Unblocked. . .

All it took for me to clam up and not be able to write for a few weeks was a friend's comment. A former nun in the same convent, she reacted to my memoirs by asking me why in the world I wanted to go digging around through the dregs of my convent past. Her accusation that I failed to portray events the way they actually happened bothered me most. Instead of defending myself, I shut down and pulled away from her. I felt betrayed and stopped writing.

Later, I wished I had simply told her that my writing is--and can only ever be--my own version of what happened in my nineteen years as a nun. Not one of the nearly two hundred women there had the same experience. Though we were there together and were subjected to the same treatment, we each reacted differently.

My book is my viewpoint--and very much my own truth.

I have to believe in my own self and my own truth. So now I climb upward and onward once again. Even though it sometimes seems I'll never get there, I'm determined to reach the summit.

Day of the Dead

Day of the Dead

I borrowed the image from Wikipedia, and couldn't help making the following comparison. . .

As a nun. . . . I was Bride of Christ.

a skeletal bride

outfitted in bridal regalia,
while dead inside.

Betrothed to an invisible groom

I was sacrificial virgin, 

offered to appease the supreme
Male-in-the-Sky. 

I played the part well. . .
one of the walking dead.

  

Wore a smile full of teeth
 and gazed at the world
through a pair of
empty-socket-ed
eyes. 

She Nose

Not knowing,

yet fully balanced,

she may or may not

Be.

She sits on the edge of his nose.

Who could she 

Be. . .

who sits so

comp . fort . a . blee?

Does she even care,

and

if she does

who is she?

I am Enough

My current petty struggle with my partner is nothing other than the familiar go ‘round I seem to reach with each of my long term commitments: my former husband, my last partner, and my present beloved. It always comes down to my expecting them to fill up the needy places inside me. I expect some One person to love and accept those things about me that even I have trouble liking about me. It brings out my sometimes-feelings-of-not-having-enough from someone. Not enough time for me; not enough understanding; not enough fill in the blank.
 

 At such times, I seek elsewhere for whatever will make up for this lack. A good book, a tasty sweet, a walk along the river, time with my cats, an exchange with a friend, writing, or creating a piece of art. Anything that might temporarily plug up the hole.

Eventually it all gets resolved.

I find what I’m ultimately looking for, but have forgotten. . .

a bit of calm and unexpected self-acceptance.

A new insight.

A sense of fulfillment.

I reclaim my place of knowing it is only I who can find the solution. And I turn back in the direction of happiness. I allow the light. Open to hope.

It’s taken a lifetime worth of effort to learn this. Thanks to those I have loved and who have loved me in return, I have finally come to accept that I must be my own best friend.

Now, finally, I can look in the mirror, smile, and say to those blue eyes looking back at me. . .what a wonder filled being I am.

Gift of Hummingbird

I must be spending too much time "back in the convent", because I've been on the edge of depression the past few weeks. Digging into the past has brought up a few of my shadows. Darkness that I would rather not know about.

So, as I was watering my transplants this gloriously colorful, fall morning, a hummingbird flitted into the direct path of my hose. His little wings were getting wet and I thought he wanted a drink. I stayed as still as possible, not wanting to disturb him. He stayed in midair and then flew off in the bushes again. A second later, he showed up next to the spray from my water hose again. I couldn't have felt more honored, had he been a prince or king. At first, I wondered whether it was a sign that someone close to me had died. Then I realized he had another message for me. Hummingbird represent joy and lightness of being. I checked out a few websites, and liked best what I found here.

Without Stories

I grow increasingly aware of the thoughts traveling through my head. 

Stories about me and my world. 

Neither thoughts nor collection of stories 

are who I really am--no matter how glorious or ugly they may be. 

I am beyond. 

Wanting very much to let go of the whirl and stickiness 

of condemning and overly demanding words. 

For much of my lifetime, I have cultivated being nice and good. 

If I am every able to let go, who would I be?
I imagine feeling lighter. 

Less serious or worried. 

If I were able to reach this blank slate, 

would I finally know freedom?

dream stream

I reached into my creativity this morning and whipped out the following drawing and accompanying poem. I'm unsure what either has to do with my memoirs. I suspect I'm being kissed by my often-buried art fairy. My prim-n-proper self doesn't let her out to play that often.

If pink were fish

. . .and dreams streamed

Would the stars still sing?

Prayers

I'm in the midst of rewriting the sections about my convent prayer life. Too young to have committed myself to such a rigorous lifestyle, I didn't appreciate the effort it took to learn to pray. It only seemed to me that we had to pray far too often; spend way too much time at it; all with very little result. God remained completely unreachable--something no amount of prayer would change. What I learned from spending hours in communal prayer was that God didn't seem to care a whit about ordinary girls like me. An opinion I didn't share with a single soul.

My Own Sacred Self

Photo belongs to Breema Center

The nunly part of me indulged  herself over the weekend by attending a three day Breema workshop at Breitenbush Hot Springs. My entire being imbibed the forested atmosphere, the sounds and sight of the nearby river, the creatively prepared vegan food, the total quiet of sleeping in the woods, and the total immersion into the bodymind experience of the workshop.

I was much too young to appreciate the hours of silence and the long retreats that were imposed upon my restless, eager self in the convent, but I’ve since attempted to replicate the elements of silence and focused solitude. Sometimes I wonder whether my longing was due to my years as a nun or an inborn inclination toward quiet that cause me to seek it out. In either case, I cherish the opportunities I’ve had to lose myself in such places as Esalen, Breitenbush, alongside the river in the Colombia River Gorge, and in the desert regions of Oregon, Washington, and Idaho.

Communing with Mother Nature in whatever form it takes replaces my former need for Church and formal religions. Instead, I approach divinity through Mother Earth and ultimately through my own sacred self. 

Feelings

It's about feelings at this point in my memoir--feelings of isolation, loss, and apprehension hidden just below the surface of my everyday life. I usually tried to deny and keep them to myself. Except for the few times I attempted to tell my Novice Mistress.

In response to my timid knock on her office door, Sister would usher me in. After she'd offered me the stiff-backed chair in front of her desk, she would take a seat on the opposite side and ask me what I wanted. That was all it took for me to completely bury whatever  fears or feelings I intended to share, while we sat in awkward silence and I nervously cleared my throat. I'd tell her I'd forgotten what I was going to say and sit awhile longer, remembering how she had told us during Instruction period that feelings were unimportant. How we were instead, to rely on God and our faith.

Except that I couldn't feel God or his love.I did fall back on my parents' love, though, and their letters which conveyed their pride and love for me. Otherwise, I would have felt even worse.

I must have looked pretty forlorn, because those sorry attempts I made at sharing my feelings with her usually resolved with her suggestion that I go downstairs to the music room and practice the piano for awhile. Saying it might make me feel better. Now I realize how much she cared but couldn't admit it. It was the perfect way for me to deal with feeling blue. I would head for the piano, close the door to the rest of the world, and get carried away through music. In the end, I did feel better.

Uncomfortably Close

In my last few chapters, it has begun to feel like I may be delving too deeply into my past. Some unwieldy and bothersome feeling have surfaced, making me stop to consider. What if, after I've published my book, my former nun friends and still-nun friends take it wrong,  misunderstand me, or think I'm slamming the convent?

The reactions of those closest to me are the ones that hover over my shoulder as I write. I see their disapproving scowls and raised eyebrows. I hear them say with disgust,

 "What in the world is she thinking?
This isn't at ALL how it was.
How were we to know she was so unhappy."

And so on. . . bringing my typing hand to a standstill.

The Good Girl part of me reacts. The Pleaser--ever wary of stepping out and creating controversy. 

Although I've marched to an unmistakably different drummer than my family and many of my friends since leaving the convent, I still carry a surprising whiplash instinct to conform. And telling my story from the inside out--revealing how those years affected me then and now--is what I need to write.  

*gulp* 

 So, after a brief, shuddering, pause, I perk up my ears to the rhythm of my inner drummer and resume my own dance.

Silence or Stillness?

Like it or not, part of me will always remain in the convent, even though I've been gone for over over forty years. The first five years were the strangest and most intense. It was a time of indoctrination. The same images crop up every time my mind meanders back.  Of long, polished hallways with life sized statues looming in the shadows. Of towering ceilings and endless rooms. I still remember feeling so very alone, although the building was occupied with sixty to almost two hundred women. My lips automatically clam shut in conformity to the all pervasive Rule of Silence.

Even now, although I thought I hated not being able to talk whenever and wherever I wanted, I prefer stillness to having a radio, CD player, or TV playing in the background. I relish the feeling of quiet—especially as I write. Living in a hushed household is something I had no idea I’d appreciate all these years later.

Peach Party

This is an actual photo of the convent's old kitchen, located in the older, original part of the building. Even before I entered in 1958, a new Annex was built with a newer kitchen. Both kitchens were used throughout the time I was in the convent and are still in use today. In fact, this was taken in the past month and looks exactly as it did when I participated in the community "parties", as those work sessions were referred to in my book.

Visiting

Things most of us take for granted, I couldn't. It was a little like lockdown in a jail. We were only allowed visitors once a month--and then only with family. And if your family lived four hundred miles away, you had to survive on a once a year visit. That's what my mom did. Left all the kids home with Dad and traveled the whole way to see me for a couple days. And then I didn't get to eat with her. She ate in the Guest Dining room by herself, while I ate in silence with my group in another. It felt very abnormal. I hated leaving Mom to herself after she'd driven four hundred miles to see me. For overnight, she had to get a motel room in the town three miles away. Very inhospitable. Obviously, I've never quite gotten over it.

Levels of Heaven

I used to watch Saturday Night Live and died laughing at the comedian who played an Italian Priest. This uTube video is an absolute crackup. Especially for Catholics. Levels of Heaven

Work! Work! Work!

Besides spending endless hours in prayer, it wasn't just my imagination that we were overworked in the convent. Naively,  I thought I left hard labor behind when I left home at age fifteen. Mom expected a fair share of work out of each of us kids, but didn't make us dust and mop the same floors every single day. Whether they needed it or not. Nor did she interrupt every chore by ringing a bell and making us go pray either. I was basically lazy as a teenager, and would have preferred sitting around reading and listening to music, but was no slouch. I pitched in and did my best. However, the rigorous work ethic of the  nuns was another story. So I describe in chapter nine.

Stall

Just when I was whipping along, feeling a writing momentum, I got stalled. First, a Fourth of July preparations for a party at out house. Then pulling weeds, watering new trees, and trimming the bushes. Too many distractions. Not to mention my low energy for the past week. Not to worry. I've gone to see my Herbalist and came home with a bunch of herbs and an eating program that should get me back to my ordinarily energetic self in a hurry. In the meantime, I'm lollygagging around and reading. The Shipping News is keeping me buried on the couch. Something I was never allowed to do in the convent. Spending long periods of time on the couch reading. I savor the privilege now.

Pregnant

Last night I dreamed I was pregnant. The silly thing was that in my dream I was as distant from menopause as I am in my waking life. Yet I felt the swell of my unborn child.

When I shared my dream with Sue this morning, we both laughed. Except that, in the minute I asked what it could mean aloud, the answer came. My book! My unborn baby is my gestating book. I can only hope that I'll be giving birth to it in nine months or less. Yippety-skippety doo-dah!

Nun Doll

Before I forget, the nun doll featured on this page is one of several I've created. For years I was deeply immersed in the craft of cloth doll-making. Besides sewing dolls from other folks' patterns, I made five of my own from scratch. The nun doll pattern was by far the most popular. She became the focus of several classes I taught and a pattern I sold online for years. After having given away most of my dolls, I've hung on to two of my nun dolls. Nostalgia?

A Good Question

I went to the convent to find God. At least that's what I thought I was doing. God seemed pretty darned elusive to me at age fifteen. Nearly impossible to please too, according to the list of rules I'd been given that were supposedly from him. A demanding list of Thou Shalts and Thou Shalt Nots. If I thought I could please my parents, God was another story. What did he want from me? According to Catholic teachings, the best a girl could do when I was young was to become a nun. Okay. A tall order, but that's what I would set out to do.

The first chapters of the book begins with my leaving home.

Why in the world would anyone want to be a nun?

How did I end up in a convent in the first place?

Looking back from where I stand now, it's obvious I was trying to please my parents and the church by doing the ultimate any catholic girl of that era could do. Becoming a nun. Dressed in the habit and standing in front of a classroom seemed the way to certifiable goodness. Proof to my parents, the rest of the world, and ultimately to God that I was worthy. Of what? Recognition? Love?  

Heaven, was what I hoped for then.

It took someone like me, a heavy duty Pleaser of the first degree, to be convinced that it might be fun to sacrifice my entire life for my Catholic God.

But then, what did know?
I was only fifteen.