Feast of St. Michael and All Angels

And war broke out in heaven... Michael and his angels fought against the dragon. The dragon and his angels fought back, but they were defeated, and there was no longer any place for them in heaven. The great dragon was thrown down, that ancient serpent, who is called the Devil and Satan, the deceiver of the whole world—he was thrown down to the earth, and his angels were thrown down with him. -Revelation 12:7-9

"And war broke out in heaven..." that is perhaps the most chilling verse in the Bible. For if war can break out in heaven, then what hope can we ever have for peace?

The thing about this verse is the timing... did it happen or will it happen? Or both? The Revelation to John isn't clear at all. No surprise there... prophesies and signs are never really clear until we can document them. We blame the Devil for our own original sin, for the seven deadly sins, for evil in general, but what if the Devil has nothing to do with the mess we've made on earth? What if we have nobody to blame but ourselves... our own human incompetence and greed?

Michael and his angels fought against the dragon. Who will fight for us?

It's also no surprise (to me) that Michael is the patron saint of police officers. In their own way, they fight for the ordinary citizen's right to safety and peace. Two in my family are now in that profession. God bless them.

growing old is hell

My mother used to look me in the eye and say "Growing old is hell." She had been one of those heavy duty wonder-women in her youth, could lift heavy furniture with the best of them. Once a cousin marveled at how strong she was and called her "Tarzan" for the rest of his life.

Then she aged. Her health was poor, her strength was gone, her ambition went with it, and all the activities that had once been fun were gradually an ordeal. I would come over to her apartment to visit and end up washing the stack of dishes that were sitting in the sink. She had enough energy to cook, but not clean up afterwards. When she died, I found two dishpans full of dirty pots and pans under the bed in her guest room. She had not wanted me to know just how frail she was becoming.

I'm not there yet. I have a trick knee that gives me trouble from time to time, and a hip that rejects the cold damp weather, but mostly I'm healthy and still full of myself. I see small changes though. Irksome changes. Just recently I've noticed I've lost strength in my left hand. I can't open jars like I once could, not even with all the tricks I know. Damn.

As I've mentioned before, we have four elderly sisters living in the city, in varying stages of ability. One needs help just to walk around: to the bathroom, down the hall, to chapel. She uses a walker, but even with that she's wobbly and careens off the walls. So she is supposed to beep whoever is on duty, even in the middle of the night, to come and help her. She hates it. It upsets her to be a burden to her sisters... to have to wake them out of their rest to help her take seven steps to the toilet. So... she sometimes goes by herself and just doesn't tell anybody. We can tell in the morning if her walker is in a slightly different position, that she's been up in the night without help. Then the lectures begin. It's one of those lose-lose situations. Nobody's happy.

In December we will qualify for 24 hour care for her. It may help and it may not. Her sisters will sleep through the night, but she, who must rely on someone to watch over her, will still not regain her independence or sense of productivity. She will still think she is a burden.

I often get up in the night to use the bathroom... it's one of those growing old things. But I don't turn on a light. I'm barely awake, and have no trouble falling right back to sleep. How different that must be when it becomes a major production with a cast of characters. My mother had it right.

on your mark... get set...

When I was little I remember using a variety of procrastinating mantras... all were supposed to be preparing me for whatever I was about to do next. "On your mark, get set, go!" was from track (I think) and of course I never ran a single loop of track in my life. It's probably not even called a loop.

Another was: One for the money, two for the show, three to get ready and four - to - go! I liked that, you could drag out the inevitable for a long time with that.

The operative word, of course,  was... go. 

I'm getting ready to go. I leave for the airport tomorrow at oh-dark-thirty, and I'm going through all the preparatory motions of a lifetime of admonitions... don't leave home without clean underwear, don't take a long trip without cleaning your baseboards, never leave dirty dishes in the sink... 

In mid-life I turned those rulings into an art form. I would wash and iron everything I owned and hang it all neatly in the closet. It took days and often a very long night before I could finally pack what I was actually taking with me and leave home. I'm not as compulsive now, but I still have the last load of clothes in the dryer as I write this. Of course I don't have so many clothes now.

My dear friend's daughter is getting married in Florida. My younger son and his family lives in the same city. My times there are always too short, but this time, especially, it will be hard. I'll be gone less than a week this time, and the "wedding of the century" (as it's been dubbed by friends) will take up a lot of that time. I've not seen my grandchildren in almost a year... but I will see them soon.

I have recently acquired eleven boxes of odds and ends, mostly books, from my life before the convent. All the kitchen things have been integrated into our convent or taken to the church pantry where I work. The books are a work in progress... our librarian is sorting through them to select what she wants for the library, the arts and craft books will go to the art room. But some are design and symbol resources, collected over a lifetime, and they are still in my office on a shelf near the computer. Mine!!!! I have to laugh at this reaction, because it's certainly not new. Even though I lived without these resources for six years, I find I still want them for myself. This too shall pass. My suitcase is full, not with my clothes, but with presents for family and friends... from this new hoard of goodies I'd forgotten I even had. It's so much easier to let go of those things. Just not the art resources.

Here's the deal...

This post is prompted by the sweet anonymous comment of a day or two ago, but even my daughter-in-law sent an email checking on me. Thank you both. I'm here. I'm okay. (Relatively.) I've not posted for several reasons... nothing to say, or... too tired to say it... or too tired to say it without hurting somebody's feelings. I've been told a war with too many fronts is destined for failure. Well, I'd say any war is destined for failure, but I understand the point because that's what's going on in my life at the moment.

First, (and these are in no special order) there's the monotony of same-old, same-old... which plagues everyone from time to time, but especially religious. They even have a name for it: acedia, from the Greek akēdeia meaning indifference. Another way to put it: Spiritual torpor and apathy; ennui.. or to be even more judgmental: sloth, one of the seven deadly sins.

Second, there's the non-stop geriatric-zoo-syndrome which is getting to the few of us who still have functioning brains. There are the "walker wars" (yet another example of a war nobody can win) and the elevator was put out of commission last week when the door was derailed by two walkers trying to cram themselves into the space available for one. Of course that was right after mass and before breakfast, so the two of us who can climb stairs (holding a tray full of food) had to bring them their breakfasts in the library, while we waited for the repairman to arrive. Of course that's not nearly as bad as when the one sister "forgets" her walker altogether and hobbles down the hall on her own, careening off the walls. Please take your pills, sister. Where is your cane? No, today is not Wednesday. To make matters even more hilarious, our four older sisters just started their annual week-long silent retreat. Can they remember they are in silence? Do they care? What day is it?

Third is my new job. New jobs are, by their nature, stressful and tiring. Learning the ropes takes time and effort. To my chagrin and irritation, my typically fast learning curve is no longer that fast. Must be old age. Damn. (No wonder employers don't want to hire people in their sixties.) I am getting it, slowly, but it's also taking its toll on my already flagging energy.

And then... there are family matters which weigh on my heart but I cannot confront because I have no energy left to even begin the conversation about "what's wrong?" That limbo state weighs heavy too. I'm too tired to blog. (Except of course this morning... when an especially good sermon sparked the teensy weensy ember left smouldering in my heart.)

Another Birthday Boy!

My younger son celebrates his 37th birthday today. (He was born on Mother's Day... awwww) so of course he has an extra gold star for that. Both he and his older brother are the loves of my life, as different as night and day, sweet and sour, black and white, polar opposites on every possible spectrum you could use to measure... and as such, on the razor's edge of being exactly alike. It's just another one of those mysteries.

John, my son,
I'm sending you lots of love and best wishes for a happy day and a happy year ahead.
Happy Birthday!
love,
Mom

Home soon...

Home soon... tomorrow afternoon.
Long trip. Good retreat (I think) in Oregon... new friends, new ties to the west coast.

It strikes me as odd that I've not had "the need" to post while I've been away. For one, not much opportunity (until I reached my son's house) and for two... I'm now on what's known in the convent as family time. Not rest and retreat, (our equivalent of vacation) because as everyone knows, family time is not a retreat, neither is it restful. Those exact words from another nun were perplexing to me at first, although I laughed at the time. But now I get her drift. Life in the convent is different enough to make life in the outside world seem pretty weird.

It's been a weird visit. I'm sure some of it's the nun-thing, some the time difference (3 hours), some the fact that even though both my son and daughter-in-law took vacation time to be off, my son still pretty much sticks to his night shift schedule, and my daughter-in-law spends a lot of her time online while watching TV. That's not a problem. I don't need to be entertained. I have my knitting and my son gave me a good book to read. It's something else.

Nobody wants to make a decision about what we should do, where we should go, what TV we should watch... and once a decision is somewhat made, then there's a whole lot of resistance and/or argument about it. I'm so used to stating my position on an issue and then going with the consensus, that I have no understanding of the nuances of "I don't care what we do" to mean "I don't want to do that." Or... "I will make you pay if we do that." It's disorienting. I'm bouncing along thinking everything is just fine and then notice somebody's unhappy. Or so it seems.

These kids snap at each other. I have no doubt there's true affection between them, I've seen that as well, but the whole kindness for its own sake thing has eluded them. It's been so long since I've been in a relationship with just one other person, I can't remember if I was the same way. Probably... the apple doesn't fall far.

The dog seems to like me better this time.

leavin' on a jet plane

All my bags are packed, I'm ready to go... NOT!!!

But I'm getting there. I have a to-do list to keep me focused and on track. It took longer to write some of the things than to actually do them, but that's okay. I have little piles laid out next to the suitcase: copies of our brochure, AweWakenings, the Service for the Reception of an Associate. This is, afterall, a working trip.

I've posted my itinerary and contact numbers on our travel board; the sisters can reach me if they need to. It's a bittersweet experience to be leaving... we have sisters in their eighties. Every time I leave, I worry.

I have a friend who keeps a "Things to Pack" list in her suitcase. It's a great idea, even if I don't have need for most of the things she commonly forgets: cel phone charger, laptop cords. I'm not sure about my own laptop this time. Usually it's a standard item when I travel, but mine is getting old and ricketty and crashes a lot, so I'd rather leave it behind than risk its total demise.

The camera is another story. I can't decide. When I take it I don't use it, when I don't take it, I wish I had it. (The batteries are charging just in case.) Clothes for work, clothes for play... because the final days will be rest time with my son and his wife. Books, papers, granola, sweet n low, deodorant… I'm almost there.

Happy Birthday!

Forty years ago I gave birth to my first son... How could that be? In my imagination I'm only a little over forty myself. (This birthday might be more traumatic for me than for him.)

He was born back in the dark ages in a small hospital in New Hampshire, where they tied the laboring woman to the bed rails and left her alone in a state called "twilight" sleep... which meant you weren't exactly asleep, but were dozing... until the next contraction hit like a train wreck. Then you were wide awake in a bewildering state of unexpected agony. Lovely way to enter the world... with your mommy screaming for somebody to do something! So they gassed me out. Last thing I remember was that mask and heavy hands holding me down. Fast forward a few hours later and I'm all alone in a strange bed, tucked in so tight I can barely move; there's a strip of bandage across my abdomen and I hurt all over. "Oh my God! I had a cesarean!" I thought. But no, it was just their way of doing things.

Finally a nurse walked by, and when I asked, she assured me I had, in fact, had a baby... a baby boy!

He turned out to be a screamer, a dreamer, a brilliant little smart guy who is, (along with his little brother) the love of my life. His wife says he doesn't want a fuss over his fortieth birthday. What!?! Could it be they switched my child in the nursery? No fuss?


But dear child, you are FORTY. It's a landmark year... you are officially over the hill. Now you can finally complain about your aches and pains for real. Bring out the black balloons, the black arm bands, the cop-turned-stripper, the surprise party and the cake with so many candles, that by the time you've lit the last one, the first has burned down to the frosting. And don't forget the fire extinguisher!

This Birthday Boy is Four!

My next-to-the-youngest grandson Gabriel celebrates his fourth birthday today. His first visit to New York City was with his family in December (for my life profession) and he stole the hearts of all my sisters.

When we went out to dinner afterwards, he and I got to sit together, and my friend snapped this picture of us. I've added a cake for him to blow out the candles. Wish I could be singing "happy birthday" to you, sweetheart, but I'll see you later this year.
love, Grandma

thoughts for today

The longer I live, the more clear it becomes, that the contradictions of life are part of the master plan... seemingly disparate, they connect and bind.

We cannot just be and do not understand. We just have to trust that this is so. We see in each other what we are blind to in ourselves, both the darkness and the light.

Happy Birthday: Hortense Caswell Hall R.I.P.

My aunt was about three years older than my mother, who was twenty-eight years older than me, so if she were still alive, she'd have celebrated her ninety-third birthday today. She died several years before my mother, of complications brought on by her generation's penchant for heavy smoking and even heavier drinking. [She liked her Manhattans, and although she gave up smoking, (unlike my mother) she still suffered from the effects.]

I idolized my aunt when I was a teenager. She was everything my mother wasn't... wealthy, sophisticated, interested in art and antiques. She gave lavish parties, had her friends over to play bridge. She had been a nurse, and still filled in occasionally at her local hospital. She had the whole outfit: white dress, white hose and shoes, starched cap with black band. Nurses don't dress that way anymore, just as most nuns don't dress in habits. We sometimes bemoan the passing of the "uniform"... the clothes that confer a recognized status, a familiar and comforting illusion.

As a child I vowed (again and again) I would not grow up to become my mother, but I did. While I am uncomfortable with the term flamboyant to describe myself, it's definitely a term I'd use to describe my mom. She liked loud colors and bright prints, She bleached her hair platinum blonde and laughed a lot. While my aunt played bridge, my mother went bowling.

My mother and aunt were rivals, but they were also close friends. When blood needed to be thicker it was... my aunt (and her wealth) rescued us when my dad deserted us, her bankroll funded my mother's purchase of a beauty shop in the boondocks of New Hampshire, and her sense of family brought us to her house every Thanksgiving and Christmas to celebrate together. She was the Episcopalian. That and a love of tissue paper with sparkles are the tangible things I have to show for her considerable influence.

I am (occasionally) wiser now than I was at fourteen, when my love affair with my aunt's view of the world was so at odds with my relationship with my mom. Much of my aunt's sophistication was pretense... an effort to seem to be more than she was... My mother was exactly who she was... if you didn't like it, well "tough titty" to use her expression... one my aunt would have deplored.

I owe my life to both influences. They are inextricably mingled... one in my DNA, the other in my environmental conditioning. I think of them both in heaven... chatting over their afternoon drinks. My aunt raises her Manhattan: "Well at least she's an Episcopalian, Helen. You owe me that." My mother smiles as she sips her Whiskey Sour. "Yes, but she hates bridge and likes to bowl."

Happy Birthday!

It's my daughter-in-law's thirty-seventh birthday... (the reason her blog 365 profile had her at already thirty-seven from the get go of January has to do with their calendar tracking software... by the month, which only requires a database of twelve instead of three hundred and sixty-six for every blogger that signs in with their date of birth.) Actually I just made that up. It sounds so logical and definitive, though, dontcha think? Maybe I should have been a political candidate instead of a nun.

But enough about me. My daughter-in-law is a unique blend of sarcastic/compassionate, cutting-edge/old-fashioned. Although she's much more computer literate than I, she still writes thank you notes in longhand on pretty note paper. Maybe she just does that for me, because she knows I appreciate it. And if she does, that's even more telling of her thoughtfulness.

She sent me a number of thoughtful gifts for Christmas... a book called Bad Habits, with pictures of nuns with hilarious captions. Oh, and a nun bowling game... the fireball from hell knocks over the ten little praying nuns. How many nuns you knock down indicates how awful your sins were. Of course I got a strike my first time, while all of the older sisters got gutterballs. It was supposed to be a game, not a fortune-teller. Oh... that's why I can't be a political candidate: my past would come back to haunt me. But enough about me.

My daughter-in-law didn't used to like me. Or at least I don't think she did. Maybe it had something to do with the letter I wrote her when she and my son broke up after several years together, and right before their intended wedding. I told her she was probably better off without him, that she should forget him and get on with her life.

Not that I don't totally love my son, I do. But at her age, I doubt I'd have had the hutzpah to take on a man with a genius brain and little common sense, a penchant for spending more than he could afford, who had a medical condition that required zombie-inducing drug therapy, and who could no longer have, nor did he want, more children.

Lucky for him (and me) she did not take my advice. Instead she hung in there. They got back together and eventually got married. She really loves my son. Which is not the only reason I love her, but it's a good one. Happy Birthday dear one, and many many more!!

Happy Birthday Drew

Every year I resolve to remember the important birthdays. (And every year I forget somebody.) I even have the dates written down somewhere in a little book, but then I forget to look at the book. Maybe I should resolve to look at the book.

Anyway, today is the first one in the new year... my oldest grandson turns 15 today.

When I spoke with him over the holidays I asked if that meant he'd be getting his learner's permit to drive? he said no, his mom wouldn't allow it. Bummer.

I imagine there are plenty of good reasons for her decision... skyrocketing insurance rates, icy roads in Colorado, medications he takes, a better understanding of his abilities than a grandmother who only sees him every few years. Still... a learner's permit is a rite of passage, a ticket to the next step in freedom. It's a way to learn responsibility up close and personal. A wrong decision can be huge when you are behind the wheel of a car.

I remember when I first learned to drive. I took drivers' ed in high school, but the real lessons came later... on a snowy hill with black ice underneath, in a parking lot, where my lack of depth perception caused me to scrape another car's door panel, on a highway when I was sailing along above the speed limit, and actually passed a state trooper.

Life requires learning. Mistakes. Restitution. He can wait for the driving lessons I guess. I hear he has a girlfriend. That ought to give him enough to work on for a year. Happy Birthday dear one!

gifts

Gifts... Some... are symbolic in themselves, some reflect the recipient's need, some the giver's. Some are last-minute efforts with no meaning, and some take on meaning only when you see the giver's smile or tears. —Tom Erich

In his daily meditation, Tom Erich was exploring his understanding of gifts, in the context of the story of the gifts brought by the wise men. His comments hit me especially hard, because I have a box under my bed still to be mailed to family. It is unfinished... lacking either one (or three) more items, depending on whether I decide to send just to the grandchildren or to include their parents. The one present lacking is something for the smallest child... a toy? a book? a soft cuddly something? Nothing I've seen in the Christmas array has shouted out to me "I'm the one!" and so the other bundles sit forlorn waiting inspiration from God. What's that about?

Well, for one, it's about fairness, and not showing partiality. Everyone must get something, even if it's a last-minute effort with no meaning. Except my heart just balks at that, which is why the box sits unfinished.

I already messed up the box for the other side of the family. I sent to my other son and daughter-in-law, and did not include a gift for their son, who would be visiting for the holidays. I didn't forget him; I just forgot he'd be there. Damn.

So I sit and ponder this whole gift situation... asking what's the point of a gift in the first place? The best I can come up with is to surprise (or delight) the recipient. That's always been easier with friends than family. When I was in high school, and made my very first Christmas purchases, I spent most of my money on one person and had to borrow against my allowance to make up the difference. Over the years that evened out a little, but I still ended up with lots of stuff for one, and nothing for another. The last minute scramble to find something bland or safe was a matter of necessity then. It isn't now. Or at least it doesn't have to be. That's what I'm thinking. Rationalization? Maybe. I'll ponder awhile longer.

the day after

I remember Christmases past when on Christmas morning you could barely see the tree for all the mountains of gifts piled in front of it. I think back on those as the years of excess... when things were so important because the important things were so lacking. I cannot say it was anybody's fault... the culture contributed, major dysfunction in the family, never having conversations that went below the shallow how-are-you-I-am-fine variety. To have those conversations would have been dangerous at best. To invite the kind of vulnerability required to go deeper was just not safe where we lived. We did what we could...

I spoke with both of my sons yesterday evening... after all the hustle and bustle of our busy day here. Although I had just seen both of them earlier in the month, that had been an odd get-together because it centered around my life profession. My birthday was the week afterwards and my sisters went overboard to give me a lovely party... almost as if they suspected my kids might forget. They did.

My older son lives in a time zone three hours earlier, so his hustle and bustle still revolved around dinner. The other had a million in-laws in the house, so our conversation was mostly drowned out and peppered with other conversations with the people around him. I was placed on hold a few times during both conversations and wondered briefly why I had even called at all.

But I knew. I called... to hear their voices... to engage. To remind them that although I am a nun, I am still their mother... and that I still love them. I cannot pile up presents to the ceiling to show that love, and even if I could, I wouldn't do it anymore anyway. It was an illusion, like so much of our culture's approach to life. We have forgotten we are in fact okay. Just as we are. Flawed, yes. God knows why.

That is part of the mystery we can't come to terms with. It kills us to imagine a perfect God who could/would create an imperfect world. Because we equate perfect with good. And... we can't imagine an imperfect God. Why not? Explain to me exactly why God has to be perfect.

foretaste

Okay, so the warm fuzzy blur snapped into clear focus when the doorbell rang yesterday. It was that time... My younger son and his family had arrived. I peered out my window to the street below and there they were... in a white stretch limo no less, (so much for the link I sent for the cheap van service) and I could see the tops of their heads as each one emerged... Helen, little John, Mom holding three-year-old Gabriel. I watched my son help the driver unload the suitcases, watched him go back to hand him a tip, watched them all disappear beneath the overhang so I could only imagine them standing on the doorstep. No one had answered the door. Where was everybody anyway? My family was here! The doorbell rang again and this time I saw the phone light indicating there was communication over the intercom, heard my sister walking down the stairs from the fourth floor. Hurry up! let them in! It's cold out there and they've just come from Florida! Later as she showed them their room on the third floor, I was hanging over my fifth floor railing, listening... no audible conversation but the distinct piping voice of Gabriel. I longed to run down the stairs and hug them all.

I thought all these things, but could say nothing, do nothing. I am in silence. I am at the mercy of other people's kindness, other people's efficiency. One more friend arrived last night; two more will come this afternoon, and my older son will arrive this evening. Each time the doorbell rings I want to scream. When it rings twice in a row I want to bash in the wall.

All this from the woman who is supposed to be bliss-filled, at peace, ready to turn her life over to Jesus. The irony is not lost on me. As my mother used to say: I am a nervous wreck. I could barely sing in chapel last night or this morning. My voice just wouldn't push out the sound. Will it be like this tomorrow? When I will be the only one singing? I need to get a grip. Soon.

End of the season

It's been a quiet and restful Thanksgiving weekend, considering we're nine nuns living together. We had few guests for dinner Thanksgiving day, not like in the "old days" when preparations started at Oh-dark-thirty, as one of our sisters calls the crack of dawn. I was up to pop the birds in the oven at 6:30, but that was very reasonable, since my only responsibilities this year were turkey and gravy. (And nut pie.)

Our celebrant at mass gave a fascinating history of how the fourth Thursday of November had evolved from its early beginnings. He spoke of the anomaly that Thanksgiving is, a day of solemn prayer dictated by the state, not the church... that our own prayer book was twelve years behind the eight ball in including a collect for Thanksgiving Day.

He explored the theme of a state-dictated day of thanksgiving by asking, "if all are to give thanks, then to whom and for what?" Good question for a country finally looking recession straight in the face, grappling with the price of fuel, a shrinking economy, high unemployment, soaring medical costs, and the looming unpredictability of climate change. Denial no longer works for anyone but the wealthy, and their numbers shrink as the gap between rich and poor widens.

One of the readings appointed for Thanksgiving talked about "first fruits," the income-tax-like offering to God for the harvest. It was not a thank offering, it was 10% of whatever you harvested, whether the year was lean or abundant. In lean years there may not have been much thanks to spare, especially when 10% of very little left your family in debt with nothing to eat. The point was, of course, the belief that everything belonged to God to begin with. Nothing was ours by right. He wondered aloud that if we really believed that, and behaved as though we did, would we take better care of the Earth than we do? My answering thought was "Probably not."

I thought of how hard we are as a group on our belongings here in the convent. Everything is communal property, no personal possessions, and we chip bowls and wear out vacuum cleaners and take little heed about stuffing the washing machine to overload capacity. If these things were ours, would we treat them better? I know how I took care of my own things before I came... and the fact that I had bought and paid for them with money I earned meant they had to last. We have lost that element here, as I think we lost it in the larger sense in our dealings with Earth and her resources.

In his final final wrap up, he asked the question: what are blessings? It was an excellent theme to ponder on Friday as the community went into a day of silent retreat. No flurry of Christmas shopping... we stayed home and prayed, rested, and ate turkey sandwiches.

As I pondered all of my other blessings, I learned that both of my sons will be present for my life profession. What a gift. What a wonderful way to celebrate the last Sunday in Pentecost, the end of the season, the doorway to the next steps.

Time to move the bed across the room

I was just saying to my younger son "I'm more stable (emotionally and spiritually) than I've been in a long time." Mostly I think that's true.

But when I look back on my life, that's not really saying much. I've had huge bouts with instability. Whatever damage was done to my six-year-old psyche when my dad left my mom to marry another woman with her own little girl, it stuck with me into my adulthood.

I was forever falling in love with the first guy who looked twice, not to mention the ones who never looked at all. I was forever crying my eyes out over abuse (real and imagined) and because of my emotional profile, I attracted abuse of all kinds. I was a wimp as a child and a wimp as an adult. (Sisters reading this may be thinking differently, but I was not always as confident or competent as I appear to be now.)

I was as insecure as they come when I was in my twenties... trying to please, trying to make people like me. Only time has helped me build any kind of character, or maturity, or equanimity... and it hasn't come easy.

Pain is the huge leveler, whether it's emotional or physical or spiritual. Sometimes they are so interwoven it's hard to sort out what's really causing the most trouble. I've had a lot of headaches lately. Some of it is sinus. The weather is changing and we recently turned on the heat. But much of it is stress related. There is stress around my upcoming life profession, stress having to do with family issues, both inside and outside the convent, and then the general malaise that comes and goes for seemingly no reason at all. Nobody is happy all the time. If we were, how would we know?

Benedictine orders take a vow of "stability." It's not exactly what you might think: it's a commitment to live in a particular monastic community for life. I was raised by Navy, married Navy; I have relocation blood in my veins. Even during my formation period in this community, I have moved five times. Staying put will be difficult.

Whenever I feel the urge to relocate, I change the furniture around. It works. Otherwise I'd be chafing at the bit to move again, find some reason why I should, harp on it, make everyone around me miserable... instead I move my bed across the room. Some might call it maturity. For me it's just common sense.

Maybe it's time to move the bed.

weekend mentality

I haven't made my bed yet today. Usually it's the first thing I do in the morning, but today I went straight to the shower, turned on the water, (it takes forever to heat up) checked my email, posted my cartoon, found some warm cuddly clothes (it's suddenly cold here in New York City) took my shower, and headed downstairs. By then it was close to 5:30.

I was breakfast cook today. Actually the only time the breakfast cook cooks is on Sunday. Other days it's really breakfast setter-outer... cereal, milk, yogurt, fruit, bread, butter, jam... all the cold breakfasty things we eat during the week. But when I'm Saturday cook, I like to make muffins or scones; after four years I still have a weekend mentality.

One of our elderly sisters came down early for her coffee just as I was removing the muffins from the tins. She came over and whispered confidentially, "You are such a good cook, and you were married twice, and how either one of those husbands let you go is beyond me... because the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, you know." I told her "Well, sister, I wasn't always such a good cook."

Aside from the fact that marriages fail for reasons other than food, what I told her was true. I was always a decent cook, as my mother and grandmother before me, but I was not always "such a good" cook. While I inherited the depression-induced frugality genes that compel me to use up leftovers before they become compost, my own artistic talent requires that those leftovers be appropriately reused so that they are disguised. Soup is my favorite venue for disguise, and now that cold weather is here, my love of soupmaking has been activated. Yesterday was cream of broccoli, today will be beef vegetable. Soup- salad- bread: my favorite meal. I could eat it everyday, as long as there's variety.

After the muffins, I continued to play... (I'm supper cook tonight too). I was thinking about what had changed that I had somehow graduated from decent to good. Another sister calls me "a delicious cook."

The time factor is huge. When I worked all day, cooking was reserved for the weekends. I worked long hours and there were no "Rachel Ray 30 minute meal tips" back then. But time alone is not the answer. Audience... I have a larger audience now. It means a lot to cook in large quantities and receive praise in large quantities. And last, and by no means the least, nobody tells me what to do, how to do it, or whines that it isn't quite as good as "Mom's."

I hope my sons never do that to their wives. Probably not. My older son was the one who taught me about fresh, homemade pesto. I didn't even know what fresh basil was back then. Both boys can cook, but the older one actually enjoys it. Maybe he'll be a chef someday.

A very special birthday...