Light, Hope, Love

     I've celebrated, so far, over half a century's worth of Christmases. All have been spent in the loving and boisterous bosom of my family; all have featured torn gift wrapping strewn about the living room, good food that took hours to prepare and minutes to consume, laughter, hugs, and general good will. There were many Christmases long ago when the whole family climbed into our huge Chevy station wagon in our coats and Christmas finery, to drive to the Main Chapel on post for Midnight Mass. The colored lights cheered our way and the very air smelled of something joyful and comforting.

     There have also been Christmases that, on one level at least, were not so joyful. There was the Christmas of 1995, when I was going through the deepest depression of my life. Not yet returned to the sacraments at that time, I nevertheless experienced an inexplicable but undeniable solace when I walked into the church with my parents for Vigil Mass. Perhaps that was the beginning of my religious reversion.

     There have been three Christmases dimmed by the shadow of death: just days before Christmas 1977, my sister died, shot at point-blank range by her so-called boyfriend. The month before Christmas 2011, my father died, a peaceful early morning passing after years of physical and, I'm certain, mental suffering. And this year in Connecticut, twenty-six souls were taken from this earth in one mindless, brutal act.

     Through them all, there has been light. There has been hope. There has been love. These are things given by a merciful God to sustain and strengthen us, and can never be taken away.

 



Compensations in the Life of a Spinster

     Somehow, I always knew that I'd never get married. I know, I know—"you never know." But I knew. And I know. I mean, come on, I've already passed the half-century mark. Not that my life has been lacking in romance, serious relationships, messy relationships, downright wrong relationships, joy, heartache, passion—any of that. And Lord knows I've had my fill of yearning from afar, otherwise known as "unrequited love," which fortunately became a very productive poetic inspiration, alla Dante and Petrarch.

     Ever since I can remember, my romantic nature has dominated my life, manifesting itself in crush after crush on boys who were more interested in my friends than in me. Metaphorically speaking, I was always the bridesmaid, never the bride. To my youthful reasoning, my being constantly passed over was due to my looks: olive skin, flat nose, full lips. Your basic Asian-American geek, with thick glasses to boot. Keep in mind, this was back in the '60s and early '70s, before "exotically ethnic" was a turn-on. Back then, we girls all wanted to look like Cheryl Tiegs. Of course, when I got to college, it was a whole different ballgame and I was actually grateful for my looks, but as a pre-teen and adolescent, I was too insecure and shackled by social anxiety disorder to rely on my personality; in my eyes, I had none. All I had was musical talent, which tended to intimidate boys rather than attract them to me.

     That same musical talent proved to be a boon in other ways, a compensation for many heartaches and ego bruises. It gave me my life and my living, to quote John Denver, and quite an exciting, rewarding life and living they were, too. Music boosted my self-confidence and eventually tamed (though not quite cured) my social anxiety disorder. The piano became my confidante and faithful companion, though, as in all intense relationships, we had our bitter battles and dark days of not speaking to each other. I admit, I was even abusive at times, beating my fists on its keys and screaming expletives, knowing damn well it couldn't fight or scream back. But the piano never deserted me. Ultimately, I had to desert it, having come to the realization that we could never live together in harmony.

     I exchanged that great, all-consuming relationship for a much easier, less demanding one—the organ. I don't call myself a real organist, mind you, though I did teach myself, with the aid of a good book, proper organ technique (very different from the piano), including pedals; and like a real organist, I wear bona fide organ shoes when I play. However, I have absolutely no interest in playing solo organ music; all I want is to play hymns and play them very well. My organ playing is purposely limited to Mass, and in the chapel where I play, it is not necessary to have a solo prelude and postlude; just the hymns and the sung parts of the Ordinary. In this way, I am able to avoid a lot of practicing, which through my thirty-seven years as a pianist has proved to be a major threat to my sanity and blood pressure.

     All in all, music has been a wonderfully satisfying compensation for a rocky and sometimes non-existent love life; even when the piano and I were on the outs, we always loved each other deep down.

     I mentioned earlier that an unrequited love may spawn poetic inspiration. In my case, it spawned The Distant Belovèd, an ongoing, ever-expanding collection of sonnets and lyrics. At this writing, it consists of over fifty pieces (and many rejects). I write other kinds of poetry as well, not just love poems, but I had to find a creative way to—now, the Italians have a particularly charming word for it—sfogarmi, vent myself. When I first began The Distant Belovèd, I had no intention of ever having it published, either in part or as a whole. It was purely personal, an extension of my journal. But my sister, after reading a few of the poems, convinced me to submit them, and I am happy that some have found a home in small poetry journals, along with several of my non-love poems. Who knows if I'll ever try to get the whole of The Distant Belovèd published? Editors today don't seem to go for love poems, especially of the formal variety (formal poetry is poetry that has meter and/or rhyme, as opposed to free verse, which has neither), and some of mine do, I suppose, border on what they would call "sentimental." But hey, it's hard not to be sentimental about love. And what exactly is "sentimental," anyway? If it brings a smile to the lips or a tear to the eye, is it such a literary crime? Does that make me a hack? The Nicholas Sparks of poets?

     So poetry has been another great compensation, though not exactly lucrative. . . .

     But the biggest compensation of all for being a spinster is being able to spend these past few years helping my parents. I will always be grateful to have been here for my father when he needed me and my mother most; now that he's gone, I can still be here for my beloved mother. Maybe deep down I always knew, as Beth March did in Little Women, that I was never destined to fly far from home, and that my true ministry lies right here with those I love most. I regret nothing, and have everything to be thankful for.

     And I care not one whit that I ended that sentence with a preposition.

OFFERING

You gave me a heart too large
for the tiny life I've led.
Hard-pressed have I been to know
what to do with the surplus,
the virgin flesh burgeoning
in the hollow of my breast.
What will You have me do, then?

Would You take it partly spent—
or give it, like the talent
that was buried in the field,
to one less fearful than I?
Or would You have me fill it
with as much unspoken love
as any one heart can hold?

How many times have I stood
in the marketplace, this heart
too large in my trembling hands,
this blushing eager maiden
of a heart; but no one came.

My heart will not go empty.
I will sow it with the years'
silent loves and silent wounds
and reap a harvest of prayer,
place it at Your gate, in hope
that its yield may be enough.


["Offering" was first published in Dreamcatcher]

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