On Letters and Letter Writing

I've decided to take a brief interlude from my monastery narrative while I decide exactly how much more of that story I should tell -- or rather, can tell. Always a touchy thing, writing something autobiographical when nearly everyone involved is still living. Moreover, the reasons for my eventual departure from the monastery are very complex and deeply personal. So I'll think about all that. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy these two sonnets I wrote a few years ago -- rather Victorian in tone, but maybe that serves the subject.

THE LETTER NEVER SENT

 

 

I'd write my true, unvarnished heart to you

If only I were sure you'd have it, dear,

In place of the mundane, detailed review

Of my small days and all that happens here.

I'd set my heart to music, write it out

On manuscript, each rhythm, note, and beat,

So clearly, that although it be without

A lyric, the intent would be complete.

The pen that I now hold so yearns to write

What stirs beneath the noncommital words

I send you, words I am constrained by right

As "friend" to say, all friendship's rule affords;

For if I dared to send my song, you'd hear

My heart, and all the love that's singing there.

THE MAILBOX

 

 

Some days it is so full of emptiness,

It seems to emulate the echo in

My hollow heart, the arid nothingness

Where once my dewy, eager hope had been.

On other days, it cruelly teases me

With letters, letters, like so many pins

To prick my bright balloons in callous glee.

No, none from you. The end of hope begins.

And so I tire of opening that door;

Its mockery I can no longer stand.

But just as I resolve to hope no more,

I glimpse my name in your belovèd hand!

My heart is like a brook that swells with rain;

I close the metal door and smile again.

********

 

 

My old friend, that amusing essayist "Alpha of the Plough," has this to say on the bygone art of letter-writing, all of which is just as relevant today as it was when he wrote it over a century ago:

 

 

     In the great sense letter-writing is no doubt a lost art. It was killed by the penny post and modern hurry.

     . . . .the telegraph, the telephone, and the typewriter have completed the destruction of the art of letter-witing. It is the difficulty or the scarcity of a thing that makes it treasured. If diamonds were as plentiful as pebbles we shouldn't stoop to pick them up.

     . . . .the secret of letter-writing is intimate triviality. . . .To write a good letter you must approach the job in the lightest and most casual way. You must be personal, not abstract. You must not say, "This is too small a thing to put down." You must say, "This is just the sort of small thing we talk about at home. If I tell them this they will see me, as it were, they'll hear my voice, they'll know what I'm about."

     . . . .A letter written in this vein annihilates distance; it continues the personal gossip, the intimate communion, that has been interrupted by separation; it preserves one's presence in absence. It cannot be too simple, too commonplace, too colloquial. Its familiarity is not its weakness, but its supreme virtue. If it attempts to be orderly and stately and elaborate, it may be a good essay, but it will certainly be a bad letter.

On Being the Monastery "Busboy"

     I really came to enjoy the job of monastery laundress and was rather sorry when I had to move on and learn another job, that of server at dinner (the midday meal, and biggest meal of the day).
     Having lived on my own for many years, and not being fond of cooking just for myself, I frequently took pleasure in eating alone in restaurants all through my secular life, a pleasure I had actually begun to enjoy when in college. By nature a loner, I've always liked taking my time with a meal, reading a book or writing in my journal as I did so, and not having to make conversation; however, I was not always averse to eating with one or two very good friends with whom conversation was effortless and even, at times, completely unnecessary. Once I entered the monastery, solitary meals became a thing of the past except on "Our Wednesdays" -- a sort of vacation day from regular monastic life, when meals are "pick-up" and may be eaten outdoors or in the recreation room, as long as silence is still kept. Otherwise, meals are communal, in the refectory; there is no conversation, but one listens to the reader. The one thing I had a real problem with was the actual length of the meal, which was a decidedly unleisurely 15-20 minutes.
     As quickly as those 15-20 minutes passed, they seemed downright luxurious compared with the few minutes in which the weekly server must eat in order to carry out her duties. But I'm jumping ahead of myself. Let's go back and start with the server's pre-dinner duties.
     As dinner server of the week, I leave the chapel the very second Midday Prayer is over and make a bee-line for the kitchen. There, I set up the tall, 4-tiered rolling cart on which the sisters will scrape and stack their cafeteria trays and dishes at the end of the meal. I fill with hot water the deep, compartmentalized tray in which they will place their dirty silverware, and set it on the cart along with a large rubber tub for disposing paper napkins and food scraps (since religious are bound by the vow of poverty to eat everything on their plates, there's usually little waste). All that done, I set the readied cart by the swinging door to the refectory, ready to be rolled out as soon as the meal ends. Meanwhile, the cook sister has put all the food platters on a smaller, two-tiered cart; when she is done, I take the cart into the refectory and arrange the platters in order on the tables: proteins first, followed by starches, vegetables, then salads on one table; on the second table, breads, dessert, fruits, water pitchers, and milk jugs (fruit juices are in a nearby refrigerator). Serving utensils having already been set out on the tables that morning, I put them with the appropriate platters, leave the lids on the hot foods, and set the emptied cart by the wall.
     It's time now for me to take off my apron, get my food, and eat. But, knowing I don't have a lot of time, I'm careful not to "load up" my tray. As I eat, the sisters come randomly in and form two lines on either side of the room. When everyone is in, one of the other novices, or a postulant, goes out to ring the Angelus bell; I stop shoveling food into my face and stand up as the reader begins the Angelus. When she finishes, I go to the serving tables, remove the lids from all the hot platters and place them on the carts. That done, I say, "Sister, ask for a blessing." The reader says the blessing, then all the sisters file to the serving tables to obtain their food while I resume shoveling my own into my face.
     Only four or five minutes later, while everyone is eating and listening to the reader, I put my tray on the serving cart, don my apron again, and clear the serving tables -- very quietly, which is not easy to do when dealing with large platters, cymbal-like metal lids, and big, clattery spoons. Everything goes back on the small cart. For some reason, the cart always looks twice as loaded going out as it did coming in, much the way a suitcase always seems smaller when packing at the end of a trip than it did when packing for the trip. Nevertheless, I try to clear as quickly as possible, because I know the most time-consuming and nerve-wracking part of the job is coming up. As I push the cart out of the refectory toward the kitchen, I pray that none of the big metal lids will slide off and clatter to the floor, startling all the sisters and momentarily drowning out the reader.
     Now for the putting away of the leftovers. I have never mastered the knack of finding the right-sized containers for this task. More often than not, I discover too late that the container I've chosen is too small and I have to find another. While I search for ideal containers and put the leftovers in the huge walk-in refrigerator, I listen with one ear for the reader's voice giving the end-of-meal blessing, which tells me I had better put it in high gear -- because two or three minutes later, sisters on dishwashing duty will be coming into the kitchen; if I have not scraped all the serving platters and pots and pans and put them on the counters to be washed, the sisters will stand waiting in their canvas aprons, unconsciously making me even more clumsy and nervous. I say "unconsciously," because they actually sympathize and don't want to hurry me. They've all been there.
     You've probably surmised by now that I didn't exactly relish being dinner server. Fortunately, the job was reassigned weekly. Unfortunately, there were only two other novices besides myself at the time. The jobs of laundress, dinner server, refectorian (a fancy name for refectory janitor) and supper cook, were rotated among the three of us. "Cooking" supper is very simple, as that meal usually consists of one hot dish -- a canned vegetable, or canned tapioca, or canned rice pudding, simply heated up; eggs already boiled that morning and waiting in the fridge, yogurt, and bread with jelly and/or peanut butter; so that job isn't at all bad. But whenever it was my turn to be dinner server, I prayed fervently that God would send us more vocations that hopefully stayed long enough to become novices, which would make the duty of server come around less often for us all.
  

Laundress for 28 Nuns, Part Two

     When I received the habit and was told that, as a novice, I would have to take on the duty of laundress, I was at first horrified. The thought of washing clothes and linens for 28 people sounded like a nightmare to me, surpassed in horror only by the thought of cooking for 28. My novice directress, Sr. Maria Cabrini, assured me that it was a very popular job among the sisters, mainly because it afforded the laundress much time alone in a separate building; it was very quiet (the sound of the machines notwithstanding) and the laundress could spend a lot of time reading between loads. The delicious prospect of solitude finally sold me on the idea.

     Nuns don't have a vast wardrobe: each sister has two everyday habits (changed weekly), several cotton undershirts (changed daily, because the habit is only changed weekly), a work habit (only worn when doing heavy work, like painting or clearing tree limbs after a storm -- and how often can that be?), a special habit that is worn only on Christmas, Easter, and the day of profession (it looks exactly like the everyday habit, but is made of a slightly fancier grade of cotton/poly), two petticoats, two nightgowns, two work aprons; plus socks and unmentionables, which are washed in personal net swish bags for convenience as well as privacy. That is the extent of whatever each sister wears on her person. But when you add to that every week: bathtowels, bed linens, cleaning rags, kitchen aprons, kitchen towels (which number in the dozens), and take into account that each habit has three parts (excluding cap and veil, which each sister washes herself) -- you've got a lot o' laundry!

     Monday morning is the busiest, as this is when habits are washed and "spotted," and for spotting, the laundress is aided by the other novices, postulants, and novice mistress. Though the sisters are responsible for taking spots out of their own habits, the Monday morning team checks all the habits again after the laundress washes and dries them, removing even the tiniest pinhead-sized spots with a wide array of chemicals found in dry cleaning businesses.

     Tuesday morning, the laundress rises extra early because Tuesday is steam press day. The monastery possesses one professional steam press, which to my mind resembles a large panini press in the shape of an ironing board. In fact, I often wondered if it could be used to grill enough sandwiches for the whole community's dinner -- 28 panini in one fell swoop! But I digress. The laundress must rise extra early in order to light the steam press' pilot light. This is not as easy as it may sound. The pilot light is in a small utility closet, very close to the floor, hidden underneath and behind various pipes. The laundress, armed with her handy long-reach torch lighter, all but turns herself upside down to find the pilot, even using a hand mirror if need be. Once lit, it takes the steam press about 20 minutes to heat to the proper temperature.

     Pressing the habits is done in shifts: tunics, then scapulars, then capes. The first sister on pressing duty comes in at around 5.20, giving her half an hour before Morning Prayer to press as many tunics as possible, hopefully getting most if not all of them done so that the second sister, who takes over immediately after Morning Prayer, can move on to the scapulars, getting as many of those done as she can before Mass, so that the third and final sister, taking over after breakfast, can get to and finish the capes before Midmorning Prayer. After Midmorning Prayer, all the novices and postulants, and the novice mistress, come into the laundry to fold scapulars and capes. The tunics are hung on rolling racks. Folding must be done and everything taken to the seamstress sister's workroom by Midday Prayer. The seamstress sister puts all the habits in order, according to laundry number, in the long hallway closets where they may be picked up by their owners by Saturday evening.

     Now, you may be wondering why, if the fresh habits aren't picked up till Saturday evening, they have to be washed and pressed by Tuesday midday. I often wondered that myself. I do know that the steam press, which uses a great deal of power, can only be used one day a week for only a few hours (in the morning, so that the temperature in the laundry won't be so unbearable). But why Tuesday? Beats me. I tried not to ask too many questions. But getting all the hardest work over with early in the week makes the rest of the week very easy for the laundress. After Tuesday, she can revel in all that promised solitude between loads of linens, kitchen towels and swish bags. And believe you me, I did.

Laundress for 28 Nuns, Part One

     Now that I was a novice and beginning my canonical year -- that is, the first year of the novitiate -- there were new jobs I had to learn. One was laundress. I don't know how laundry is handled in other houses, but in the Monastery of the Infant Jesus, one sister, usually a novice or a sister in temporary vows, does the laundry for the entire community. To make her job somewhat easier, laundry is divided into categories: nightgowns and habits (including petticoats, but not caps or veils), bed and bath linens, cleaning rags, and swish bags. Swish bags are net bags in which are washed all intimate items, keeping yours separate from everyone else's. Each category is given its own wash day, but swish bags -- because of the nature of their contents -- could be washed on any day. 

     Also making the job easier are the appliances. In the large laundry room, which shares a separate building with the main storage room and the hobby room, there are three washing machines: the main washer, huge, computerized, and formidable in its terrible efficiency; a regular machine of the sort found in every average home; and the old manual washer with its partner, the extractor.

     I must devote some few lines to these last two appliances, because I had never seen the likes of them before, nor do I expect to see them again. First of all, the manual washer is used only when in a hurry and the big computerized washer is occupied. It stands taller than me, is of solid steel, and has a glass porthole door. Detergent is deposited in a small chute at the top. At the side are two levers which open and close valves inside the barrel, one for hot water, the other for cold. When the valves are opened, the barrel fills with water, the temperature of which is determined by your manipulation of the two levers. Since it takes a moment or two for the barrel to fill with the desired amount of water (depending on the size of your load), I would usually try to multi-task and attend to something else in the meantime. Once, however, I completely forgot I had left the valves open, only to be rudely reminded of the fact by the deluge gushing out the porthole and onto the cement floor. I was later assured that I was by no means the first laundress to flood the laundry, and it is for that very reason the floors are bare cement with a very large drain grid set near the manual washer.

     When the water level is correct and the valves safely closed, you then push a button to start the barrel agitating and to release the detergent. The agitation will stop on its own a few moments later, at which point you may start it again for further agitation, depending on how dirty the items are, or you may drain all the soapy water and refill the barrel with fresh rinse water. When all this is done and the last of the rinse water drained out, and since the washer has no extracting mechanism, it is then time to use the washer's partner, the extractor.

     The best way to describe the extractor is to liken it to a giant salad spinner; in fact, I'm convinced this is how the idea of the salad spinner was conceived. The extractor is a large, round steel tub into which you heave your water-weighted laundry, taking the greatest care to arrange it evenly around the center cone. The laundry loaded, you clamp the lid shut and turn the machine on, whereupon the inner tub begins its hurricane-force whirl. (If you have not arranged the laundry evenly, the extractor will wobble violently and very noisily, and threaten to catapult itself through the roof.) Water drains through a pipe and into a hole in the floor; you watch for the steady stream to reduce to a trickle, then to a slow drip, then you turn the extractor off. But wait! Do not open the lid until the inner tub has come to a dead stop and all is silent within, if you value your hands and all ten fingers!
     After my introduction to these two quaint contraptions, I gave fervent thanks for the fancy computerized washer and the gargantuan dryer.
    

    

  

On Receiving the Habit of Religion

     The date was set for my clothing day, and I couldn't have asked for a better or more appropriate one. In the year 2005, May 29, a Sunday, fell on the Solemnity of the Body and Blood of Christ. Since I had chosen as my mystery the Passion and Cross of Jesus, this day was perfect; but it was made even more perfect by the fact that May 29 was Sr. Mary William's birthday. Sister, who died in December of 2004, had championed my vocation indefatigably and was my role model and spiritual mother. I was very sorry that she didn't live to see me receive the habit, but, being clothed on her birthday, I felt she was blessing and looking down on me from heaven.

     I was very excited to be measured for my habits (one to wear, one for spare). The Dominican habit is, I've always thought, one of the most beautiful of all religious habits: a loose tunic, creamy white, with long, deeply cuffed sleeves, and cinched with a black leather belt from which hangs a large black rosary; over that, the white scapular -- a panel in front and a panel in back, sewn together at the shoulders, the sides left open, a sort of over-long bib; over the scapular, a short white cape, ending just above the elbows, with a stiff stand-up collar; a white cap, shaped like a bathing cap; and over the cap, the waist-long veil -- white for the novice, black for the professed. Underneath, a full cotton petticoat skirt. The best thing about the petticoat is that it has two over-sized patch pockets that are accessed via slits in the sides of the tunic. A nun could keep all her wordly possessions in those pockets (which, I realize, is not saying much; nevertheless, they are huge pockets). White knee socks and black shoes or sandals complete the outfit.

     Before her clothing, a postulant takes a 10-day retreat. I spent much of mine taking long, meditative walks in the woods, talking to Jesus in my heart. I found pieces of petrified wood, many small enough to be used in the making of a mosaic cross, which I had in mind to make by Lent the following year. I spent extra time before the Blessed Sacrament, contemplating the face of my Beloved, and wrote poetry and long letters to Jesus in my journal. A clothing retreat may or may not be directed by the novice directress; I opted not to be directed, since solitude was still a very important part of my personal spirituality. In fact, I was beginning to feel there was too much "togetherness" in the novitiate - recreating together, having class together, working in the laundry together, having adoration time together, putting up Christmas decorations together. . . . The effects of all my years of independent living were not so easily erased. I heartily wished the monastery had a real hermitage for sisters to use on their retreats and monthly Moses Day. However, I knew that, once a sister is professed, has moved out of the novitiate and is living in the professed sisters' dorm, she enjoys a bit more solitude.

     Time was, the reception of the habit was a public event that took place in the monastery chapel, very much like a wedding: invitations would be sent and the sister would wear an actual wedding gown. After the preliminaries, she would then go into a private room to have her hair cut off, be dressed in the habit, and re-enter as a novice. Nowadays, the ceremony is closed to the public and takes place in the chapter hall with only the sisters to witness; the big public events in the chapel are the profession of temporary vows, when the sister takes the black veil and becomes an actual nun; and the beautiful profession of solemn (final) vows, when the bride of Christ receives her ring from the local bishop and symbolizes her death to the world and to her former life by lying prostrate before the altar.

     On the day of my clothing, the sun shone bright and warm, the infamous Lufkin humidity settling like a heavy blanket over the town. I remember very little of the actual ceremony, being in a kind of daze. I had struggled so hard to arrive at that day. My hair, which had grown past my shoulders during my postulancy, was tied into a pony tail; Sr. Mary Annunciata cut it off with little trouble. Then Sr. Maria Cabrini took me into a small room and helped me put on my crisply pressed habit and white veil. When I went back out, the closing statements of the rite were pronounced by Sr. Mary Annunciata, and my new name was revealed: I was now Sr. Maria Simona of the Passion and Cross of Jesus.

(Photo by Sr. Mary Jeremiah, O. P.)

 

Acceptance to the Novitiate

     The reception of the habit, a. k. a. clothing day, a. k. a. investiture, marks the end of a prospective nun's 9- to 12-month postulancy and the beginning of her novitiate, which for Dominicans lasts two years. As I approached the end of my own postulancy, I admit to having felt a bit apprehensive. The nine months since the day I entered the monastery had been anything but smooth sailing. I was 44 years old at the time, well beyond the average age; I had lived on my own for many years and so was set in my independent ways; I had come from a 30-plus-years-long career as a professional musician and had spent the last 15 of those years in the company of and working with the best and brightest in the opera world. The transition into the austere, confined, and humbling life of the cloister, and singing seven times a day with 27 women, most of whom had no musical or vocal training whatever, was, to tell the truth, Calvary for me. I had to die to my old life, and that death was slow and torturous. I had to adjust to the fact that I owned nothing and had to share everything. I had to ask permission to use, take, or throw out every object I wanted to use, take, or throw out. I struggled in vain to blend my operatically trained voice to the untrained voices of the others. I had to learn to be a pray-er who sings, rather than a singer who prays. I tried my best to close my musician's ears, squelch those instincts which had served me so well as an opera coach, and ignore the out-of-tuneness and incorrect rhythms that I heard every single day from my fellow sisters. I had to resign myself to the fact that I couldn't correct the out-of-tuneness or incorrect rhythms--I was a postulant; it wasn't my place. Nevertheless, I fixed my eyes on the day I could wear the habit and white veil of a novice, knowing full well that, although many graces come with the reception of the habit, Calvary was by no means over for me.
     It was in this frame of mind that I awaited word of my reception. All the professed sisters were gathered for Chapter and would vote whether I should be accepted as a novice. In my mind's eye, I saw one too many of those infamous black balls being cast into the box. While they voted, I sat trembling in the darkened chapel, the novices waiting with me, all of us in silent prayer before the Blessed Sacrament.
     I thought of the long battle with my novice directress over the selection of my name in religion. Now that sisters could choose their own names, rather than the superior choosing for them, the choice had to have some personal significance for the chooser. I had made my choice even before I ever entered: Sr. Maria Simona. Every Dominican nun must have the name "Mary" or some form of it, because Mary is considered the patroness of the Dominican order; but the other part of her name is up to the prospective novice. I chose "Simona" for three reasons: firstly, Simon of Cyrene. I identified very strongly with his story, his sudden and seemingly random calling. Secondly, Simon Peter, whom I love dearly for all his failings, but particularly because Jesus forgave him his vehement denial, eventually exalting him to leader of the apostles and the Church. Thirdly, my father's mother was a Maria and my mother's mother was a Simona, so I would be honoring my family as well. My novice directress, Sr. Maria Cabrini, objected to the fact that Simon of Cyrene is not a saint in the Catholic canon of saints (I've no idea why); but he is a saint to me, since he helped Jesus to carry his cross. Sister tried her best to convince me to take the name Peter. As I said, I love St. Peter very much, but I'm just not crazy about the name!
     Then there was the matter of my mystery, which is the second part of a nun's name and signifies an important aspect of her particular spirituality; for instance, my novice directress' full name is Sr. Maria Cabrini, O. P., of the Sacred Heart. ("O. P." stands for the Order of Preachers, official name of the Dominican Order.) Sister has a deep devotion to the Sacred Heart of Jesus, so she chose that as her mystery. I had a tremendously deep devotion to the Passion and Cross, so my full name would be Sr. Maria Simona of the Passion and Cross of Jesus. Sister was concerned that I was perhaps a bit too fixated on the Passion, that I didn't look beyond it; but I assured her that wasn't the case at all--I was well aware that Christ rose from the dead!
     Sister also worried that because Simon of Cyrene wasn't a canonical saint, he had no feast day on the liturgical calendar. A nun's feast day, celebrated every year instead of her birthday, is the same as her saint's feast day; in the event that there is no such day, the nun chooses her feast day based on her mystery. My mystery was the Passion and Cross, but I obviously couldn't choose Good Friday (the most important days are of course sacrosanct); neither could I choose the Feast of the Precious Blood, because that was already taken by another of my sisters. So I chose the very beautiful Feast of the Exaltation of the Cross, September 14. After finally (albeit only partially) convincing Sr. Maria Cabrini, my name and feast day were handed in to the prioress, Sr. Mary Annunciata.
     The other important hurdle before being received for clothing was the written examination. This covers all the basic aspects of religious life. Luckily, I passed it with flying colors!
     All these things, plus my fervent prayers, passed through my mind as I waited in the dark, silent chapel. After what seemed an interminable time, Sr. Maria Cabrini came to escort me and the novices to the community room where all the rest of the sisters were assembled. We walked in, and the novices sat in their assigned seats while I approached Sr. Mary Annunciata, who, according to the rite of ceremony, asked what was my request. I then formally asked to be accepted for reception of the habit, and to my joy, Sister replied that my request had indeed been accepted! I then sat with the novices and listened to Sr. Mary Annunciata deliver a short talk in which she dropped hints as to what my name in religion would be (a fun tradition, causing the other sisters to try and guess the name, which would not be revealed until the actual clothing ceremony).
     As soon as Sister finished her talk, I went back to her to begin the "kiss of peace" round the circle of sisters, tears of relief and joy springing from my eyes. It was raining heavily outside, but I actually took that a good omen: rain is supposed to be God's blessings, and the Little Flower had rain on her Clothing Day.
     A date had to be set for the ceremony; I had to be measured for my habits, which would be sewn by the seamstress, Sr. Mary Magdalene; and I looked forward to a blessed 10-day retreat before being clothed as a novice of the Order of Preachers.

The Elusiveness of Loving

    7 March 2005   I'm re-reading Growing Free -- another Carmelite memoir. It's fascinating that, a couple of years after first reading it, and being in a different place spiritually and environmentally, certain passages now take on a deeper significance for me. What comfort to know that she, too, had the same struggles with religious life that I'm having. People have told me right and left that obedience is hard, prayer can be completely unrewarding, the Divine Office a tedious chore, and Holy Mass nothing but an unholy mass of distractions. I accepted all that at a certain level of understanding. But it isn't until one finds oneself drowning in those dark waters, truly out of one's depth, that the heart understands as well as the mind. I used to say blithely, as one does in ignorance, "Obedience is hard, but all I have to do is see God's will in every request made of me, and then carry it out for love of him"; and, "I can't seem to pray, but I'll just wait for him and listen in silence"; and the most famous cliche' of all, "If I'm distracted, I'll just offer it up." Oh, the precocity of a spiritual neophyte who reads or hears a few pithy maxims, then regurgitates them at all the appropriate times, in all the appropriate situations, never dreaming that that in itself is a form of pride, because she is relying on her own little dangerous knowledge, not on a solid faith and trust in God's help. She learns only through the pain of seeming abandonment and the frustration of wanting to love, that those glib maxims ring false, unless they are truly tried through faith.     
     It is a humbling -- no, a humiliating thing, to realize that one's love is built on sand because it is love for God's gifts and consolations rather than for God himself. When you find yourself wanting to love, that is when the true loving begins. The desire itself is an act of faith. I think that's why Anselm's words speak so loudly to me. Love is a constant desiring, a continuous seeking: for intimacy, true knowledge and understanding, for union; to please, to depend on, to possess, and be possessed; to give totally, so that you may belong totally. God created me; therefore, nothing I am is my own to keep. I am his.

Let me seek You by desiring You,

and desire You by seeking You;

let me find You by loving You,

and love You in finding You.

~ St. Anselm