oxymoron: spiritual direction?

One of our ministries at the convent is spiritual direction. I was first introduced to the term years ago at a Cursillo weekend. I'd never heard of such a thing. Art direction, career counseling, therapy... those were familiar concepts. But spiritual direction? Shouldn't God be doing that? Well, duh, yes... but do we ever listen?

So it took listening to a human who was listening to me over several years worth of sessions to learn how important (and helpful) the process can be. In our community we actually require each sister to see a spiritual director and it may not be another sister. Space to vent, to speak your dreams, to confess to doubts, fears... with an objective listener, that's the key.

Nobody is totally objective, of course. And some directees are easier to listen to than others. That's the good news and the bad news. Good... because the director also grows as she learns patience and neutrality, bad... because learning those is a whole lot of work. Frustrating, exhausting. Not to mention humbling.

I met with a new directee this morning. What a joy. No growing edges on my patience there. Instead... growing in gratitude, hope, and confidence in God's way of working in the world. Not a bad return on my investment, as the stock traders would say...

10 down... 355 to go

This whole Blog 365 thing... what was I thinking?

• Discipline. Like pledging to go to the gym three times a week... which I would never do. Like at sixty-two I need to worry about discipline.

• Practice. Not the same as discipline. Doing something over and over supposedly makes you better at it (whatever it is). Ergo: I'll end up a better writer. Or maybe I'll just end up a better blogger, which is definitely not the same thing.

• The whole she dared me thing. When will this stop!? (when I'm dead?) A dare is like bait. If you're a fish, you can't help yourself. You bite. I bit. I bite?

• More readers? Nah. Maybe. Yes, there's something weirdly satisfying about watching the site meter graph grow. Maybe I should have just deleted the site meter. Vanity is not an appropriate attribute for a nun.

• You fill in the blank. I'm blank.

Hillary rebounds, overcomes Obama in NH

I grew up in New Hampshire. I remember those election years when candidates swarmed the state. I wasn't old enough to vote then, but our current events teacher made sure we followed the results.

I actually registered to vote this year. (Save me the indignant: What! you weren't already registered!?! comments.) No I wasn't. I haven't been since 1995. So many elections, so little time. Did I care? Obviously not enough to register.

Some will say that makes me a bad American. Sometimes I suspect those words belong together anyway. And yes, I understand that my voting right is precious, that women suffered long and hard to get me that right, that it's my duty to exercise it.

Well, actually no. I don't believe it's my duty to exercise it. It's my right to not exercise it. So I haven't. This year I will.

I'm not much interested in politics. I tried to listen to a candidate debate in Ohio. A friend had posted a link for it and I respect her, so I tried to listen. It was long. I lasted less than an hour. Was fed up. Rhetoric. Boring. "And may I remind my distinguished colleagues that I was the only one who opposed that bill back in 1997..." droning on and on.

It's interesting to me that Hillary has been dumped on in the past for having no feelings. Last week she finally showed some, and she got dumped on for that.

It may have been academy award-winning acting, but it sure came off as authentic to me. Made me look at her again. Must have made those New Hampshire voters look at her again too. Of course that's what her detractors will say: that it was a ploy to get votes. Who knows? There's plenty of time til November.

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!

Rest day and other (probably) unrelated trivia

Rest Day... ahhhh.

During the holidays, and especially this year, with Christmas and New Year's falling on Tuesday, our normal Monday rest day got discombobulated. We had a partial rest day on New Year's Eve, but another sister and I had volunteered to create the party hors d'oeuvres, so we were busy most of the day. And... as much as I appreciate a half-day's rest any time I can get it, it's just not the same thing.

I awoke at 5:30, (my normal time for rising) looked at the clock, smiled and rolled over back to sleep. I had silly dreams... I dreamed a man I know wanted to marry me. It really didn't matter that he's married, I'm a nun, and he's years younger than I. Some of those issues arose in the dream. Then I dreamed that I was supposed to go to sewing school as part of this new marriage endeavor. I had my choice of wedding dress design, upholstery, or something else. In my waking world I hate, hate, hate to sew! I'm no good at it, have no patience for it, and would do any number of crummy jobs before I would ever stoop to sewing for a living. Somehow that, too, came through in the dream, and I woke up.

On my day off I like to sleep a little later than usual, but not so late that I've wasted too much of a day to do exactly what I want. So I'm up. When I went to the kitchen for coffee, I had a craving for grilled pimento cheese sandwiches. It's been years since I've had one. My second husband and I had them a lot when we were first married. Today is actually the anniversary of my first marriage. Who knows how all that stuff manifests in the psyche to create a dream? It's a fascinating mystery. My daughter-in-law wrote me yesterday that she had jokingly added Jesus Christ as my spouse in her electronic address book. I shot back a pretty crass note, especially for a nun. When I related the story to my sisters last evening, there was dead silence in the room. Uh oh. Sometimes I feel like I'll never live up to this new calling. Sometimes I feel like I've been living it forever. The split personalities just don't match. Welcome to my world.

Feast of the Epiphany

e·piph·a·ny –noun [(i-pif-uh-nee)]

1. A Christian festival, observed on January 6, commemorating the manifestation of Christ to the gentiles in the persons of the Magi; Twelfth-day.

2. An appearance or manifestation, esp. of a deity.

3. A sudden, intuitive perception of or insight into the reality or essential meaning of something, usually initiated by some simple, homely, or commonplace occurrence or experience.

Oddly enough thesaurus.reference.com has no entries for the word epiphany. The dictionary has six, all about the same as what's written above.

Today is the feast day of "when the wise men showed up" as one of my kids used to say. Yes they did. Or no, they didn't, depending on how literally you take the Bible.

It really doesn't matter to me whether they did or didn't, whether they got there the day/night Jesus was born or after he'd been around for a while. It's a parable... a story that speaks to something else.

Our celebrant this morning spoke to the third definition (in light of the first) for her sermon theme. She gave examples from poetry and literature to develop the idea of what you do once you've had an epiphany... how you live from then on. She asked: How do you reorient your life around the new reality the light reveals? Excellent question. And, she believed, it accounts for some of the let-down people experience after the holidays. Because if we follow the new insight, it will mean extra work for sure, and possibly extra danger. The wise men discerned the danger and fled, never to be heard from again. Their decision left a larger wake of violence, for Herod, already losing his marbles, responded by slaughtering the innocent.

Years ago I was involved in some personal growth seminars. There were several epiphanies for me as a result of those trainings. I remember being told: Once you begin on the path of awareness, there is no turning back. "Catchy phrase" I thought at the time. Yet I found out it was absolutely true. You can live in denial, you can backslide, you can curse the day you ever encountered the light, but there's no turning back.

In Auden's poem the wise men say, "O here and now our endless journey stops." The shepherds say, "O here and now our endless journey starts."
May we be like those shepherds.

On a Journey

Church leaders need to ask: do they see constituents as foot-soldiers in a cause that somehow will benefit the church, or are they leading their members into a transformation that might well spin out of the institution's control? —Tom Ehrich

I mentioned a year or so ago, that my deacon friend had given me a subscription to a year of meditations (On a Journey) by Tom Ehrich. At the time, Tom lived in North Carolina. I liked what he had to say about the mission of the church. He was one of those very direct in-your-face kind of writers, not afraid to call a wort a wort, and much of what he said I could relate to on a personal level.

Fast forward. Tom moved to New York. He got a job at the church where I once worshiped and now volunteer. My subscription expired. The church's staff gets a free subscription, so I asked that mine be extended. They did, but sent them to my church email address. What a pain. I only go there once a week, and I really like to start my day with somebody else's words... and piggy-back my focus from there. I whined in an email. They changed the address.

Okay, so this is one tiny piece of evidence that the man is not just words. I met him once but I don't actually know him. He didn't have to change the address; the freebie is for staff and I only loosely qualify. Yet he did it.

His meditation today speaks to transformation... the third person of the trinity of "membership development" for churches. It seems to me, the first two: recruitment and retention are where most churches (and businesses) stop. Like the Holy Spirit I thought... transformation is a loose canon, too dangerous. Look what happened to me! A nun, for God's sake.

Here's the soft-sell commercial message: Check out his website and subscribe. Just because I have no money doesn't mean you don't.

two kinds

I used to love to group things (and people) into two categories. It didn't matter which two; they were always changing. The point was two. For example, a favorite: There are two kinds of people... observant and oblivious. (I liked the alliteration on that one.)

As I grew a little wiser, I decided everything and everyone is really some place on a continuum, and that can be a slippery place, given upbringing, conditioning, DNA and environmental factors. I also came to understand that the two kinds definition was usually meant to put somebody down (and usually not me) so while I might still think they were funny, these classifications were not especially helpful in my late-blooming desire to be less judgmental.

Earlier today I was making a to-do list and I automatically thought: there are two kinds of people... those who make lists and those who hate people who make lists. I laughed. Where did that come from? Who knows? Old habits die hard. But as I examined it I realized it's often true. Hate may be too strong a word, but in the childish sense (I hate her!) it is true we just can't relate to others who do things differently. Much as we advocate diversity, encourage it and celebrate it, when it comes down to it, we want like-minded people to be our friends. They "understand" us, which means there's no need to justify our way of thinking or doing because they already agree.

Justification, approval, validation, acknowledgement... we long for these things... sometimes a lot. If it's in our DNA it would appear that it all goes back to that rude awakening in the garden: suddenly knowing we're naked. I wonder what would have have happened if Adam had said, "Oh my God, we're naked!" And Eve had responded, "Yes we are. It's pretty cool, isn't it? Let's go show God!"

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.

New Year's Resolutions

I made a few resolutions this year... except I didn't write them down. At my age, that could be good news or bad... if I don't write them down then I might forget them; then I might not keep them. But if I forget them, then I won't feel guilty about not keeping them.

They aren't regular resolutions anyway, so maybe it doesn't matter. As far as I can remember all my past resolutions had "to DO" somewhere in the implication: to do more exercise, to drink more water, to get to work on time... to write more letters.

I already do enough now; I even have more time to do it. What I want in the new year is a change of heart, compassion, peace of mind, mindfulness in general. I can't have those by doing.

I've never been much good at just being. For years my worth was measured by my productivity, and I got good marks most of the time. There was a certain satisfaction in getting a job done well and on time. Of course it was important not to question whether the job itself was even worth the effort. A lot of times it wasn't, but I got paid for the effort, so no complaints.

Now I don't get paid for anything and most of what I do does feel worth it. There's no more angst over wasting my talent or my time or my money. I don't have any money. In a way, life got a whole lot simpler when I took life vows.

Except most of us have experienced the annoying truth that: things that are simple are not necessarily easy. Complexity gives any measurement a sliding scale... it's easier to fudge the results or blame unforeseen parameters when results don't occur as predicted. So for me, just being could be a major flop. No time like the present to find out.

Feast of the Holy Name

And at the end of eight days, when he was circumcised, he was called Jesus, the name given by the angel before he was conceived in the womb. —Luke 2:21

For secular revelers, January 1st is a day to sleep in, to write out New Year's resolutions, to reflect on 2007 and dream in 2008.

For those of us who observe today as the Feast of the Holy Name (of Jesus), our celebrant had his usual fascinating array of historical facts as well as his dry, well-placed humor. Until 1979, when our church officially changed the title of the feast day, today was called the Feast of the Circumcision. Eight days after Christmas, as was the Jewish law, Jesus was circumcised and named, the same name that the angel spoke before his conception.

Circumcision and naming were part and parcel of each other... as Paul says in his letter to the Galatians: "God sent his son... born under the law, in order to redeem those who were under the law, so that we might receive adoption as children." In other words, the child of Bethlehem, a Jew, was subject to the same unusual covenant with God as all the other Jewish male children. It wasn't just the custom, or a matter of cleanliness; circumcision was an outward and physical sign that the Law had been observed for another generation. For some this day is marked as the day of the first blood spilt by Jesus, to be echoed thirty-three years later on the cross. First blood spilt in observance of the law, and future blood spilt to redeem us from the law.

As he preached, our celebrant tied the importance of both observances together. Names, he reminded us, can tell us what someone does or who someone is. In Jesus' case the name does both. Jesus... Greek translation of Joshua (or Yeshua) a combination of two nouns in Hebrew: God and Salvation. Not only does "Jesus Save" (which some of us are forever exclaiming) but more importantly "The Lord IS Salvation." It is his very nature. The mystery here, of course, is why?

Jesus was not white

As an artist, I have a tendency to create images of a Jesus who looks like me: white... I know better. Jesus was born a Jew, a fact many have ignored (or glossed over) in their quest to create the perfect Messiah. What does a Jewish baby look like? While he was probably not the darkest black of the Ethiopians, he was most likely a baby of color. One of my sisters called me to task for my white babies... so I went searching the internet for sources. Not too many to be found, as it turns out.

On Christmas morning we sing carols before and after breakfast, one of our traditions. There is as much energy around the impersonations for the Friendly Beasts as there is in trying to get our harmonies on key. This year our favorite camel couldn't remember her signature noise... she couldn't remember that she had always produced this camel noise for as long as I can remember... so at least five years. It was a turning point for sisters who are still in denial about the big "A" word. We muddled through. There is no turning back time, not collectively anyway. So here's a new baby, (not white) surrounded by his friendly beasts.

God's desire

In her sermon on Christmas Eve, our celebrant suggested that Christians are charged to do two things at this time of year: to return to Bethlehem, and to remember the garden. She reminded us that in the Orthodox tradition, December 24th is actually the feast day of Adam and Eve... the feast of the beginning. The Christmas tree was originally decorated with apples, a reminder of that time before time, when we lived in wholeness. Before we knew we were not good enough.

Once we knew... then the endless misunderstandings began. She painted a picture of a God who desires to be in relationship with what God has created... yet we manage to keep screwing it up. Wholeness was shattered in the original Eden, but still God did not give up.

Fast forward to Bethlehem. A radical new way to approach relationship with us... to be one of us. Like us. Ordinary. Suffering. Laughing, working, eating, drinking and eliminating... Everything that humans do, God would do too. God with us: Look at him. See ourselves. See our God.

Bethlehem today is still occupied, still unsafe for children and other living things. The names of the powerful change but their ways are still violent, fearful and deadly. And each year we remember... it doesn't have to be this way. God wants relationship with the created beings of this world. No wonder they say "Patience is a Virtue."

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.

Blessings

Hey guys! This must be the place!

Short week...

The week of Advent IV is a day and a half long this year. That's what happens when Christmas falls on Tuesday. We had our normal Monday rest day yesterday (although only a few got any rest.) Most of us were about the business of last minute Christmas preparations. Some were cooking or baking, some grocery shopping, while others attended to the assorted rest day activities for the elderly sisters.

I made a haul at the Farmer's Market... six poinsettias and two big bunches of assorted mixed Christmas boughs. We used to take the car to Staten Island for our Christmas flowers (when the budget was four times what I spent yesterday.) We no longer have the car, and are scaling down in other areas as well. It felt good to spend so little and create so much. I approach flower arranging the same way I approach cooking: collect the leftovers and see what I can make that doesn't look or taste like a rerun.

So this year we have a big basket of assorted boughs under our altar, mixed with the late-blooming herbs from our garden, holly and some sweet kale flowers. A large red velvet bow adds the color. Today we set up the creche, hang a wreath on the altar cross, and will be close to being finished.

This entire Advent has been a bit of a blur for me. I was focused on other things. The liturgical year has never quite matched my spiritual cycles anyway... except for Holy Week. But I remember some Christmases past when I never even celebrated Advent until I was taking down the tree. It's easier to celebrate subliminally now, and I recognized an odd pattern with the prayers for each particular week:

Advent I Give us grace so we can cast away the works of darkness and put on the armor of light... We can do this ourselves. We just need a little help.

Advent II Give us grace to heed the warnings (of your prophets) so we may forsake our sins... Okay, we're not getting it yet, we see that. But all we need is a little help and a reminder now and then.

Advent III Stir up your power... and with great might come among us. We are so totally blowing it, you'd better do something dramatic to get our attention.

Advent IV Purify our conscience... by your daily visitation... so your Son will find us prepared... It's all in the ordinary everyday encounters that we are sanded down to anything close to perfection. Attention to detail, acknowledging the small errors in judgement or compassion. Practice, practice, practice. Ignoring our conscience is the easy way out, but it never works for long. It's a short week to practice.

knock knock

Jesus said, "Knock and the door shall be opened..."
He didn't say it would necessarily be the exact door you knocked on. Yes. doors open, but they are not our doors... they are God's. The point is to knock. The door, any door may never open on its own.

This has been a hard lesson for me. I used to get really upset with God for offering me Door #3 when I had specifically asked for Door #1. I never got Door #1, no matter how many times I asked... demanded... bargained... begged... I would sometimes decorate Door #2 and pretend it was Door #1, but that never lasted long, either.

Door #3, now that I've trudged through it, is way cool. Exactly what I needed, wanted, longed for. Who knew?
Knock knock, who's there? God. God who? Godcha again. Hahahahaha

Amazing performance

I've attended a lot of performances of Handel's Messiah in my day... All were memorable (in their own way) but yesterday's performance at Trinity Church Wall Street stands out as the best by far. For one thing, the soloists were not over the top, being divas for their own exaltation. Their tones were pure and intensely focused, but it was the text that stood out, not operatic calisthenics. In particular the soprano who sang the final aria was awesome. Her voice soared without the gale force normally associated with those extremely high notes.

Ever since I was a teenager and was taught it was not only polite, but important to "stand up" at the first strains of the Hallelujah Chorus, I've always looked forward to that one moment when the audience rises. There's something to be said for standing up for pure joy... the physical act reinforces the emotion the music already evokes... one supports the other and as the chorus swells in volume and pitch, my heart swells as well. Who cares whether King George actually stood up? Who cares if some programs now discourage the practice? Some people want to stand; they should leave well enough alone.

I'm always a sucker for the Hallelujah Chorus, no matter how awful the choir might be. Yesterday's choir was most excellent, however, and we were there as guests of one of our celebrants. Our seats were amazing. I always wonder what people must think about a bunch of nuns in the expensive rows. Behind us, the "general seating" was packed. But the truth is, we didn't buy the tickets; people give us these things... especially at Christmas. We get grapefruits from Texas, oranges from Florida, candy and cookies, wreaths for our front door and chapel... it's a magical time of receiving for us.

The brilliant conductor had been a student of one of our founding sisters. She had encouraged his musical talent and was intensely proud of his achievements. She told me how, in the fourth grade, he would bring his compositions to her and say, "Sister, I have written you a symphony!" I sat beside her at the concert and she had brought her own dog-eared score. She followed along through the entire performance. Afterwards we went up to greet him, and he gave her a big hug and kiss.

The conductor introduced us to another well-wisher who was standing in line: a priest he had known at Trinity for many years... the same man I had known as an interim priest from my old parish in Jacksonville. Small world, isn't it?

Back in the saddle again...

These photos were actually taken this past year when we had a cookout on Pentecost Sunday. Our grill broke down (no gas) so we ended up cooking the hamburgers and hotdogs indoors. Still, they are indicative of the first place I returned last week (after all the hullabaloo over my life profession.) I was back in the saddle again and very happy to be there.

I made soups and salsas, croutons, bread sticks and used up leftovers galore. Once again, I felt at home in my own house. Thursday at the pantry was the same feeling... back where I belong, where it feels right, where I can do the most good. Sure, it was great being "Queen for a Day" but unlike Cinderella, I actually like what I do.

Today I'm making Christmas cards for several of the sisters. Stay tuned. You may get one here.

Three out of seven ain't bad

In the Life Profession ceremony the bishop doesn't lay hands on the person. That strikes me as odd, actually. We lay hands on each other for so many other important things: baptism, confirmation, weddings... you'd think a hit from the Holy Spirit would be par for the course. I'm not complaining, just wondering.

I say I'm not complaining for good reason. I've been hit with the Holy Spirit before... at my confirmation, when the bishop did lay hands on me. I opened my mouth to sing the closing hymn and out came a string of unpronounceable syllables. It was more than embarrassing; it was out of control. The residual effects weren't any better: six months of sleepless nights and cramped fingers as I poured forth an unending string of lyrics to religious folk songs. Like so many gifts from God, you sometimes have to really look for the blessing.

For people who thrive on roller coasters an all-expense paid trip to an amusement park would be a great gift. Spiritual roller coasters are just as exciting, unnerving, gut-wrenching and vomit-producing as the physical ones... When I was a kid my cousin would con me into going on those rides and I've done a few with my sons, but I can't stomach the sensation.

The "seven-fold" gifts of the Holy Spirit are confusing. The terminology has changed a bit from the early translations, but the content is in tact. Since we are the Community of the Holy Spirit, we take these gifts pretty seriously. Here's the run-down:

1. Wisdom: not regular wisdom, or street smarts, as in she's a wise old bird... but holy wisdom, divine light of the soul. When you have this gift you can actually see and savor God's light in everything. (I imagine auras around trees and people... that kind of thing.) I don't seem to have this gift. I would love to see auras but I don't.

2. Understanding: or another good word would be discernment. I'm pretty sure I have a smidgen of this.

3. Counsel: that would be encouragement, or spiritual tact... it helps you see Christ in each other, something we give lip service to most of the time. I know people who have this gift. They are amazing.

4. Ghostly strength: not like superman or vampires... this refers to passion and perseverance. it would be a real good quality to have as a monastic, considering the monotony of the life. I didn't get that one either.

5. Knowledge: again, not book learning, but insight... the ability to "get" the external truths. I figure I have some of this one.

6. Godliness: or piety. You can stop laughing. I know this one passed me by.

7. Holy Fear: yet another misnomer, I think. Fear in this case means awe. And I am definitely in awe in the presence of the holy.

Remember the TV show Star Trek Voyager? The Borg was called Seven-of-Nine. I could call myself "Three-of-Seven" but why limit my options? There's always the possibility I'll get some more presents along the way.

highlights

I gave a generalized (admittedly muddled) synopsis in my first post as a life professed sister, so now I'm remembering the highlights...

1. I already mentioned the exchange with the guy in the mosaic. No need for more detail there.
2. I knew my grandchildren had been asked to carry the elements up to the altar at the end of the offertory. I expected the two older ones, but lo and behold, here they came all three... the center child Gabriel is only three years old and he was carrying the huge silver bowl-full of wafers. So precious and tiny between the other two, and so solemn and careful. They were delightful! Most everyone loves a toddler and this was no exception.
3. I was one of the chalice bearers. Giving the wine to so many people who knew me and loved me and were celebrating with me was amazing. And very humbling. Funny aside... two toddlers of the Roman Catholic faith (who shall remain nameless) received their First Holy Communion (bread only) at the hands of an Episcopal bishop. So don't tell their parish priests!
4. My sisters' response to my family (and my family's response to my sisters) was phenomenal. They were so loving and welcoming and engaged with each other. I think that means both my sons will return with everyone in tow next time.
5. Having a drink in a bar (in habit) with my two sons after everyone else had crashed... priceless.

synopsis

I bet people who read my blog are expecting some kind of status report. (I don't know that, of course. I just imagine that after all the build up and the drama around the discernment and preparation, they'd want something for closure. I imagine questions like "What was it like? Was it wonderful? How do you feel?"

And without a doubt the disappointing (yet truthful) answers will be... "It was okay. I guess it went well. I'm glad it's over. I really can't remember a lot." What I do remember comes in snatches... a glimpse of something here, a conversation there. But for those of you who'd like to have more than that... here's what I can remember:

I got shooed out of the kitchen right after breakfast because the assembly line for plattering the little party sandwiches was in place. My three friends from out of town were helping. My family took off for Central Park to tire out the kids so they'd behave during the ceremony. I got dressed. At the last minute, I decided to change from the dressy shoes to the comfortable ones; then decided they needed a polish. Got black shoe polish under my fingernails. Spent fifteen minutes scrubbing. When it was time to leave, I rode with the three older sisters in the Access-a-ride van. (Our driver must have wanted to be a fireman when he grew up because he whipped around corners like he was going to one.) I remember thinking "I need to throw up now."

Most of the pre-service activities are a blur. I remember trying to knit, trying to ground; that was hopeless. I was somewhere up in the dome. A sister from another community, who was recently life professed, assured me that I would be calm. (She didn't have to sing a solo at her profession.)

The processional hymn (St. Patrick's Breastplate) was grand, but we could have used a few more people in the procession to make it come out right... All the hymns were wonderful, (well duh, I picked them) but especially the Offertory anthem, which was a piece our own Sr. Élise had written. St. Bart's choir did a magnificent job, as did the organist and choirmaster. When I look back on it like this, I realize just how many people I still have to say thank you to.

As the hymn "Come Holy Ghost" was being sung I was gazing straight up into the mosaic of the Transfiguration, focusing on the central figure. Of course it's a rendering of Jesus with his arms out to God, but just then it looked like Jesus with his arms out to me. We had a brief moment... me and the guy in the mosaic. That's probably when I actually said yes, although there were a series of questions and answers I rattled through before it was over. My singing was not so hot. I got through it without a mortifying giggling fit, that's the best I can say. The sermon was funny and pretty much over the top. I remember thinking I wonder who he's talking about, because it can't be me.

What I remember most was the sea of faces from my past... members of the Cursillo community, friends from other religious orders, celebrants who serve at our altar, parishioners from St. Bart's, people I used to work with... my family... each group was represented. I was handed cards and gifts and flowers... I can't remember who gave me what if a card wasn't attached.

I had dinner afterwards with my family and out of town guests and only then did I begin to return to my body. The amount of psychic and physical energy an event like this takes is unbelievable. I think I like being a guest at someone else's event way better than at my own. (Good thing I only have to do it once.)

omens

I think we are a superstitious species. Maybe it comes from being self-aware, maybe from not being self-aware enough. Whatever the reason, looking long and hard for meaning can be tiring work. Shortcuts help. I think superstitions fall into that category. Example: I actually slept well last night. On the eve of this auspicious day, that's a good sign. Not only did it mean I am functional already (at 5:00 am) but that I was able to drag my sorry butt out of bed in time to make a batch of almond scones for my sisters, family and friends. What better way to start a life of service than to serve? Except I'm not exactly starting a life of service... I am dedicating myself to a life of service. All that means is I can give myself less slack if I oversleep. Or something.

I think I'm out of silence. (Not totally sure about this... but one of my sisters spoke to me this morning.) My "silent retreat" sign is in my pocket, just in case. Now that I can talk, I have very little to say. Funny how that works. It's almost time for Morning Prayer. If I can sing, maybe it will be another good sign for later this afternoon. If not, well... nobody's perfect.

Here's the recipe for almond scones:

3 cups flour
3 tsp baking powder
3/4 tsp baking soda
3/8 tsp salt
6 TBSP sugar
8 TBSP canola oil
15 TBSP buttermilk
3 tsp almond flavoring
1/2 cup sliced almonds

Whisk all dry ingredients til blended. Add canola oil and mix with a fork (then finish with your fingers) until mixture resembles coarse meal. Stir in almonds, buttermilk, and flavoring. (If I don't have any on hand, I make my own buttermilk from yogurt, milk and a dash of vinegar.) The mixture will be sticky but not runny.
Drop spoonfuls onto baking pan and flatten slightly. Brush with buttermilk and add a few more almonds on top of each.
Bake at 400 degrees for 15-18 minutes, until lightly browned. Makes 18-20 scones

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.

It blurs from the edges in...

My past several (few that seem like several) days have blended into each other so much I have to check the calendar to make sure I know when now is. Silent retreats can produce an altered state, much like labyrinths or isolation tanks or drugs. For me, time is the most deeply affected... my sense of it, anyway.

When the daily structure is removed, my internal rhythm makes its own will evident. I recognized this before when I was unemployed... I took naps in the afternoon and stayed up much later than normal. Some of this pattern has surfaced again because my room is so cold. I make my bed in the morning, but am back under the covers before noon. I read, knit, read some more... and eventually fall asleep. I have vivid dreams I don't remember. I leave my room only on the briefest of forays... to eat, dump the trash, work on the creche pieces down in the art room. I went outside for a walk the other day and almost froze to death, nothing I care to repeat anytime soon.

Mine is a corner room on the fifth floor. I hear the wind whipping over the roof above, and two of my walls face the outside. My window is large and in other seasons lets in a golden light. In winter the light is gray and cold. The other day (which one?) I remembered a turret room in a house I lived in as a teenager. I appropriated that turret room one fall and hauled my desk up there to be a writer, to live like Jo March in Little Women. I had a fountain pen that leaked and left my fingers black just like hers. I did well in my little attic garret until winter came. The same howling wind and freezing windows drove me back downstairs to the relative warmth of civilization. So much for fantasies.

I've finished reading The Secret Magdalene by Ki Longfellow, yet another take on who Mary Magdalene might have been. Now that the Da Vinci Code's uproar has abated, stories are coming out of the woodwork that publishers would have rejected as unthinkable before Dan Brown's smashing success.

The truth is, they are all dead... all those apostles and disciples and early followers of Christ. We have no clue who they really were or what they truly witnessed or believed. We have only our own relationship with our creator, whoever or whatever that may mean to us in this time and this place. Who we choose to be and with whom and by what power will probably also be misrepresented by future generations. So what is important is now. Now, as I am experiencing it, blurs from the edges in. It's quite beautiful.

in silence I am...

Day 1:
sleep til 10:00, coffee, refill water bottle, knit.

An abundant supply of wine and an inadequate supply of food from the Bishop's installation the previous evening have left me with a massive headache on my first morning in silence. To my credit I did not moan (or swear) aloud, although no one would hear me... there are two thick doors separating me from my sisters this week. Of course I can still prowl the halls and go about the few duties left to me, but I am like a wraith that nobody sees.

I have started knitting a hat and scarf for the Ecclesia Christmas knitting project... warm winter garments for the homeless congregation they minister to in Madison Square Park. I am following the pattern to the letter, but my hat, only half done, seems huge. It might fit a giant. It is red... red, the color of martyrdom, of the Holy Spirit, of Christmas. As I knit, I pray. I pray for the woman I met at the reception, whom I have met at other receptions. She wears her judgment about her shoulders like a worn out mink. She is not happy with her parish priest and singles me out to express her frustration. I cannot help her, because I do not agree with her assessment of her priest. Still I can listen. I pray for them both.

2:00 pm
I sneak down to the kitchen and fix a sandwich. I read from Matthew Fox's The Coming of the Cosmic Christ. I have tried to read this before, but it is densely packed with imagery that always sends me off on my own tangents. Then I forget to come back to the book. This happens again as I read about the concept of "creation mystics".

3:30 pm
I unpack all the beautiful creche pieces from their swaddling blankets underneath the altar. One by one I transport them to the art room downstairs where I will (yet again) mix Sr. Lucia's ancient dry pigments with polymer medium and touch up all the nicks and chips. This too is another of my retreat projects.

4:30 pm
I take a shower.
I knit. Pray. Think. Knit. I attend Evening Prayer, supper alone in the small refectory.
I knit, think, read, journal, sleep...

born for crisis

My room looks like a tornado hit. My bed is piled high with packing boxes (no, I am not packing) and my floor space is littered with possible projects for the coming week. You'd think I'd want to start my quiet week of prayer and reflection with a neat room, an orderly place to commune with God. I am, in general, a tidy person.

But no. I go through phases of chaos and the need for disorder; and this is one of those phases.

Today I must accomplish a number of things that require me to speak. I must get a decent haircut. (I always cut my own bangs and they are always crooked.) So I shall go to the little place around the corner, where all the sisters go... and get a real hairdresser to trim my split ends and even up the fringe above my eyebrows. A last minute flurry of emails to possible celebrants will orbit cyberspace, and there is a bishop's installation I must attend this evening. My room will only get messier as the day progresses, because I am preparing for crisis... an unknown crisis.

It's ironic that this Sunday's readings will address this niggling fact of our existence... we can plan, but never really know the future. I was reminded this morning of Paul Tillich's words: that the most painful human reality is that we don't know, yet must choose. As I prepare to prepare... for the choice I have made, those thoughts will be part of what I ponder. I am sixty-one. I have possibly fifteen to twenty years left to spend here, but maybe I will be diagnosed with cancer and be dead in six months. I don't know. Only God knows. So the choices are iffy. My community may change dramatically over the next several years. Many of our sisters are already in their eighties. What am I signing on for that I haven't anticipated?

But those are not the things I worry about. I have thrived on change all my life. It is the sameness of this life that scares me. But more than that, it is my ability to go deeper into the mystery that I suspect. Chaos is where the creative spark takes shape. I have simulated chaos by emptying the closet and unpacking boxes. By the end of the week of silence I will have examined everything and rearranged all the molecules... to better suit the evolving nature of this decision.

Wish me luck. And grace.

the opposite of sin

Yesterday we attended Madeleine L'Engle's memorial service at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine. Most of the sisters from our house were there; she was a beloved friend and Associate of our community, and she often gave workshops and lectures to benefit the community's financial situation. For a couple of the sisters that friendship spanned almost fifty years, and they were eager to be there, even if it meant taking a taxi for a block and a half. The service was lovely and well-attended. The sermon preached was a loving tribute, and a reading from Walking on Water, her book that explores the relationship between art and faith, brought her spirit into the present, even though her mortal body now rests in the cathedral columbarium.

As we walked (slowly) back home from the reception, one sister told me that she and Madeleine were the same age. Not true. Madeleine would have been 89 today and my sister is only 86. (Only 86!) At that age, who can quibble? Would that I could have the vertical relationship with God that my sister has. My relationship is much more untidy. My faith comes in fits and starts. But just as Madeleine stretched my mind and my writing skills, my sister stretches my spirituality.

As Madeleine said, "The paradox of faith lies on the other side of reason." Another quote (that will give me plenty to think about on my long retreat) was: "The opposite of sin is faith, not virtue." How well she understood the paradox of opposites, as well as the paradox of faith.

Holding out...

Jesus said, "But about that day and hour no one knows, neither the angels of heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father."
—Luke 24.36

One of the more enigmatic statements of Jesus that has always stirred my sense of mystery... As our religion has evolved through the centuries, we have attributed a lot of talent, knowledge and identity to the One we call the Son of God. Jesus, on the other hand, rarely tooted his own horn, went to great lengths to make his disciples understand that all of God's children are beloved, and in this case, made it clear he himself had no clue about when the "end of time" would come.

God (the Father) was holding out? On one of the three persons of the Trinity? And what about the Holy Spirit? Did that One know? Or was it simply in mortal form that Jesus had forgotten everything he knew before birth? That in leaving his God status behind, he was forced to become "as one of us"... dull, stupid, bound by human form and appetites?

I have often had lucid dreams of being with God before my own birth, mapping out the challenges, the pieces of experience and wisdom I was to learn in my incarnation. I don't know if I believe in reincarnation or not, but I don't disbelieve. I hear conversations in my head... "and you will have intelligence and talent. That will be one of your challenges... to treat gently and with compassion those who do not see clearly the way you do." Obviously I have a long way to go on that one. I have never suffered fools gently.

Yet there are those who think believing in God is foolish. Perhaps they must suffer me. It comes back to the constant theme: we are all in this together. No one gets in or back (to heaven) until we all get in. Everything is one and the One is everything. Except for that Father figure. He's holding out. Mysterious, huh?

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.

mish mash

Today's lessons: Isaiah: ...the former things will not be remembered
They won't? But that's one of the consolations we have as mortals... memory. And reason. Will reason be gone too?

Thessalonians: ...do not be weary in doing good
Okay, I needed to hear that. But you realize, of course, how wearying all this can be... Of course you do. Yes. I will try not to be weary.

My brain was already moving lickety split from the first two lessons, when the celebrant stood up to read the Gospel.
Her sermon focused on the Collect for this Sunday as it speaks specifically to Scripture. She thought that the lessons today point this out very well... that there was no overarching theme that we could easily summarize with these three lessons. She went on to talk about the danger in quoting scripture out of context, or certain passages selectively... the danger so evident in our church today where specific verses are used to beat people over the head, exclude them from the Body of Christ. Her point, reinforced in the prayer was this: Scripture should enlighten and transform, not be used as a weapon.

My mind raced again... a tool for nourishment not a weapon for battle... they shall beat their swords into plowshares. Get it? She went on to give the example from Thessalonians that "those who do not work shall not eat", and countered it with "consider the lillies of the field", reiterating her point about selective passages.

I immediately thought Bible Jeopardy! One team answers with a verse and the other team contradicts with another verse. If Jesus is supposed to have said it then that answer trumps what Paul said. if God is supposed to have said it, that trumps everything... There are some real possibilities here, don'tcha think? Maybe a cartoon?

Craft Meme

Pat tagged me. She was so polite about it, emailing me first to ask permission. I swore off memes for 2007, but it's almost over and I fudged once or twice before anyway... so here you go:

1. When did you start and make craft?
Probably in first grade. My teacher had a whole clay village set up for us to play with, once we'd completed our "desk work" and were waiting for others to finish. I remember liking the smell of the modeling clay, and enjoyed making little people to populate the town. Oddly enough, when I grew older I had no talent for pottery or ceramics, or anything else three-dimensional. (That was a bummer because I had tons of ideas.)

2. Why did you start creating?
It was fun. I was good at it. (And I was worthless at sports.)

3. Why do you create?
Because it's fun. And I'm good at it.
Seriously, when I go into creative mode, I tap into an energy and an engagement (with the project) that is exciting and satisfying. One spark of inspiration becomes a catalyst for more creative ideas and some kind of chain reaction happens. I have the ability to harness it, but not control it. I usually have more ideas than the skill to execute them. When I can add skill I can add product (if you will), but I'm also undisciplined and get bored if the skill is too hard to master.

4. What do you create?
sacred artwork (manipulated digital imagery)
greeting cards
logos, newsletters, business cards, brochures, marketing materials
a blog
cartoons
food that is attractive and tastes good
the occasional poem

5. How has this changed since you began crafting?
I started out with arts and crafts, forever the love of my life. I've dabbled in most of the classic artsy-craftsy stuff: batik, macrame, ceramics, basket weaving... but all those activities require supplies, the money to buy them and the space to store them. I've cut back on anything that takes up a lot of room. I have a laptop and a decent printer and only keep enough paper stock on hand for current projects. I also have a spiral binding machine, so I can make little books out of my cartoons and artwork... it all comes back to arts and crafts.

I think I'm supposed to tag someone. Tag. You're it!

Hindsight

Luke 20: 27-38

Today our celebrant took a different slant on the lesson from Luke's Gospel: the familiar story of the Sadducees questioning Jesus about a woman who had outlived seven brothers, each one having been her husband. So... they asked, at the resurrection, who's wife would she be?

It was in the answer, quoted from the Torah, she said, that Jesus demonstrated his brilliance and his knowledge of God, and of the difficult understanding of resurrection. "I am the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob" God told Moses. I AM. Not I was, because now, of course, they are dead.

This concept of resurrection rests in the present, in the now, not in the future of generations of children to carry your DNA forward, not in a future judgment day when all hell will break loose and you will go either to eternal bliss or to eternal damnation... but here and now, in this very present moment where God lives, whether we can see signs of His blessing or not. In an alternate reading for today, Job claims that exact concept for himself, in spite of everything he has lost. For I know that my redeemer lives... whom I shall see on my side...

The charge, then, was to look for blessing when there is no sign of blessing, to believe in the blessing and claim it, declare it, in the present moment. I have been struggling with this problem on the shallowest of levels these past few days. By all outward appearances nothing was moving forward. It was only after I surrendered my desperate need to know the concrete plans for my future that I was told the plans had, in fact, been made and all was well.

Hindsight, as they say, has twenty-twenty vision.

addendum

The invitations are mailed.
I have readings, and hymns.
We're back on track until the next train wreck... :)

All shall be well...

Spirituality begins with acceptance. In other words, I begin here. In this moment. I am not a pawn or victim or puppet. And in beginning here, I accept my imperfection–my brokenness, my divided and fractured being… That here, even with the untidy parts, the untidy emotions, I can embrace the Sacrament of the blessed present. . ..in this conversation, this conundrum, this moment of grace, this serendipity, this problem. —Terry Hershey

All shall be well. And if not, we keep on keepin' on. I am in retreat. It is a very nice place to be.

Nunzilla

I once saw some sort of reality TV show that featured brides who were all losing it... "Bridezilla" I think it was called. Some had domineering mothers, others had incompetent caterers or the flowers were all wrong, or the dress didn't fit. Others were just prone to pre-wedding jitters and took it out on whoever happened to be in the line of fire. It wasn't pretty.

I feel like I'm behaving like Nunzilla today. I'm not a bride; this isn't my wedding, exactly, but everyone keeps telling me it is supposed to be the important day in my life as a sister. Although the date is exactly four weeks away, the official invitations have not yet been mailed. We are waiting for stamps.

I had an appointment to meet with the organist to plan music today, but that couldn't happen. I'm supposed to deliver the contents of the program to the church sometime soon... but the contents have not been decided upon. In this case, my mother is a committee. Committees don't decide anything without a conference call. Scheduling a conference call is next to impossible when those who must conference wear so many hats they barely have time to change them. It is nobody's fault. It simply is.

Knowing that my sisters are already under enough stress, I have been trying to move things along on my own... but that is easily taken as wanting to control everything. The fact that I can be/have been known to be a control freak does nothing to help that stereotype.

Because I am frustrated, I am to the point of saying... "Fine. You figure out what you want me to do, when you want me to do it, and I'll just show up and stand where I'm supposed to, say what I'm supposed to, and we can get this whole thing over with."

Except of course I don't really mean that. I want the ceremony to be lovely, symbolic of more than my giving up out of frustration or disgust. I want it to mean something profound to me and to the people who are attending because they support this choice. At the same time, I must come to grips with the reality of the life I am asking to lead... I will not be in control of much of it; I will be expected to submit obediently to a lot of things I don't especially like or disagree with. I'll have less leverage as a professed sister than I have now. The simple irony of that makes me smile.

Maybe I just need to lower my expectations.

What's this about?

It's been a long time since I've had a wandering dream. Usually it starts out the same... I'm on my way to attend some important event, always a little late, and take what looks like a short cut, only to end up somewhere way out of my way. The more I look for someplace familiar to begin retracing steps, the more difficult the journey, the more lost I become.

This morning's dream started out in a basement that supposedly led to an underground passageway that led to another building... but I got lost. I came out too early and was in a backyard/alley. Of course, instead of turning back then, I decided to keep going, headed in what I thought was the right direction. There is a funny "Bert and I" joke: You can't get there from here.

I was in the country at one point, on a college campus, another time I thought I'd found a route and almost fell off a cliff. I hopped some sort of open air train and landed out in the Bronx, where (in my dream) the subways didn't even run.

I was in habit, too. Is that significant? It was certainly significant when I was in a huge garage full of forklifts and dump trucks, and I lifted up a floor-to-ceiling doorway to get out and got grease all over me.

I was riding another train and two women were discussing nuns in habit. One of them said, "Most of the Catholics don't even wear habits, now, and they look terrible." The woman standing next to her (and me) said, "Well those that do, don't look any better." I hadn't looked in the mirror since early morning, and I imagined I was a disheveled mess.

At one point, I decided to try to enjoy being lost, to look for something interesting, to take my own advice to a directee, and "stay present to the moment." It lasted a few minutes before I was searching again.

Eventually I woke up. Since we just lost daylight savings, it was still early enough to feel good about not wasting my (somewhat) day off. I hadn't panicked or cried in this dream, but I was ready for it to be over. Waking up resolved nothing... Just left me wondering "What's this about?!?"

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.

Feast of All Souls

I've said this before and I'm saying it again...

changing the NAME of today's feast day from All Souls to The Faithful Departed, is another example of insufferable arrogance and prejudice. Originally "the faithful departed" was a subtitle. Those in the know, knew they were praying for people who had remained true to the faith, but it also gave anyone the freedom to pray for those souls not exactly deemed in favor with the current prevailing tides.

Heretics have always been proclaimed from the rooftops by others with more narrow views of the dogma. Innocent wise women were condemned as witches; babies born out of wedlock, or who had died before baptism, were not buried in holy ground. It seems we have never agreed on who is worthy or holy enough to enter the kingdom of heaven. Perhaps a more appropriate prayer would be: God help us all.

Don't we have enough to condemn us already without turning a day of solemn prayer for the human race into another way to exclude those we don't think qualify? Give me a break!

end of rant.

my favorite Halloween picture

Happy Halloween to All

Luke 18:10-14

Two men went up into to the temple to pray...
Jack and Jill went up the hill.
One went home to his house justified...
Jack fell down and broke his crown.

It's me, it's me it's me, oh Lord,
Standin' in the need of prayer.

I have been feeling grouchy and irritable... smack dab on the heels of feeling at peace and in love with the world. What's with that? I was telling a sister yesterday, "I'd blame it on PMS, except I don't have any hormones."

Our celebrant this morning talked about the fallen state of our humanity. I've often thought it was a set-up, this fall of humanity... human nature begs us to do whatever is forbidden, even when we know better, have been there/done that, and know it will only lead to pain and heartbreak. He said, "In a world where there is no sin, there is no need for redemption... Not because we deserve it, but by God's grace."

Redemption for Christians, is the willing sacrifice of Jesus on the cross. God Himself atoning for our failure. Yet who created us? Who gave us free will and a natural tendency to rebel? The buck stops there. The irony, of course, is that God proved it could be done, obedience to God's will, by setting his own example: fully human, with the same free choices that the rest of us have. Jesus didn't like it any better than we do. He begged not to have to die by crucifixion, and yet, did nothing to save himself. On the cross he must have wondered if it had even been worth it... had God abandoned him after all?

Another irony is, that as depressing as this story sounds, it still gives me comfort and purpose. I was thinking of the girdle cord I will receive when I am life professed. I was looking at the one hanging from my sister's waist and thought: that would make a good noose.

Freedom and bondage, obedience and free will, life and death... they are not exactly opposites after all, even though we may wish to view them that way. Our eyesight is too one-dimensional in this respect. As Paul said to the Corinthians, "We see though a glass darkly..."

bits and pieces

First of all... SAVE THE DATE:
December 8th — afternoon (Probably threeish) I will make my life profession at St. Bartholomew's Church in NYC. More details will be vouchsafed.

It's especially fitting that this ceremony will take place at St. Bart's: when I moved to New York from Jacksonville, Florida, St. Bart's was the parish I joined. It was where I pushed my comfort zone off the map by volunteering in their homeless shelter, where I finally said "Yes, I'll do Cursillo", which led to my volunteering at the breakfast feeding program. It was where Sr. Mary Lois, OHC, was life professed in a public ceremony I attended... and realized (duh) for the first time, that women actually choose this life, it's not foisted on them as an also-ran. (You know what I mean... you can't be a doctor so you'll be a nurse, you can't be a priest, so you'll be a nun.) As a post WWII baby, that mentality still sticks with me, even though I have been one of the ones to break the mold.

I still volunteer at St. Bart's on Thursdays, and they were gracious enough to extend the offer. It's a beautiful place, a big place, so everyone who wants to come, can fit.

Second of all: My friend pat sent this cute cartoon:

Recently we had someone staying with us who is exploring whether (or not) she might have a vocation, and whether (or not) this is the community to test that call.

I never thought I had a vocation. But I definitely felt led to this community. One of my first dreams after moving in was of hearing a commotion in our back garden... my ex-husband had rented a backhoe and was trying to dig through the building to "rescue " me.

Since then I've had a number of dreams, and he and I have had a number of discussions about the future... whether there would be a future described as "ours" or if mine would be here. God has made it clear on so many levels that this is it.

So... against all odds, that's what I'm doing on the 8th of December. If you're free that afternoon, you're invited.

What would it take?

I was dreaming... on days when I'm able to get up, go to the bathroom, and go back to bed, I dream. I was at some kind of retreat or conference centered on a tragedy or disaster somewhere in Africa. There was a map of that country with outlines showing the region that had been affected. Whatever it was, it was pretty huge. (Take that outline and superimpose it on a map of our country, I didn't think that then, but I'm thinking it now.)

We, the participants, were about six or so. We had traveled in a panelled van to some remote lodge in the woods. I had joined at the last minute, not knowing exactly what we were doing, thinking "field trip" I guess. Actually there was someone else on the trip I wanted to get to know better. The facilitator had made a few presentations and was now working the room, moving from one of us to another. We chatted for a minute; I realized I had already seen at least part of the movie he was going to show next. I told him I had not actually seen the entire thing. (I had been bored.)

He lowered his gaze and asked, "So what would it take for you to get serious about this issue?"

After dinner, we were each asked to stand up on stage and speak to the others about what we had learned and what we planned to do. My mouth was still full of food as I made my way up to the microphone. I had no clue what I would say. But at the mike, I had one of those moments. I swallowed the last of my mouthful and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. I wanted to dance it, what I felt in that moment, but I only twirled once. I was on stage in front of a group of serious people finishing up their very sumptuous meal. All before me had given little speeches about how they were either writing a check that evening or were going back to their parishes to drum up money for the cause.

I spoke my truth... to his question to me, to not really being able to relate, to having enough on my hands as it was, to being a nun with no money, to my prejudices and fears, to my inability to feel their emergency, and my inability to do anything about it from only a sense of duty.

What would it take? It would take being there. It would take being kidnapped, set down in the middle of the crisis, with no way to escape. My present is my reality. My sisters' needs are my concern. I woke up with all this in my mind. Dark shadows of global crises and my ability to focus only locally.

itching for the myths

2 Timothy 3: 13-4

I am the "mass reader" this week. That means I read the lessons, lead the psalm and the prayers of the people. The Gospel did practically nothing for me... I'm not especially fond of the parables where Jesus implies that only by being the squeaky wheel will you get results. In this world, maybe... but with God too?

But Paul's letter to Timothy hit home: Evil people and impostors will flourish. They will deceive others and will themselves be deceived. But as for you, continue in what you have learned and firmly believed, knowing from whom you learned it, and how from childhood you have known the sacred writings that are able to instruct you for salvation from faith in Christ Jesus. All Scripture is inspired by God and is useful to teach us what is true and to make us realize what is wrong in our lives. It corrects us when we are wrong and teaches us to do what is right. God uses it to prepare and equip his people to do every good work. In the presence of God and of Christ Jesus... I give you this charge: Preach the Word; be persistent whether the time is favorable or unfavorable; correct, rebuke and encourage—with great patience and careful instruction. For the time will come when men will not put up with sound doctrine. Instead, to suit their own desires, they will gather around them a great number of teachers to say what their itching ears want to hear. They will turn their ears away from the truth and turn aside to myths. But you, keep your head in all situations, endure hardship, do the work of an evangelist, discharge all the duties of your ministry.

Our celebrant gave an excellent sermon on the temptation to think we know it all, and therefore to be righteously justified in proclaiming our own agenda. He has a unique humility (not often found in very many priests) and used himself as an example.

I thought about persistence and patience. I thought to myself: "Impossible." When I am persistent, people just think I'm a pain in the kabotza. When I am patient, they ignore me and figure everything is all right. How do you in fact, correct, rebuke and encourage... all in the same breath? But the stakes are too high if you do not even try.

All Scripture... is useful to teach us... what is wrong in our lives. There's a lot that's wrong in our lives right now. And I see myself and those around me itching for the myths we'd rather hear.

complaint department

Complaining is the pressure valve of the powerless. In themselves, our complaints don't mean much. Answer one, and another will appear. The specifics are just an opening to vent. The deeper issue is having little or no power in a world where power seems to be everything.
—Tom Ehrich

When I read this the other day I had just finished complaining about something. It made me laugh, but more than that, it stopped me in my tracks and made me think. He's right of course. About all of it... that it generally does no good, that I use it as an internal release valve when things aren't as I think they should be. While whatever it is may not necessarily be my fault, I'm still upset.

There were a few cracks on the past Cursillo weekend and things fell through. I was doing my best not to complain; after all, I was supposed to be offering spiritual direction, not bitching about somebody else's lack of attention to detail. But the strain of not complaining was as great as the problems themselves. I recognized my own tendency (need) to vent.

How do we change this? Putting a lid on it only builds the pressure. Accepting everything as life the way it is, seems too passive. My way of dealing has often been: vent/apologize... vent again. It keeps me sane but not much changes.

Where are the nine?

Luke 17: 11-19 (again)
I remember today's lesson; I blogged about it last November, so when today's celebrant began his sermon, I thought to myself... "I wonder if he read my blog?"

Talk about "Save me, Lord, from presumptuous sins."

He started out with the same premise, that the nine were off doing exactly what Jesus had told them to do, heading for the temple to show themselves to the priests, but that was where the similarity ended. Our celebrant teaches at General Seminary, and has for years... his take on this Gospel would be more thorough, more thoughtful, with a whole lot more to walk away with and think about.

He told a story about a monk who was working in the monastery garden when Jesus appeared. At the same moment, the chapel bell started ringing, calling the monk to the Daily Office. What to do? Here was Jesus, smack dab in front of him, yet the bell was insistent... come and pray. So he went and prayed. When chapel was over, he came running back to the garden and was (probably surprised) delighted to see that Jesus was standing there waiting for him. Jesus told him, "If you had not been obedient to your obligation to pray, I would not have waited."

Ouch! How many times have I skipped one of the Offices because something was more pressing? And what could be more pressing than Jesus in the flesh, standing right in front of me? From my perspective, that would certainly supersede any prayer requirements.

But wait, there's more. Our priest went on to explore the vow of obedience in both of these stories, with examples from secular life as well. The point he made, was to look for the benefit. In the choice between keeping and breaking the rules, in following or disregarding a command... ask yourself who will be served? If it's for your own benefit or convenience that you break the rules, then that is sin. If you have nothing to gain, in fact something to lose, by breaking the rules, but someone other than yourself will be served... then that is when breaking, not keeping would be the appropriate thing to do.

I couldn't help but put myself in the place of that poor monk. Would I have gone to chapel? I think not. I like to think I might have said, "Jesus, the chapel bell is ringing, would you like to come along?" But I'm kidding myself. I would have stayed in the garden, made a picnic, asked forgiveness, created a party. The bridegroom was here and I would not have left him waiting among the cabbages.

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.

Nun's Night Out (Restaurant Review [rant])

In keeping with my "day off" mentality yesterday, I decided to go out for supper, all by myself. I passed up the usual suspects in favor of a restaurant with a tablecloth, a wine list, and privacy. I ordered two appetizers instead of an entree; both were adequate, but nothing to write home about. I was anticipating the dessert menu.

Seems to me if you name a dessert after your restaurant it ought to be spectacular. I ordered the 107 Tulipe, a concoction of vanilla bean ice cream with raspberry sauce and whipped cream served in a "delicate almond tulip shell." Now it's pretty difficult to ruin vanilla bean ice cream, and to be fair, the raspberry sauce was appropriately tart and raspberry flavored, but the "delicate shell" was hard as a rock and had not the slightest bit of almond flavor. It tasted like they had deep fried it so many times (in anticipation of someone ordering it) that the fry oil had obliterated any trace of almond or delicateness. Maybe I was supposed to look at it instead of trying to eat it, but if you advertise edible, it ought to be edible.

I had also ordered a cup of coffee. Do they not teach in cooking school that once a pot sits longer than an hour on the burner the chemical composition changes? Caffeine flavored sludge would be a more accurate menu description. My waiter was pleasant but not especially attentive. Someone else asked if I needed anything, gave me bread and refilled my water. He did show up with the check, and I had an unexpected surprise... a 20% discount for being an "early bird". Okay, so that almost covered the tulipe shell. I forked over my 20% as his tip. As mediocre as the food or service may be, I know how little these guys are paid. (I did my fair share of waitressing in my younger years.) But next time I'm going back to Subway.