The Peace is anything but. It is the Grand Interruption that fragments the solemnity of the service. If there is another revision of the prayer book, we can only hope those vested with the undertaking will review this ritual and provide some rules of sanity or find a less disruptive, more amenable place for it in the service. The post-service coffee hour, perhaps?
( 6:v )
MORNING DAWNED in striated layers of pale orange, light green, and deep blue that bled into one another like a Turner watercolor. The town and surrounding farms were silhouetted in darkness. Soon the sun would be up, the landscape would be illuminated, and people would be rushing about their day, forgetting that they had glimpsed a beautiful sunrise, or worse, oblivious to the fact that one had occurred at all.
The days and weeks were passing quickly inside the cloistered cocoon, but at the same time it was as if life stood still. The outside world took on a surreal quality, and as each day flipped over to the next, I felt the world I once knew slip from my grasp like filaments in a spider’s web.
From my cell window I observed with a bemused detachment the cars zipping along Guisborough Road. Cars had become an alien species now. I walked everywhere, and on the few occasions when I was a passenger in a car, the experience was akin to boarding a spaceship.
In Lidl, as I stood in line waiting to pay for a couple of packages of chocolate digestive biscuits (a full-blown addiction that I felt obligated to pay for out of my own pocket), I watched people as if they were part of a stage play. Their frenzied conversations were a curiosity, even though I had been part of that crazy world not that long ago. Rushing off to fetch the kids from school? Have fun with that! Fretting about what to cook for dinner? Good luck! That world was but a hazy memory now.
All my needs were met at St. Hilda’s, but the loss of human contact affected me the most, like a sharp, deep stab. I missed the touch of another human being—a pat on the arm, a friendly hug, a kiss. But more than that, I longed for meaningful social interaction, both light and in-depth conversations. I appreciated that silence was paramount in a convent, but the balance was so heavily weighted toward it that it engendered a form of isolation.
I thought it was me, that I was defective or somehow inferior because I felt this need, but when I looked around me it seemed that there were more than a few sisters who could have benefited from more social interactions and physical contact. You can never overstate the healing power of human touch. Some struggled emotionally, and their problems were manifested by ultrasensitive personalities, chronic stomach problems, and eating disorders. One sister confided that she felt left out, that everyone seemed to have a buddy except her. I wondered whether the same type of social isolation would befall me if I joined a religious order. Social connections are vital whether you live inside or outside the cloister, and breaking into a new social circle works the same way in a religious community as it does in a secular community. Today’s “new kid in the convent” is tomorrow’s “test of my patience.”
The loneliness was most acute on Saturdays.
Saturday morning in a convent was business as usual. There was no lazy breakfast, no steaming mug of coffee while sitting in your pajamas poring over the weekend newspaper. No random comments to lob at someone such as, “Well, did you see this story on...?” or “I can’t believe the government thinks it can revamp the health service by slashing jobs! Insanity! What do you think?” or “Look at that fabulous hotel in Spain. Wouldn’t it be great to go there?” No, there are no conversations like that at a convent. In fact, there are rarely conversations, period.
Long ago, when I was living off the fumes of a consumer lifestyle fueled by fashion and home-decorating trends and multiple trips to big-box stores located in vast asphalted wastelands of suburbia, I never appreciated the little freedoms inherent in a Saturday. Saturday was a day of sundry domestic responsibilities, but it was also a day that was your own to design.
Here, Saturday morning was about silence, just like the other six days of the week. There was a vague sense, an intuitive whiff, if you will, that the world was operating on weekend mode, but that was the extent of it. A million creature comforts I had taken for granted in a secular Saturday morning began to assemble into a chorus line of longing: the smell of coffee, the ring of the phone, the crackle of a fire, the rustle of a newspaper, the homey discussion about the day’s errands and chores, the hum of the washing machine, music from the radio, and mostly, companionship. Without these, I felt very poor indeed.
I left the refectory after breakfast, and when I passed the newspaper rack stocked with the weekend editions—the Times, the Daily Telegraph, the Independent, the Guardian, the Yorkshire Post, and periodicals such as the Church Times and the Tablet—I was overcome with a greedy desire to have a newspaper of my own. Especially a complete, untouched newspaper.
The newspapers—“intercession material,” as Sister Marjorie called them—never made it to the cloister rack intact. They were disassembled by one of the sisters, who felt that the sports sections from all the newspapers should be lumped together, as should the real estate, business, travel, commentary, and arts sections. The glossy weekend magazines disappeared completely, only to materialize days later in the parlor.
The slap on the wrist that first day from Sister Marjorie about hogging the newspaper had made me more circumspect. I would take a section of one of the papers to my cell or the library and read it, then return it immediately and take another section. But now I craved a newspaper to peruse at my leisure. On my way to post a letter that morning, I went into a shop and bought one. As I walked back to the priory clutching it to my body, it felt as if I had scored dope.
I smuggled it into my cell, then stretched out on the floor, the newspaper in front of me, and read and lingered over it while the sun poured in through the dormer window. It was close to heavenly.
That night, I sat in my prie-dieu awaiting the start of compline, and a different longing returned. This time I thought about all the people who were out on a date or channel-surfing at home or uncorking a bottle of wine with friends or making last-minute plans to see a movie or curled up in their PJs with a book in front of a blazing fire. Ah, Saturdays.
( 6:vi )
A DUSTING of frost had coated the ground, but by midmorning, the sun had melted the evidence and was beaming its heart out.
A small stone patio and rockery behind the priory proved to be an excellent suntrap, and in good weather the sisters often took their tea or said their prayers and meditations there.
Passing through the main corridor, I spied Sister Patricia sitting on one of the wooden benches on the patio. Her eyes were closed, and her white hair shone like an aura. Her face was inclined toward the late morning sun, welcoming its warmth, and I could tell that she was in that zone of listening to God. Occasionally her face broke out in a smile, as if God were telling her a joke. Perhaps it was this one: A Sunday school teacher was leading her young class into church when she turned to them and asked softly: “Now class, why do we need to be quiet in church?” In a loud whisper a little girl piped up, “Because people are sleeping.”
I opened the patio door and tiptoed past Sister Patricia toward the gardens.
The cold of the previous weeks had been replaced by sun and warmer air. Spring was never my favorite season; I always wanted it to hurry up and get to the hot days of summer. Now I saw the gentle beauty of it, the reawakening of life.
I walked around the rockery and admired the new growth. The garden was tended by Sister Heather Francis, under whose diligent care flowers had begun poking up—purple and yellow crocuses, periwinkle, and a raft of other species that she would know by their Latin names. A few pigeons were strutting around. This particular species always made me smile, because its plumage—grayish brown with a white band at the throat—was identical to the nuns’ habits.
Scattered around the gardens were stone troughs, some containing plants, others heaped with shells, fossils, and stones that the sisters ha
d found on their excursions.
Many of the fossils were ammonites. Depictions of St. Hilda almost always show her with ammonites at her feet—a nod to the welcome legend in which she battled a plague of snakes and turned them all to stone.
I picked up an ammonite and rolled it around in my hand, feeling its weight and running my thumb along its hard, ridged surface. Its coiled spine conjured many images—a spiral staircase, a labyrinth, the starting point of Dorothy’s yellow brick road—and the images splintered into word association: the reversing of life, the rewinding of memory, the unraveling of trauma. Uh oh.
( 6:vii )
WE WERE deep in Lent now. Fog had stealthily crept in and coiled itself around the convent, and it did not look like it had plans to move on any time soon. The cloister corridors were dark and empty, and the wind—the unforgiving, swirling, ever-present, abrasively loud wind—was a bitter reminder that we were still in the throes of winter. A winter desert.
Lent had turned everything into a metaphorical desert: the food in the refectory looked the same from one meal to the next; the silence was oppressive and brought a sense of foreboding. Grayish brown was the dominant hue: it was in the stone walls and floors of the priory, in the sisters’ habits, in the weather, in everyone’s mood. It was like living in a sepia-toned photograph.
The sisters themselves were as drained of color as a March day. They moved like a whisper through the corridors, enveloped in a cloud of constant prayer and without offering the barest nod of acknowledgement to those they passed. Their brows were etched with worry, and for good reason.
A catastrophic earthquake and tsunami had hit the eastern coast of Japan, causing a massive loss of life; an explosion at the region’s nuclear reactor was imminent. When it seemed things could not get worse, heavy snow had begun to fall, adding to the confusion and rescue efforts.
The disaster was on everyone’s mind and on everyone’s lips; it was heart-crushing. You do not know where to begin with your prayers with something like that.
The deadly riots in Libya and Syria had also become constant themes in our prayers, as had the state of the world’s nose-diving economy. With so much heaviness and so many world crises, an extra half-hour of silent intercessions was added to the evening schedule.
You couldn’t avoid the pain of the world. From inside the convent, the blunt terror of the world was more horrifying, especially when viewed under the lens of Lent. There were no little distractions to save you from tumbling into despair: you had to absorb it and deal with it.
I had come across a story about a doctor in Misrata who had hustled his wife and four kids into the car to escape the bullets raining down on his neighborhood. He had hoped they could find safer shelter at his in-laws’ home. The family had driven into the street but had to stop the car because the gunfire was so fierce. When the doctor looked over his shoulder to check on his children in the backseat, he saw that two of his older children had had half their heads shot off; the younger two no longer had heads at all.
I had read the story with my hand over my mouth. In a world of such unremitting horror, how do people keep their faith? How do you pray when something like that happens to you? I had been whining about the deprivations of Lent while parents were coping with their headless children.
I arrived in the chapel with the barest of light as guidance and groped my way to my prie-dieu. As my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, I made out silhouettes of the nuns sitting still and silent in their stalls like apparitions shrouded in mourning and praying their souls out for the dead, the living, and those who wonder if there is a God.
( 6:viii )
THE TWISTED branch of a vine slapped against the window of my office, its scrawny, dry tendrils scratching the glass pane like a clawing rodent. The screams of the wind were unbearable. My office was located at the inside corner of the building, a wind trap, and the wind seemed to take this as a personal affront, tearing and raging like a caged animal and threatening to shatter the windows completely.
Its fury mystified and terrified me. I had never been affected by the wind before, but now I could not escape it in my office, in chapel, or in the library. I was safe from it in my cell until I went to sleep, and then it invaded my dreams, in which every scene featured the wind at its most furious.
In the daytime, it was so voluble that my only escape was to go outside and face it. Then it would become more playful, blowing me toward Whitby Beach and the rugged, ancient North Yorkshire coastline.
I was helpless against the wild landscape: the disheveled grass, the shivering trees, the swelling, tempestuous sea beneath smoky puffs of clouds that sailed swiftly through the blue and white sky like a flotilla setting off for the New World. It was alive and unpredictable. One minute the sea would dazzle with sapphire clarity; the next, it would be smothered in dense fog. The week before, I had watched a rainbow materialize, one of its ends dissolving into the shimmer and sparkle of the sea.
I frequently took the steep asphalt footpaths that switchbacked precipitously down the cliffs to the beach and waded through uneven drifts of sand to the water’s edge. I would stand there feeling the drumbeat of the waves, letting them permeate my senses and push my anxiety to the side. This was where my Aquarian nature felt most at home.
When I exposed myself to the elements, especially to the sea, I could come clean with myself and admit—as much as I did not have the courage to admit at other times—that I was forcing myself into religious life. A square peg trying to fit into a round hole: I was manipulating that square peg to plug the hole of my pain.
My faith wasn’t flagging, but my struggle against my willful and possessive nature was.
Even my vocabulary had a possessive quality. Colin’s weekly letters carried references to “our garden” and “our flat,” when in reality it was his garden, his flat. All my references were to “your place” and to “my place.” In a monastic culture, where all things are held in common, there is no “I” and “mine.” Perhaps I wasn’t fit for marriage or a monastery.
As for the other part of my nature—the one that likes to talk, question, and probe—was it realistic to drive it underground and take on a new personality? Was that even honest?
My thoughts returned to Thomas Merton and his natural proclivity to communicate, the tension he felt between wanting to be a monk for God and a man of the world. He could not stop himself from writing letters or spending long afternoons in conversation with visiting friends. I hate to think how he would have coped with email.
I had read about how one of Merton’s friends would pick him up at the abbey under the ruse that they were going to attend a religious function. Merton would have a satchel with him, supposedly containing religious material. A few miles down the road, Merton would tell his friend to stop the car, and while the car idled, Merton, satchel in hand, would dash into the bushes in his cassock and emerge dressed in denim and leather, his cassock stuffed into the satchel. The two friends would then hit the bars, and the monk, the one who craved silence and solitude, would be yakking to everyone and buying rounds of beer. The contemplative contradiction. That was me: the dual personality, the elastic monastic, trying to adapt to a monoculture.
( 6:ix )
“ARE YOU sure you know what you’re doing?” a worried Sister Gillian asked as we sat in the car at a bus depot in Pickering. “You get off at Malton, remember, and transfer to the bus to York. Then at York you have to transfer buses again to get to Bishopthorpe. Oh dear, are you sure you can handle it?”
Who could blame her: I was after all putting myself into the hands of the British public transportation system.
“Yup, I’ll be fine. And if I get lost, I can just ask someone.”
Sister Gillian looked dubious.
I gathered my purse and my overnight bag and patted her arm. “Don’t worry so much.”
I was off to York. The prospect of traveling on unfamiliar buses and making transfers in unheard-of places had a strange thrill to
it. At times I hoped I would get lost.
The previous week I had taken another bus trip (Sister Gillian had been more relaxed about that one since it did not require transfers) north to Dormanstown as part of my job collecting information for the historical update the order asked me to do. Two sisters, Anita and Pam, worked with the poor in this former steel-making powerhouse—Dormanstown steel had built the Sydney Harbour Bridge. During that excursion, Sister Anita and I discovered we were both Bede freaks, so we made an impromptu road trip north to Durham Cathedral to visit the monk’s shrine. Standing in front of Bede’s tomb was like visiting Graceland.
Sister Anita had been a chatty companion who augmented my fledgling education about early Christianity’s formative years in Britain and the Northern saints who shaped it. Hilda was one of them, of course, but so was Cuthbert, Northern England’s patron saint. I was always game to learn about a new saint, because invariably they had wonky career trajectories (which made me feel better about my own peripatetic path) and because there was usually something bizarre about them. Cuthbert did not disappoint.
A contemporary of St. Hilda, Cuthbert was a shepherd, a monk, a prior, a soldier, and a priest. It was said that he was a kind and cheerful sort, and this proved as much a blessing as a curse. When he retired to his hermit cave on Inner Farne Island, pilgrims and hangers-on refused to leave him alone, and they would row out to talk to him. Among them was King Ecgfrith, who pestered Cuthbert to take up the post of bishop. Worn down by the request and well into old age by this point, Cuthbert agreed. He was ordained at York around AD 685 and died less than two years later.
A dozen years after Cuthbert died, monks pried open his coffin and found his body to be perfectly preserved. (It makes you wonder what propels people, aside from lurid curiosity, to open a coffin.) The monks were rather pleased because they had also preserved the head of King Oswald, who had been killed and dismembered in battle thirty years earlier. With two grisly relics in their possession, they fled an imminent Viking invasion and took the remains on the road for—and this is just weird—three hundred years, lifting the lid on their macabre exhibit to curious passersby, pilgrims, benefactors, anyone willing to pay handsomely for the privilege.
And Then There Were Nuns Page 21
