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More pictures of our neighborhood during our first winter's snowfall.

Control the Environment

I switched over to Dr. Phil's site for a list of mind control symptoms I liked better. According to Rick Ross, there are four tools that are commonly used for mind control.

• Control of environment. In order to gain complete control over a person, cut them off entire from family. Allow no communication between the victim and his loved ones.

That certainly applied to me, especially during my first five years of training in what was called the Motherhouse. Our contact with the outside world was severely restricted. We were not allowed more than a quick exchange of greetings with any outsider with whom we came in contact. 

We were also almost completely cut off from family. We wrote letters back and forth, but the letters were censored by our superiors. If we mentioned anything outside the norm, that part was blacked out--or the letter was completely destroyed. From the moment I entered the convent, then, I began to lose touch with my family. This kind of isolation was a powerful way to subdue and control us. 

Second Sign

According to the article I sighted in my previous post, the second sign that someone has been in a cult-- or has been brainwashed—is whether you were expected to regard the group leader as being a notch above everyone else, and as someone having some special kind of wisdom. Did s/he claim to speak for God?

Another positive check for my experience in the convent. During the initial years of my time in formation, our most revered authority figure was called Mother Superior. The members were subjected to her ultimate authority and expected to obey immediately and without question—even if directed to do something stupid or humiliating. For example, a nun might be were told to wash the dishes, put them back in the cupboard, take them out again, and rewash them. To the outsider,  a complete waste of time, to a nun, it was merely considered a test of her Obedience to God.

I admired and somewhat feared the Mother Superior, who reigned during the first five years of my initiation process (brainwashing). It was easy to identify her in the crowd. Her heels clipped stridently when she walked the hallways, her chin tilted up, eyes straight ahead, and long black habit swishing like a windblown sail in her wake. My heart always did a little  pitter-patter at the sight. It was like catching a glimpse of a movie star, especially when she deigned to glance my direction and smile. I walked on clouds for days afterward. My pitter-pattering heart quickly became a shudder, at the thought of crossing or disobeying her. From the moment of my entrance into that life, it was  because of such authority figures as her that I learned to operate in survival mode. I developed the most convincing good girl persona possible. After all, that was how nuns were supposed to be--right?


/

Brainwashed?

While doing research for my memoirs, I found information about Mind Control techniques. If someone were going to control me, they would follow each of the Eight Steps based on Stephen Martin's book, The Heresy of Mind Control, and Margaret Singer's Cults in Our Midst.

As I read through the steps, they verified my hunch that we had been brainwashed in the convent. I don't know why I doubted it. Back in the 1950s and 60s, convent life smacked of all the cult ingredients.

It began with Step One:  Control of the environment, which includes people and information.

A Cult takes control over the member's access to the outside world.

In the convent, we were allowed a minimum of contact with Worldly folk, as Outsiders were referred to then. We were cut off from former friends, teachers, and especially boyfriends, and restricted to once-a-month-visits from our family, as well as twice a month letters home. That was it. No other contacts. Even inside the convent, we were forbidden to strike up friendships with any group besides our own. That is, those in training were not allowed to collaborate with the nuns.

As far as information was concerned, the convent controlled our access to outside information in several ways. Our reading materials were limited to religious books. We were especially forbidden to read anything that was published on the Church's Black List. (Materials that were considered heretical, frivolous, sexual, etc). There were no magazines or newspapers, except those kept in the musty, convent library. We had no TV or radio. Letters to and from the Outside were carefully censored. Our world revolved around an increasingly narrow axis.

There's a lot more about Step One that is written by Martin and Singer, but for now, I learned enough to have little doubt that  Step One applied to me.

Setback

Another day, another setback.

Set.

Back.

I'm in the convent again, where it's my daily duty to examine my conscience for all possible wrong-doing. Only in this case, I'm listening to the unforgiving voice of my overly picky Inner Critic.

     Terrible writing. . .terrible. Who's going want to read this dribble? Why don't you quit right now?

Like preparing to tell my sins to the priest in weekly confession, or drumming up enough faults to admit to my peers and Superior every day. It comes second nature for me to listen to what's wrong with me, rather than the good. Especially when I write, and most especially when it's about the ticklish subject of life in the convent.

Just when I'm patting myself on the back and congratulating myself for finally getting over the habit of self-blame, it's staring me in the face again.

Time to lift myself up and out of the dungeon of dark self exploration and envision a clear path ahead.

I can,

and I will.

One way or another.

Reaching Higher

I am the one who aspires to the highest of goals,

but who often begins with crawling.

It's 2014 and I no longer feel like I'm crawling at a snail's pace at my writing. I'm feeling recharged and have been churning out my memoirs non-stop for the past couple weeks. There's a light at the end of my tunnel and I'm going for it. Now back to my writing. 

Jam & Tea

Our Jam & Tea group met a couple days ago after a couple months hiatus. Our skills were rather rusted out ans we sounded out of tune and off-beat. We didn't let our amateurishness stop us, however.We've rededicate ourselves to regular gatherings for jamming and snacking (thus the name of our group: Jam & Tea). Down to four of us again with two violins, a hammer dulcimer and me on the piano, we're ready to go.

I stole a few photos on the new Sony NEX-5Tcamera I got for Christmas, then played around with the editing process. Love the poster-like results. Maybe we'll get famous and I'll have to use them.

Hopefully I'll follow suit with my writing again too. Haven't written a word throughout the holidays and plan to start up again TODAY.

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.