Inner Quiet

     Right off, I want to make clear that I love family get-togethers. Aside from major holidays, our immediate family gathers once weekly or once every two weeks, usually on Sunday, for the midday meal, lively banter, and lately, a game or two of Mexican Train Dominos. These gatherings take place here at my mother's house, the old homestead, if you will. It is a small—nay, tiny house in which one may easily hear from one end of it a conversation held at the other end, unless doors are closed or the conversants are whispering. When siblings mit  spouses are assembled all together in one room, be it the living or dining room, and everyone is talking at once, either to each other in pairs or on top of each other in a futile effort to be heard, the noise level can be truly astonishing.

     Astonishing, yes—especially to one who has lived fifteen years all alone in a small apartment, followed by nearly two and a half years in one of the quietest habitations on earth—a Catholic cloister. I didn't need to move to midtown Manhattan directly from the monastery to experience the noise equivalent of culture shock (sound shock, perhaps?); no, I simply had to move back to the family homestead. Even after six years back "in the world," I can still be easily and negatively affected by noise. Nor does the noise have to be excessive; it can be my mother's TV turned up just a tad past comfortable, a neighbor's stereo's mega bass thumping just a little too loudly, a crowded restaurant, a shopping mall on a Saturday afternoon. My sensitive ears are literally pained and, if I'm not vigilant, my quiet core can be jangled.

     This quiet core is something that was carefully nurtured during my brief time as a monastic. It has become essential to my day-to-day existence now that I no longer have the enclosure walls to shield me from the noise and potentially negative influence of the world. I believe those who adhere to Asian philosophies would call this inner peace a "Zen place." To Christians, it is that deepest part of the soul where the Holy Trinity dwells. It is the peace of Christ that creates this quiet core, a peace that is given when we, through a conscious effort of the will and with the help of divine grace, strive to keep its environment (mind, soul, and body) a fit dwelling place. It is where we meet God in moments of silent contemplation, where we hear his wordless voice speaking to us through the Spirit. It is not a silence of emptiness, but of sublime fullness. This is precisely why monasteries exist, and why a quiet environment is so crucial to monastic life.

     However, not everyone is called to be a monastic. Most people live in the secular, noisy, jostling, stress-filled world that is only a pilgrimage to the life we are all meant to live. Monastic life strives to provide a taste of that promised life, but if we can't live in a monastery we can at least build and maintain an inner monastery where we can retreat from the world's noise and confusion and listen to the stirrings of the Holy Spirit.

     My family's boisterous banter is by no means a negative influence, but in all honesty, it is at times aurally challenging and disturbing to one's calm. So when I'm sitting at the dining room table with my family, playing dominos, and everyone around me is talking at once and at the top of their voices, I make a special effort to remain as quiet and inwardly still as possible. When my mother turns her TV up near maximum volume because she's growing a bit hard of hearing, I try my best not to grumble, even in my mind. When my neighbor's mega bass pounds away through my bedroom wall, I delay my prayer time till he shuts it off, and in the meanwhile try to be patient by thinking of how patient God is with me. It's either that, or go mad.

A Pianist's Farewell

     I wrote this in the monastery when I decided once and for all to give up the piano. Since I knew full well and for a long time that the day would come, when it did come it really wasn't as painful as I thought it would be. Still, it was emotional.

     After I left the cloister and began to submit my poems for publication, I sent this one in to the 2008 Utmost Christian Poets Contest (Novice Division), an international contest out of Canada. At that time it was titled "A Pianist's Farewell upon Entering the Cloister." To my genuine surprise, it won Best Rhyming Poem and Third Prize Over All. Shortly after that, it was published in The Storyteller magazine under its present, less cumbersome, title.

 

A Pianist's Farewell

 

I never thought to leave you, friend,

Who were the very breath of me,

My working day, my restless night,

The steersman of my destiny.

I made a solemn vow to you—

Or was it you to me? Who knows?

It was so long a life ago,

And thieving time too fleeting goes.

 

Was ever there a day, an hour,

That was not colored by your voice?

You snatched me from the womb, I think,

Purloined from me all will and choice ...

Ah, no, I tease you, dearest friend!

To you I may so freely speak,

For you have known my deepest deep

And bore me up to heaven's peak.

 

With you, I soared beyond my self;

Upon your keys, I knew no fear

Of man, or dreams, or my own heart—

My aim was true, my vision clear.

Through you, I gave my laughter words;

Through you, I let my sorrow weep;

To you I told my greatest love,

And in you, let my secret sleep.

 

You were my solace and my strength,

My wise and faithful confidante.

Though now I live without your voice,

My memory its echoes haunt.

It must be so. If ever we

Should meet again, I cannot tell.

I loved you, heart and soul and mind,

O truest, dearest friend. Farewell.

 

© Leticia Austria 2006

Lately I've Been ...

I swiped this meme from November's Autumn. It's appeared on a few other blogs as well.

 

Lately I've been ...

 

... writing revisions of my new poem, formerly titled "The Language of the Sea," now titled "Amphitrite." I'm still not happy with it, and honestly don't know if it'll work out at all. I might just chuck it into my rejects file and see if, in future, any portion of it can be culled for use in another poem. I've done that a few times, with successful results. Waste not, want not, even when it comes to poetry.

 

... reading In Defense of Sanity: The Best Essays of C. K. Chesterton.  I've not read any Chesterton till now and am loving these essays. What a fertile mind, what an engaging and lucid writer! He is indeed a master essayist, worthy to be placed in the same rank with Johnson, Hazlitt, Addison and Steele, and Lamb, all of whom were recommended by my great "kinsman of the shelf" Helene Hanff, through her book 84, Charing Cross Road.  However, nowhere does Helene mention Chesterton, and if indeed she never read him, she certainly missed out on a great writer. She'd have loved him, I think.

 

... listening quite a lot these days to Schubert's piano sonatas. I owned a score of them for years, contemplating every so often actually studying one or two of them; but for some reason his solo piano music didn't appeal to me. Besides which, much of it lay very awkwardly under my tiny hands. (I have, however, loved and played many of his lieder.) But I recently bought Stephen Hough's CD and upon listening to it, my opinion of Schubert changed completely. I suspect the change is also partly due to age—some music and certain composers are better appreciated, and indeed, better understood, from a more mature viewpoint. Of course, since I have quit the piano altogether, I still won't be playing any Schubert, but I now have the great satisfaction of listening to him. As Hough has written, while Beethoven is overtly passionate, Schubert is more reticent. His passions are glimpsed through a veil, through a partially opened curtain. And though what may be glimpsed is bleak, it is nonetheless intensely moving.

 

... watching—why, Dancing with the Stars,  of course! My mother and I are hooked. Well, she's been hooked a lot longer than I have; I am only a recent convert. I must admit, it's great fun and a nice change of pace from all the cooking shows, House Hunters, and House Hunters International.  Ever since I moved to Houston in 1989, I no longer watch current series, and I know even without sampling an episode that I would absolutely loathe reality shows such as—I don't know, that housewives thing, or whatever. But I genuinely enjoy DWTS.  I doubt, however, I could ever get into American Idol, America's Got Talent, and whatnot, simply because I can't stand most of what passes for singing these days. I am both a dinosaur and a cultural snob. Yep, I am. Call me Niles.

 

... looking pretty bad. Cannot tell a lie; my physical appearance has definitely seen better days.

 

... feeling under the weather. Which is probably why I've been looking bad. I'm just getting over a cold; still feel a bit 'snarfy' in the sinuses. Allergies don't help, either. I am grateful, though, that autumn is here. Summer in Texas is far too long and hot. You'd think I'd be used to that, but the sad truth is, you never  get used to it.

 

... anticipating receiving in the mail the Complete Schubert Sonatas played by Wilhelm Kempff. Yes, this dinosaur still listens to music on CDs, and sometimes even on vinyl. I had a hard time deciding between Kempff and Brendel, but ultimately went with Kempff. I'll probably get Brendel later on. The thing about classical music, including opera, is that you can't just listen to one artist performing any one piece. In order to appreciate a piece properly, you have to listen to as many interpreters of it as possible. Otherwise, you're not appreciating the piece of music itself; you're appreciating one person's interpretation.

 

... wishing oh, so many things! I wish I could go to Italy again. I wish I could go to England again. I wish I could write a poem without ripping my brain and the poem to shreds. I wish I could write a poem, period. I wish my hair would stop falling out onto the bathroom floor.

 

... loving being able to listen to piano music again without feeling that invisible knife twist in my gut. And in case you're thinking, "Well, why don't you write a poem about that?"—fact is, I already did.

 

Gaylord the Basset Hound

     The Christmas I was two years old, my godmother gave me a large toy basset hound. Someone in my family named him Gaylord. Though, alas, no photographs exist of Gaylord in his youth, I can tell you he was large—almost as large as I must have been at that time—floppy, and soft as a pillow. His coloring wasn't at all basset-like, as his fur was of a pink plush velour and his underside was yellow; but the big, sad, black and white felt eyes, the ultra-long face, the ears that fell almost to the black pompom nose, and the short, stocky legs beneath the long body, all were unmistakable basset traits.

     I had a number of toys throughout my childhood, nothing like the hordes today's children all seem to have, but a good number. Why a child cleaves to one particular toy more than the others is a question for psychologists; all I know is that Gaylord always took the place of honor above all my other toys when I assembled them beside me at bedtime and he was my constant companion during the day, indoors and out. I must have handled him a bit roughly, as is a child's wont, or else he was on the fragile side, because poor Gaylord suffered many a wound in those early years, mostly in his seams. My middle sister was surgeon, I was nurse, and we would "operate" on his wounds in all seriousness and with the utmost precision. That my sister's stitches have held to this day is testament to her skills as a surgeon/seamstress.

     Yes, I said "to this day"—because, believe it or not, Gaylord is still with us and dwelling on the top shelf of my closet. His velour fur, once shining pink, is now a non-descript shade of taupe, and gaping bald patches predominate his hide. His black and white felt eyes have crackled and chipped and I can no longer remember what were their former shape. His pompom nose is hanging by a few threads and his red felt mouth, which must have smiled in his youth, is reduced to a pathetic chapped pout.

     When I was living in Houston I asked my mother to ship him to me. And when I entered the monastery, I shipped him to another of my sisters (not his surgeon) for safekeeping. She told me she cried when she opened the box and saw his forlorn face.

     Today, Gaylord lies on his side in well-deserved peace, with all my journals and a few beloved relics of my girlhood. I think it's only fitting.

White Roses

"Woman with a Rose"
Kenneth Frazier



It has been my custom these past few years to listen to the "Sunday Baroque" program on the classical radio station while driving to Mass. One Sunday, they played music from John Blow's Venus and Adonis,  and the announcer, in her introduction, related a version of the myth I had never heard of before. I grew up with the version, first encountered in Edith Hamilton's Mythology, that "a crimson flower" sprang up where Adonis' blood fell. Other versions tell of a flower the hue of a pomegranate; still others plainly state that it was an anemone. The announcer on "Sunday Baroque," however, said that when Venus wept at Adonis' death, white roses sprang up where her tears fell. Almost immediately, a line in iambic pentameter came into my mind: "White roses bloom where I have shed my tears." I thought it a very good opener for a sonnet, and couldn't wait to get home and work on it. The notion that the goddess of love's deepest and purest love was for a man who never loved her in return moved me, as it hit very close to home—which is why I felt compelled to write the poem.

 

First, though, I did a bit of research on the net and found mention of the white rose twist of the myth, but couldn't find an actual text of the myth itself that included it. However, that doesn't mean one doesn't exist. I decided to keep the white roses, but the original line wound up being the closing line rather than the opener. In writing the first draft, I found myself associating the basic premise of the story with the concept of courtly love, or chaste love, symbolized by alabaster as well as the white rose, which in turn brought in the reference to carnal love, symbolized by the red, or "ruddy" rose.

The rhyme scheme of this sonnet is a bit unusual: abcdabcd eeffgg

 



White Roses 

 

He lay in alabaster night; no kiss

of ruddy rose had ever touched his limbs.

No hand of mine, however loving, dared

to break the night's pure silence, choosing life

eternal over momentary bliss.

Had bold, irreverent songs drowned out the hymns

that brought his sleep, had baser instinct bared

what better instinct hid, then day's bright knife

 

would have cut short that alabaster night

and taken him forever from this sight;

then in the place of his ennobled brow,

there would not be the witness living now:

that after all the staid, untarnished years,

white roses bloom where I have shed my tears.

 

 

© Leticia Austria 2010

Autumn Idyll

"Fall Canopy"
Vladimir Sorin

 

Autumn Idyll

 

Perhaps I'll see him in another place,

A softer world, where we may know the sighs

And slanted tone of autumn's lullabies,

Where leaves embellish paths of shadow-lace;

A place where days go round with measured pace

And footsteps linger. Nothing would disguise,

In such a world, the gladness in his eyes,

Or dim the shining candor in my face.

And I will tell him what I long to tell;

My veil will fall as limpid as a leaf

Through windless air. It would be too unkind,

Good sense, to shatter this idyllic spell!

Allow this lovely, gossamer belief

To gleam, oblique as autumn, in my mind.

 

 

© Leticia Austria 2010



Music Monday: From My Big Orange Book

In my Big Orange Book, whose purpose is described in a previous post, I copied down the lyrics of Enrico Ruggeri's song "L'Orizzonte (di una donna sola)" in the original Italian, along with my translation. (You'll find the text and translation below the video.) When I began the Big Orange Book, I was living in Houston, going through a long period of solitude, mostly of my own choosing. My closest friends were also colleagues at work, and there were times when I needed to separate myself from my work altogether, which meant separating myself also from my friends. Those times were much needed times of restoration, but they brought a certain weight of loneliness. I guess that's why I took to this song.

L'Orizzonte (di una donna sola) The Horizon (of a lone woman) - words and music by Enrico Ruggeri

Mangiano spesso da sole
     They often eat alone
E si domandano perché
     And wonder why
E quasi si sentono in colpa
     And they almost feel guilty
Se si avventurano per bere un caffè
     If they venture out for a coffee
Parlano ancora di vole
     They talk again about flights
Che non prendono quasi mai
     That they almost never take
Ed hanno paura del tempo
     And they're afraid of time
Perché il tempo ti sa guardare in faccia
     Because time knows how to look you in the face
Ed hanno gli occhi all'orizzonte
     They have their eyes toward the horizon
Ma non vanno via
     But they don't leave
Combattute tra il presente
     Torn between the present
E la malinconia
     And melancholy
Ma il mondo non aspetta ancora
     But the world still doesn't wait
Guardi indietro e già domani è qui
     Look back, and already tomorrow is here
Ci sono donne così, ci sono vite così
     There are women like that, there are lives like that

Perdono troppe occasioni
     They miss too many chances
Non vogliono sbagliare più
     They don't want to make another mistake
Piangono a certe canzoni
     They cry at certain songs
Errori di gioventù
     Errors of youth
Scrivono lettere lunghe
     They write long letters
Che non mandano quasi mai
     Which they almost never send
Ed hanno il colore del vento
     And they have the color of wind
Perché è il vento che porta più lontano
     Because it's the wind that carries farther
L'orizzonte si addormenta
     The horizon goes to sleep
Prima di noi due
     Before we do
E scopri quella luce spenta
     And you discover that extinguished light
Tra le braccia sue
     Within his arms
Tu non sei cambiata ancora
     Still, you haven't changed
Guardi indietro e mi ritrovi qui
     Look back and you'll find me here
Sei una donna così, con un amore così
     You're that kind of woman, with a love like that

E nascondono i pensieri
     And they hide their thoughts
Nel silenzio
     In the silence
Tra le ombre e i desideri
     Between the shadows and their desires
E gli amici più sinceri
     And their most sincere friends
Non telefonano più
     Don't call anymore
Perché quando eri felice
     Because when you were happy
Non televonavi tu
     You never called
L'orizzonte ci risveglia
     The horizon will reawaken us
Quando lo vorrai
     When you want it to
E anche se il tuo amore sbaglia
     And even if your lover makes a mistake
Lo perdonerai
     You'll forgive him
Se qualcuno sta aspettando
     If someone is waiting
Guardi indietro e lo ritrovi qui
     Look back and you'll find him here
Per una donna così
     For a woman like that
Un orizzonte così
     A horizon like that