, "Are you using the right thread?" There's a special thread for darning? Who knew?
The second recreation takes place after supper, around 6:40. All the sisters -- professed and novices -- gather in the large community room in the main building, again bringing little projects or just a readiness to be sociable. The only rule is, there must be more than two in a group -- "pairs" are considered exclusive rather than sociable, a consideration which, I suspect, stems from the long-established taboo about forming "particular friendships" in the monastery. A very good thing, that, for many reasons; one of which (the most important) is that religious must emulate Jesus in all things, including loving everyone equally and with detachment (which means not "cleaving"). Another very good reason is that forming particular friendships creates factions, which will eventually and inevitably destroy the unity of mind and heart so crucial in a monastic community -- "unity" being half of the word "community."
My favorite recreation of all was Sunday evening. It's a half hour longer because it's Game Night. Board games are brought out -- Uno, Clue, etc., usually a jigsaw puzzle as well, and there is always the canasta group, which consists of a small core of die-hard canasta players, plus an ever-evolving satellite band of rookies. The die-hards are among the oldest of the sisters, and they tend to make up their own rules; so if you are at all familiar with the game going in, you have to be prepared to forget everything you once learned and conform to their peculiar form of canasta. I did learn, but have since forgotten completely how to play, both their way and the real way.
Game Night's other chief characteristic is the snacking. Now, you have to remember (or perhaps you didn't know) that "snacking" in the worldly, secular sense is not done in monastic life. You have your meals, and necessary glasses of water or juice in between, and that's it. Maybe some crackers, if you have to take something with prescription medicines. So the Game Night snacks -- which always included among them the sisters' favorite, popcorn -- are indeed a treat. They are put on a cart by the cook sister, and the cart is pushed around to the various gaming groups by a novice or postulant at the proper time, about halfway through the recreation period. Once when it was my turn to push the cart, I accidently knocked over the very large, almost full barrel of freshly popped corn. Fluffly kernels scattered everywhere. In the old days, I would have been ordered, as penance, to clean the mess by myself and eat the popcorn (e-e-e-w!!). Fortunately, it was 2005, so a few of the other sisters helped me clean up, and one of them (bless her old-school-nun's heart) offered to eat the popcorn. I suppose I could have remonstrated and taken on that penance myself, but -- I'm sorry -- I just couldn't bring myself to do anything so unsanitary! I was a bad nun!
Most houses in most contemplative orders allow time in their daily horarium for two recreations. In the Monastery of the Infant Jesus, the first recreation, which is scheduled at 1:00 after dinner, is separated; that is, the professed sisters have theirs in the main community room, and the novices would have our own in the novitiate community room. This room is dominated by four large tables which are usually pushed together to form one huge one; around it, all the novices, postulants, and the novice directress would gather, sometimes doing little projects as we chat. Many of the sisters make rosaries, either of the "knotted" variety, or with chain, to give out to the missions. Unfortunately, I never mastered that particular skill. One of my fellow novices tried to teach me how to make the knotted kind, to no avail; my knots kept unravelling. God in his infinite goodness gave me many gifts, but making rosaries isn't one of them; nor is darning, which is another thing sisters are fond of doing during recreation. The vow of poverty compels nuns to make things last until they fall apart beyond all repair, including the knee socks they all wear (they still refer to them by the quainter term, "stockings"). Holes in toes or heels, rips or runs in the legs, all must be darned. My first few feeble attempts at darning came undone, inevitably, in a single washing. Chastened, I asked my novice mistress what I could be doing wrong; she asked me, "Are you using the right thread?" There's a special thread for darning? Who knew?
The second recreation takes place after supper, around 6:40. All the sisters -- professed and novices -- gather in the large community room in the main building, again bringing little projects or just a readiness to be sociable. The only rule is, there must be more than two in a group -- "pairs" are considered exclusive rather than sociable, a consideration which, I suspect, stems from the long-established taboo about forming "particular friendships" in the monastery. A very good thing, that, for many reasons; one of which (the most important) is that religious must emulate Jesus in all things, including loving everyone equally and with detachment (which means not "cleaving"). Another very good reason is that forming particular friendships creates factions, which will eventually and inevitably destroy the unity of mind and heart so crucial in a monastic community -- "unity" being half of the word "community."
My favorite recreation of all was Sunday evening. It's a half hour longer because it's Game Night. Board games are brought out -- Uno, Clue, etc., usually a jigsaw puzzle as well, and there is always the canasta group, which consists of a small core of die-hard canasta players, plus an ever-evolving satellite band of rookies. The die-hards are among the oldest of the sisters, and they tend to make up their own rules; so if you are at all familiar with the game going in, you have to be prepared to forget everything you once learned and conform to their peculiar form of canasta. I did learn, but have since forgotten completely how to play, both their way and the real way.
Game Night's other chief characteristic is the snacking. Now, you have to remember (or perhaps you didn't know) that "snacking" in the worldly, secular sense is not done in monastic life. You have your meals, and necessary glasses of water or juice in between, and that's it. Maybe some crackers, if you have to take something with prescription medicines. So the Game Night snacks -- which always included among them the sisters' favorite, popcorn -- are indeed a treat. They are put on a cart by the cook sister, and the cart is pushed around to the various gaming groups by a novice or postulant at the proper time, about halfway through the recreation period. Once when it was my turn to push the cart, I accidently knocked over the very large, almost full barrel of freshly popped corn. Fluffly kernels scattered everywhere. In the old days, I would have been ordered, as penance, to clean the mess by myself and eat the popcorn (e-e-e-w!!). Fortunately, it was 2005, so a few of the other sisters helped me clean up, and one of them (bless her old-school-nun's heart) offered to eat the popcorn. I suppose I could have remonstrated and taken on that penance myself, but -- I'm sorry -- I just couldn't bring myself to do anything so unsanitary! I was a bad nun!
03 October 2011
"We'll put on our own show - right here in our cloister!"
It all began on the Memorial of St. Louis Bertram, the patron saint of novices and novice directors. That day is also the traditional "feast day" of all novices and novice directors/directresses, a day of games, having jolly meals together, talking and laughing, and generally taking a break from monastic life, except of course for Mass and the Divine Office. Festivities for this day take place in the Gate Parlor, which is the largest visiting parlor in the Monastery of the Infant Jesus, and is a small, separate building all its own (which means you can make lots of noise without disturbing the rest of the community).
So there we were, the novices, our novice directress Sr. Maria Cabrini, the prioress Sr. Mary Annunciata, and a few others, having dinner in the Gate Parlor and chatting about this and that. I don't remember exactly what prompted it, but I told them about the Christmas madrigal feasts my high school and college choirs did every year -- we would wear Elizabethan costumes, sing Elizabethan carols, and the "guests" (audience) would feast on roast beef, potatoes, and flaming plum pudding. I guess my enthusiasm got the better of me, because they were completely taken with the idea, especially our prioress, Sr. Mary Annunciata, who had been an English major and librarian before becoming a nun.
Sure enough, a few weeks later, my novice directress, Sr. Maria Cabrini, told me Sr. Mary Annunciata suggested that the novices put on a madrigal feast for Epiphany. Oh, dear, I thought, what did I get myself into? I knew the sisters enjoyed doing little plays and concerts, even making rudimentary costumes and scenery, but it never entered my mind that they would want to do a madrigal feast! The first thing I considered was costuming. Now, you have to understand that nuns cannot take off their habits except to sleep. They are not even allowed to remove the cape or the scapular, and God forbid they should remove the veil. So I devised a costume that, if I do say so myself, was rather ingenious: a second "scapular," to be worn over the cape, the front panel belted empire style with a sash that tied behind and underneath the back panel, which was left loose and flowing. We used all the nicest fabrics to be found in the many cartons of donated "remainder" fabrics kept in the hobby room.
The headdress was a more perplexing problem. I eventually decided on an Ann Boleyn-type crown, made by attaching heavy cardboard crescents to plastic headbands. Because of the curve of the band, the cardboard stands up like a crown. We novices had great fun decorating each crown with a different design, using sequins and beads. They were actually quite beautiful, and the sisters could wear them right on top of their veils for a surprisingly authentic look.
As to the music, I chose a mix of traditional and lesser-known carols, mostly in English, with a little German and French thrown in. I wrote simple but effective arrangements for two and three parts; I even wrote an original composition entitled "Responsum Mariae," which is a setting of the second part of the Angelus, "Ecce ancilla Domini; fiat mihi secundum verbum tuum" ("Behold the handmaid of the Lord; be it done unto me according to thy word"). I wanted to tell the whole nativity story beginning with the Annunciation, alternating music with Scripture readings and poetry. In order to involve the whole community, I assigned the readings and poems to sisters I had not chosen to sing in the choir. (I was given permission to choose the best voices for the singing.)
December of that year turned out to be a terrible time for preparing a show: bad colds caused many music rehearsals to be cancelled, then there were two deaths among the sisters that month. The madrigal feast had to be rescheduled for the Feast of the Annunciation, March 25, which was also our prioress' feast day. We could still retain the nativity theme, and I could dedicate my "Responsum Mariae" to her. Actually, the postponement was a good thing; Sr. Mary Annunciata gave me permission to set up a rehearsal schedule, telling me I could have as many rehearsals as I needed, as long as they took place during recreation so that the regular horarium would not be disrupted. I scheduled ten hours -- the music itself was not that difficult, since I kept in mind when writing the arrangements the fact that most of my singers had no formal musical training; indeed, some of them couldn't read music at all. German was limited to two verses of "Silent Night" and "Still, still, still"; the only French they had to learn was a short chorus of one carol, the verses of which I sang myself as a solo. Distributing other solos among the stronger musicians helped reduce the actual amount of music for the untrained.
In the end, it was quite a success. All the sisters were given a copy of the script so they could follow along and stand up when it was time for their readings. Sr. Mary Annunciata was thrilled with all the work we did; the costumes were beautiful, and my choir did me proud. The only not-so-successful element, I think, was the plum pudding. . . .
[The piece I wrote specially for our madrigal feast. Later, I set the whole Angelus for women's voices, continuo, and oboe obbligato; however, except for this movement, it has never been performed by the sisters.]
So there we were, the novices, our novice directress Sr. Maria Cabrini, the prioress Sr. Mary Annunciata, and a few others, having dinner in the Gate Parlor and chatting about this and that. I don't remember exactly what prompted it, but I told them about the Christmas madrigal feasts my high school and college choirs did every year -- we would wear Elizabethan costumes, sing Elizabethan carols, and the "guests" (audience) would feast on roast beef, potatoes, and flaming plum pudding. I guess my enthusiasm got the better of me, because they were completely taken with the idea, especially our prioress, Sr. Mary Annunciata, who had been an English major and librarian before becoming a nun.
Sure enough, a few weeks later, my novice directress, Sr. Maria Cabrini, told me Sr. Mary Annunciata suggested that the novices put on a madrigal feast for Epiphany. Oh, dear, I thought, what did I get myself into? I knew the sisters enjoyed doing little plays and concerts, even making rudimentary costumes and scenery, but it never entered my mind that they would want to do a madrigal feast! The first thing I considered was costuming. Now, you have to understand that nuns cannot take off their habits except to sleep. They are not even allowed to remove the cape or the scapular, and God forbid they should remove the veil. So I devised a costume that, if I do say so myself, was rather ingenious: a second "scapular," to be worn over the cape, the front panel belted empire style with a sash that tied behind and underneath the back panel, which was left loose and flowing. We used all the nicest fabrics to be found in the many cartons of donated "remainder" fabrics kept in the hobby room.
The headdress was a more perplexing problem. I eventually decided on an Ann Boleyn-type crown, made by attaching heavy cardboard crescents to plastic headbands. Because of the curve of the band, the cardboard stands up like a crown. We novices had great fun decorating each crown with a different design, using sequins and beads. They were actually quite beautiful, and the sisters could wear them right on top of their veils for a surprisingly authentic look.
As to the music, I chose a mix of traditional and lesser-known carols, mostly in English, with a little German and French thrown in. I wrote simple but effective arrangements for two and three parts; I even wrote an original composition entitled "Responsum Mariae," which is a setting of the second part of the Angelus, "Ecce ancilla Domini; fiat mihi secundum verbum tuum" ("Behold the handmaid of the Lord; be it done unto me according to thy word"). I wanted to tell the whole nativity story beginning with the Annunciation, alternating music with Scripture readings and poetry. In order to involve the whole community, I assigned the readings and poems to sisters I had not chosen to sing in the choir. (I was given permission to choose the best voices for the singing.)
December of that year turned out to be a terrible time for preparing a show: bad colds caused many music rehearsals to be cancelled, then there were two deaths among the sisters that month. The madrigal feast had to be rescheduled for the Feast of the Annunciation, March 25, which was also our prioress' feast day. We could still retain the nativity theme, and I could dedicate my "Responsum Mariae" to her. Actually, the postponement was a good thing; Sr. Mary Annunciata gave me permission to set up a rehearsal schedule, telling me I could have as many rehearsals as I needed, as long as they took place during recreation so that the regular horarium would not be disrupted. I scheduled ten hours -- the music itself was not that difficult, since I kept in mind when writing the arrangements the fact that most of my singers had no formal musical training; indeed, some of them couldn't read music at all. German was limited to two verses of "Silent Night" and "Still, still, still"; the only French they had to learn was a short chorus of one carol, the verses of which I sang myself as a solo. Distributing other solos among the stronger musicians helped reduce the actual amount of music for the untrained.
In the end, it was quite a success. All the sisters were given a copy of the script so they could follow along and stand up when it was time for their readings. Sr. Mary Annunciata was thrilled with all the work we did; the costumes were beautiful, and my choir did me proud. The only not-so-successful element, I think, was the plum pudding. . . .
[The piece I wrote specially for our madrigal feast. Later, I set the whole Angelus for women's voices, continuo, and oboe obbligato; however, except for this movement, it has never been performed by the sisters.]
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