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Episode 49: 2005 Year in Review January, 2006 Okay, so I am feeling lazy and I think I will let the bulk of this convent file be the “Christmas Letter” I sent out to friends and family this year. So much bad has happened in 2005 to all of us… Katrina, the priestly sex abuse scandal in Philadelphia, many deaths in Iraq, disputed elections in several countries, the bombings in England. Yet by far, even with these and many other negatives present in my life, I view 2005 with gratitude more than anything. The gifts I have received in 2005 were overwhelming and life-altering. I am a better person now than I was a year ago, and I have God to thank for that. I look back and see so many positive outpourings of God’s love – mediated mostly through individuals who have touched my life with a word or email of encouragement, a gaze or touch of love and support, a favor done, a gift given, a homily well-preached, an apology accepted gracefully. This season of Christmas is all about being given God in person, in a person, and that is the theme of 2005 for me… God incarnated, in person, for me. God in Eucharist, God in neighbor. Perhaps 2005 wasn’t actually the best year of my life, but rather I had the best spiritual vision of my life and finally saw how awesome life really is. Yay God! Dear Friends and Family, I apologize for the lateness of this letter. It may be Happy New Year instead of Merry Christmas, depending on how quickly the U.S. Postal Service expedites delivery of this update. At any rate, I hope that late really is better than never, and want to share with you the latest adventures in my life. I now live in the Philadelphia area, having moved here in January 2005, just in time for an 18 inch snowfall. For a Southern girl, this was practically apocalyptic (or in my case, apoplectic). I felt like I was living in the Himalayas. Fortunately, my new friend Theresa, who is relatively new to the United States (she’s Vietnamese), was a wonderful distraction from the biting cold. Instead of grousing about the temperature, I romped around outdoors with her and explained the fine points of snowpersons, snowballs (Theresa has a killer arm and I have had a good cubic foot of snow down my collar in 2005), and of course, the necessity of avoiding the dreaded “yellow snow”. Easter brought us to the American tradition of egg dying, and Halloween found Theresa and me carving a jack-o-lantern. Her inculturation is my excuse for reliving my childhood! Yippee! This month (December), I traveled South to be with my family for my sister Rachel’s graduation. She graduated summa cum laude (you go, girl!) from Middle Tennessee State University. I brought with me two of my Handmaid Sisters and we traveled through Tennessee and Kentucky visiting family. The highlight of the trip for me was having dinner with my mom and my three siblings. Due to the intricacies of former marriages and an adoption, this was the first time that we were all together, ever! It was neat to see our similarities and differences. It was at this dinner that I explained to my brother, Ron, why I live the way I live as a Sister. It went something like this: “Well, I want to live like Jesus lived. Since Jesus chose to be poor, unmarried, and obedient to authorities placed over him, I want to do the same thing. So I live poverty, which means I share everything and don’t own anything of my own. I live celibacy, which means I won’t ever get married, so I can be available to serve everyone, not just one family. And I live obedience, which means that the important decisions of my life are made not by me alone, but as a family, together with my Sisters. This is a very special way of making my life as much like Jesus’ life as I can.” Ron seemed to understand and appreciate this, although the idea of never getting married shocked him. He rebounded quickly, however, and cleverly suggested that since I share everything, maybe I could share a $20 bill with him. Savvy kid. I am almost finished with my canonical (a.k.a. “lockdown”) novitiate year, and will be spending 2006 in my second year of novitiate, which will likely include a couple of months in Bolivia. I am excited about improving my Spanish and learning to cook Bolivian style. The past year was wonderful, especially my thirty day silent (yes, silent!) retreat, but I am looking forward to more ministry this year. Many prayers for you and yours, JOY!
January, 2006 “Mare, you know how much I love recycling and reusing things,” I said to Sr. Mary Ann, as I dangled the offending object from my finger. “But this is really going a bit too far.” She peered at the bag and began to laugh. In my foray into the gift closet, seeking a gift bag for a friend’s birthday, I discovered a macabre surprise. It was a simple white bag, with white handles, the kind you might put a bridal shower gift in or get at an upscale store after purchasing a small item. At last! A gift bag that didn’t have a Christmas theme! Hooray! But as I pulled the bag off its hanger, I noticed the simple black print on one side: “Donoghue Funeral Home.” Whaaaaaat?!?! The first thought that went thru my mind was, “What was originally in this bag?” Visions of cremated sisters danced thru my head until Sr. Mary Ann suggested that it had probably brought home condolence cards from the funeral home at some point. The next question I asked was, “Why on earth would someone put this in the gift wrap / gift bag closet?” I am a pretty hard-core recycler. I have actually done things like washing off foil in order to reuse it, or (okay, this is a little embarrassing) experimenting with crocheting items using plastic grocery bags. I carefully lift off plastic wrap from food so that at the end of the meal I can put the same wrap back. I actually weigh in my mind the comparative worth of rinsing and recycling or just throwing away a jar or can with sticky food. “Peanut butter jar – better to recycle the glass and rinse it out, or save the water and throw it out?” Yet with all my eco-hand-wringing, not even I would put a funeral home bag in the gift bag closet. Talk about a real convent moment. The third thought that hit me was how PERFECT this bag was for my friend, who happened to be turning fifty. The other great thing about convents, there are always weird things lying around to toss into a gift bag. So for her fiftieth birthday, my friend got sample-sized packets of antacid, gum, some guitar picks, little items of religious art, a tube of denture adhesive, and other assorted re-gifts. I love re-gifts, which really is a good sign of a religious vocation. My fellows in initial formation (we are a baker’s dozen in an intercommunity program for those who are postulants and novices) howled at the “death bag.” It was perfect. We shared our own freaky convent / friary stories. Some of them dovetailed with what was discussed last year in the same program (different participants). Here are a few funny bellyaches from the past couple of years:
The weirdnesses are different for each one of us, because each community has its own quirks, just like every family does. We swap notes occasionally, with peals of “hey, I would never be allowed to do that as a novice,” or “you get how much money for a month?” Mostly, we laugh. A lot. Because life in community can be a pretty funny thing, thank God.
February, 2006 I often call the Convent Files a “blog,” but they aren’t really. I don’t post to these frequently enough to be a conventional blog, but rather save up experiences and insights until they kind of glom together in a theme or “aha” moment. Then I post what I’ve learned or gone through in an essay form. This works well for me because it gives me a chance to assimilate my life in a very structured way, besides sharing it with others. Writing cements growth and memory for me in a way other types of reflection don’t. Of course, there is a bad side to this method, too. Part of it is that I feel some internal pressure to be profound or at least coherent here. That’s not a pressure I would feel if this were a simple stream-of-consciousness journal, the way most blogs are. Lately I’ve had a lot to think about and write about, but it doesn’t gel into a nice “column.” Should I be funny or deep? Should I write about something controversial? Which of my writings belong in the public eye, and which are strictly personal? All this questioning goes on automatically and without a lot of conscious reflection. Eventually what needs to be said kind of works its way to the top, so to speak, and lands in the Files. But sometimes, I think, people think of writing as something that is so easy and automatic for me, when in fact it is often not so easy and not so profound. You just get the finished product here. Ditto with prayer. Once someone asked me to pray for her and I said, “sure,” and asked her to pray for me, too. Then this person remarked that I, as a Sister, had a “direct line” to God. True, but that’s only because we all have “direct lines” to God. Prayer is not somehow easier and more profound for me just because I am in a convent. There are plenty of times that my mind wanders or I become distracted or bored or even fall asleep. Are there profound moments? Yes, and those are the ones I like to share… just like I like to share photos of profound or fun or interesting moments in my life. Please don’t think I live each day in some deep profundity, as if I muse daily in the organized, philosophical way I often display here. I am plenty petty and shallow at times, too. That disclaimer being said, let me float a few memories here and see if writing about them doesn’t string them together somehow. I have often been the class clown. In college, at least. In high school, I was much more the miserable misfit who wears the wrong clothes and doesn’t have a lot of money or self-confidence or style. But in college, I came into my own and became funny. Still today, I have a reputation as a light-hearted prankster who cracks jokes and is quick-witted. This is great. Sometimes. Then there are those rare times when I feel like I’m dying inside and no one knows it because I am still “performing.” I am not fond of the song, “Tears of a Clown,” but the lyrics do kind of speak to me. Not long ago, something wonderful happened in the life of a friend, which for various personal reasons was bittersweet to me. So this big emotional whirlwind was going on in my heart, during which I was simultaneously excited and happy for my friend and kind of disappointed and let down for myself. And in the midst of it all, I needed to (or thought I needed to) keep my outward disposition placid and light. Here I was, acting funny and irreverent as usual, yet aware of how untrue my lighthearted exterior was to my interior pain and pensiveness and joy and confusion. It was a real eye-opener for me, because I realized how often others must be having big, intense personal moments which they cannot or will not share with me. How often am I blissfully unaware of some turmoil in someone’s life? Can it be that some of the people I dismiss with a one-word description have a lot of complex, subtle inner life that I’m not party to? This invites me to compassion and reverence of others, since they, too, may be having a very major and profound experience underneath exterior behavior I find bland, irritating, or inane. This in turn reminded me of something I wanted to write about a couple of years ago but which for one reason or another never found its way onto the page. I was studying at a Catholic college in Miami, and went with some classmates to an exhibit at a local museum. We were riding on a chartered bus, and behind me was sitting J, the class clown. He was intelligent and very funny, not in a mean way, but simply lighthearted and silly. As we drove along, we passed a middle-aged African-American woman standing in the median holding a sign reading something like, “Jesus loves you! Repent!” J read the sign aloud, and I joked, “well, there’s nothing we can argue with theologically, huh?” I admit that I was amused and certainly did not gaze out my bus window with respect for my sister in Christ, but rather kind of laughed to myself. J followed up with a quiet question, “gee, I wonder why she made her sign out of such heavy material? Aww, honey, get some posterboard!” Our classmates erupted in laughter at the silly street evangelist, prompted by J’s mock tenderness. What touched me, and convicted me, was J’s immediate, horrified correction of those laughing. “No, I’m not making fun of her! That’s Jesus!” His mock tenderness was not mock at all. His admonition to the bus went unheard and unheeded, however, and I doubt many heard him when he whispered again, “she’s Jesus.” Wow. I’m not sure what touched me more… the hurt J must have endured when he was misunderstood, or his conviction that “she’s Jesus.” We underestimated him, we underestimated her. Neither J nor the anonymous evangelist were respected as real people, as complex entities, as Jesus among us. Rather, we students saw them as entertainment. I ask myself sometimes if I shouldn’t be more serious, less jokey. Ought I be more demure, collected, grave? Life is important, after all. Then I think, “what the heck am I considering! Life is way too important to take seriously!” Somewhere along the line I will find the right balance, if I pay attention. In the meantime, through my own discomfort and that of my friend, I am aware that nobody is one-dimensional, and that there’s lots going on under the surface. No one’s life is trivial, even if that’s their public persona. Even the rich and famous whose notoriety is based in their seeming frivolity have a lot going on within, I’m sure. Once I went to a funeral where a famous person was also in attendance, and there was so much attention given to the fact that she was there that I realized she couldn’t even be a normal mourner. No, she was forced into celebrity even in a very personal moment. That’s when I realized it must stink to be famous. Can I laugh and enjoy other people, look up to them, but still respect the mystery of the other? Sometimes I roll my eyes and revile one or another celebrity or politician who seems overly asinine or trivial or out-of-touch. I enjoy some smug superiority over him or her, while completely forgetting J’s wisdom. “That’s Jesus.”
March, 2006 I have been doing a lot of thinking about obedience lately. Partly it’s because this week we study the vow of obedience in my In-Search class (in which novices and candidates for various congregations come together to share theology and human formation courses). Mostly, however, it’s because a few ideas and insights are starting to mature at the same time. Obedience is, let’s face it, a dirty word in our culture. It brings to mind oppression and a yoke that is gratefully overthrown by young people when they leave home, by workers when they hit the lottery or retire, and by wives who wake up and step out of an abusive situation. The vow of obedience is ambiguous, for me at least. Or rather, I should say it has been ambiguous, because I am now developing an appreciation for the concept of obedience. I suppose a good place to start to explain my understanding of obedience is by talking about God and me. I can’t speak for everyone’s experience, only my own, but with me at least, God works expressly through human beings. God has a voice, and it is the voice of the person next to me on the El or my classmate or my Sister. I mean, of course not everything I hear is a message from God, but when there is a pattern of people having the same insight or suggestion for me, or when something someone says really gets under my skin in a good or bad way, I sit up and take notice. God is in that, somehow. I was talking with a group of friends the other day about how much wisdom I get just talking and listening in a group setting. Community is very, very important for me in making decisions and forming my character. Community feedback is important to me as an extrovert, and it saves me from the neurosis I could so easily fall into. For example, I can agonize over whether I’m doing too much or too little share of the household chores. I don’t want to be a workaholic and fall into the utilitarian, consumeristic trap of the American culture. I also don’t want to be lazy. I can drive myself crazy trying to figure out where I stand on the lazy – compulsive spectrum. Or, I can ask for others’ point of view. “What do you think? This is my schedule. Am I overworked, or am I doing the right amount?” Community, loving honest community, whether it’s religious or workplace or college pals, is where I get a reality check. So as I was discussing this with my group of friends, I realized something, not processing it until it came out of my mouth (not unusual for me). “If I haven’t brought something up to a person, I haven’t brought it up to God.” If I have an issue or a question that I haven’t broached with a human being, something I’m trying to work out on my own, it means I’m hanging on to it and not giving it over to God. Like I said, I cannot speak for everyone, but transparency, at least with a close, trustworthy person or two, seems to be a prerequisite for my serenity. Ignatius would approve. Okay, so that’s how God works. God really does work through people, which isn’t that surprising, considering that we have a Pope and bishops and priests who act “in persona Christi” and lots of other faithful who also bring Jesus to me in ways small and big. Maybe if I were an introvert this whole Convent File would be about how God reaches me through nature, or silence. But anyway, God seems to keep it simple with me… there are readily discernible patterns of how I am graced and how I grow, and they nearly always are moments of human mediation. So human mediation is real, which means that obedience is at least not prima facie nuts. It may be nuts in the end, we’ll see, but at least there is the possibility that by following a human voice I am tuning in to God’s will for me. The word “obedience,” though, well, doesn’t that sound a bit, uhhh, heavy? Brass knuckled? It seems to reek of force. I mean, the fact of human mediation could bring me to a vow of mulling over, or a vow of consensus, or a vow of collaboration, or a vow of heedfulness. Why “obedience”? Now the other thing that’s been kicking around in my mind connects. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about my feelings and how they aren’t always helpful. Why do I feel like I have to eat something when I’m not hungry, just stressed? The feeling of hunger is fake, it isn’t trustworthy. I struggle sometimes with feeling sleepy and wondering if I should wisely heed my body’s call for rest, or just ignore an ordinary after-lunch slump. My feelings can get me in a heap of trouble, if I don’t use common sense to rein them in. That’s where I feel that the structure of religious life helps me enormously. I may not feel like praying, but I do it, because it’s part of what I agreed to in this life. I may not feel like joining the community for dinner, but I do, because that’s part of the package. There are non-negotiables which trump my feelings (unless of course my feeling is accompanied by real symptoms of sickness, in which case I deem myself totally free to stay in bed). Some things in my life I feel okay doing halfway or skipping altogether. But because they are legislated, structured, expected, prayer and adoration aren’t in that category. Have I always been faithful? No, there have been times I’ve said, “oh, forget it,” and curled up with a good book (not THE Good Book) instead of praying. But these times are exceptional, compared to the times I slack off in, oh, assigned reading for In- Search or cleaning my room. The point I’m trying to get to is that my obedience to our rule of life, which sometimes keeps me from doing what I feel like doing, has the wonderful benefit of keeping me in line with what I really want in the long run. I commit myself to this life because I love it, and the “rules” of my life protect me from myself. Like Linus, who hands his blanket to Charlie Brown with the command to keep it away from him no matter what he says, I need help being free. And real freedom, from my slavery to my whims and feelings and slacking-offness, comes when I, like Linus, make myself accountable to another. Obedience, freely chosen, is my way of guaranteeing I don’t sabotage myself in my quest to follow God. It’s also a great way to avoid the aforementioned neuroses I can get into. If I’m not sure I’m doing the right thing, I can just check it out with my leaders. When I’m as transparent and real as I can be, sharing the situation from my point of view, I can relax when I get guidance. Does obedience always feel like a delightful romp in the world of growing freedom? No. Sometimes it feels awfully constricting. But airbags, and seat belts, and a friend’s sudden arm-grab can feel constricting too, while they act to save my life.
Episode 53: Adolescence, Part II April, 2006 Today I prayed with some 7th graders at Ancillae. I like 7th graders. I have a certain kinship with them, I think, a bond of between-ness. I, too, am between, and religious life formation is a lot like adolescence. I realized how much like adolescence today during our adoration together. I should start by explaining how I feel about singing. Growing up, I got told somewhere along the line that I couldn’t sing, or at least I somehow got that idea early on. By fifth grade I was already lip-synching in music class, despite the music teacher’s hissed complaint: “I know who isn’t singing!” Like most labels, the “can’t sing” label is self-fulfilling. I never sang in public, or hardly ever, until I entered the convent. Then Attila the Nun entered my life. Attila, aka Sister KayJoy, insisted on hearing me sing. “You’re in the convent now, and we at least need to know if you can carry a tune. Maybe you have something to work with!” We were sitting on the back porch, away from any possible listening ears inside. I insisted, being too nervous to sing on command for an audience of Handmaids. “Trust me, I can’t sing.” “Oh, just sing something. Anything. How about ‘Twinkle, twinkle, little star?’” I laughed nervously, possibly hysterically, and launched into a monotone rendition of the fabled children’s song (now the permanent soundtrack of my worst nightmares). “Twinkle, twinkle, little star,” I mumbled. “Come on, give it a real try. Get it over with.” Attila was not letting me go without singing, and chanting out the words tunelessly didn’t count. Sigh. Fine, you win. “Twinkle, twinkle, little star, how I wonder where you are,” I belt out at twice the normal speed. I can’t maintain eye contact, I’m so ashamed. “That wasn’t terrible,” Attila maintained. “You got all the notes right.” So I wasn’t off the hook. I had to sing “Row, row, row your boat,” as well, and a couple of religious songs, if memory serves. Finally, sweating and pale, I was released from my back porch prison, my torturer satisfied with my agonized warbling. Walking into the house behind Attila, I gasped. “Look what you did to me!” I yelped. My arms were covered in hives. Rarely in my life have I broken out in stress hives, but boy did I ever break out this time! “You did this to me! You! You!” Unrepentant, Attila refused to swerve from her insistence that I could in fact sing and should conquer this fear. Singing lessons were in order. Sigh again. Fast forward a couple of years. I’m no longer phobic when it comes to singing, but I’m no vocal superstar. And singing in public is not my favorite thing in the world. Well, today I sang for and with the 7th graders, while playing the guitar and trying to be, well, a grownup, which means basically respectable and not too pathetically unskilled. So I’m singing, trying to get the seventh grade to sing with me, and I start off unable to hit the right note. I try again and the note materializes in my mouth (yay God) and I continue teaching the song. I expose the Blessed Sacrament, we pray some, we share some, and it’s time to sing again (same song). This time I lose the note in a sad scramble up and down the scale as I search for it. Even Paula Abdul would have winced. I managed to laugh, which was good because the kids were dying to laugh, too. I was pretty darn embarrassed, though. I mean, I’m the grownup, I’m supposed to be together! “Okay, who can hit this note,” I say, playing a B, “because I obviously can’t!” Thank God, there are some good singers among them, and we go on. My flaming red face (I blush very easily with any strong emotion) lent a nice warm glow to the chapel, or so I thought. We shared some, we prayed some, and then I asked the kids to share their gifts. “My gift is the ability to laugh at myself when I can’t hit a note,” I said. And then it hit me that maybe my messing up and being able to be both really embarrassed but also really relaxed and good-natured is indeed a gift to these kids. I mean, there’s a lot to be embarrassed about in adolescence. Your body changes, your voice changes, your mood swings, your friends change, your parents are notoriously unhip, etc. Maybe my being publicly pretty bad at something is actually a pretty good thing. Our prayer was unconventional. We laughed, we got serious, we shared. We didn’t take ourselves too seriously. I think Jesus approved. And when I shared a story about Jesus in the Eucharist with the kids, and got, suddenly, choked up with emotion, I didn’t worry about being polished, or perfect, or together. I was plenty happy with just being real. April, 2006 Someone I know died this week. It seems a little false to call him a friend, since I didn’t know him that closely. But his death did affect me and I want to write about it. It’s always a tough call for me when it comes to writing about things that touch my heart. I want to share the “fruits of contemplation” that God gives me, but at the same time I don’t want to pose, or to take advantage of situations of grace to make me look holy or deep. That being said, I will try to be contemplative and not contrived in my sharing of my holy week prayer. Heywood was a friend from my weekly ministry at a home for people with AIDS who are socio-economically disadvantaged (a.k.a. poor). I didn’t work with him directly, as I did with other residents who wanted to learn to read or brush up on their math skills or learn to use the computer. Mostly I just made “small talk” with him and shared the occasional lunch conversation. Definitely nothing profound. No tearful sharing of childhood trauma, no deep revelations about our dreams or fears. But when I found out that he was sick and in the hospital, I felt that I wanted to visit. Partly, I wanted to visit because I suspected some of the residents might want to visit, but had hospital anxiety. I don’t, and I thought that perhaps if I went with them, the moral support might help. Especially when someone is unable to communicate (Heywood was already unconscious by the time I heard he was sick), it helps to have someone along to “lead” the visit. I feel comfortable talking to someone who is unconscious, leading a prayer, and blessing the patient. So I had planned to offer to go with anyone who wanted to visit Heywood. By the time my day ended, however, I had gone over the normal allotted time I spend at this ministry and was wiped out. I totally forgot about my plans to lead a visit to the hospital (which is conveniently across the street from this group home). When I was walking to the subway, however, I remembered. I decided to backtrack and go to the hospital to visit Heywood by myself. Knowing that his condition was fragile, I thought I’d better see him now, in case he died before I returned. When I walked into his room, I was disturbed. On a ventilator, Heywood breathed jerkily, almost violently. His eyes were half closed and clearly sightless, and he was hot to the touch. It was the first time I had been with someone hooked up to a ventilator. In his dying, I was able to be more intimate with Heywood than I had been in our casual weekly interactions. I held his hand and brushed his forehead. I told him who I was and that I was praying for him, and that everyone back at home missed him. I was struck by the visual image of our hands, which, although he was unconscious, were clasped. I am white, and Heywood was black, and the contrast of our skin was for some reason very visually attractive to me. Warm brown against warm beige. The color of our skin seemed at that moment just to be color, without all the implications that skin color carries with it. Just color – not socioeconomic reality or stereotyped behavior or societal expectation or historical background. Just color – rich and warm and beautiful. It was interesting, too, as I held his hand, to reflect on the virus that lurked in the blood within his body. When my uncle died of AIDS more than a decade ago, AIDS was much scarier. There were still lots of misconceptions about how the virus could be spread. I don’t remember feeling physically at ease with my uncle in the late 80’s, when he was sick. It struck me as strange, holding Heywood’s hand, that just beneath the surface of this skin that I was admiring, just below my own hand, was a killer, something that I could legitimately be frightened of. How must it feel to have your own blood be a biohazard? To be walking around with a killer within you? I have often thought that this must be the hardest part of cancer, too – to know that your own body has betrayed you and become an enemy. And as I held his hand, relaxed and unafraid, yet aware of the paradox of peaceful intimacy outside and respectful fear of what lay within, I made a connection. There is someone in my life who has something within, emotionally speaking, that scares me a little. I hardly ever see this person – not a relative, not a member of my community, not someone I work with. But being with Heywood helped me to realize that I can have a respectful fear of this inner reality while loving and not being afraid of the person. I would be careful, very careful, with any contact with Heywood’s blood. Similarly, it’s okay to avoid contact with part of someone’s personality that can be dangerous or destructive. But just as I can treasure my time with Heywood and feel very privileged and safe as I hold his hand, I can choose ways of interacting with people that are real but not dangerous. And indeed, I think most of us have lurking within us something that could hurt, maim, or destroy. For some, it’s close to the surface, while for others it pops up only occasionally. Addictions, mental illness, racism, intolerance, consumerism, ego, AIDS. Anyone whose hand I hold has something within her that I need to avoid contracting. And I need to be careful about transmitting my “virus”, whatever it may be, to those who love me. Heywood died two days after I visited him. It was a strange feeling for me, because like I said already, we weren’t really close. Just acquaintances. I didn’t cry, nor did I feel relief. I went to his memorial service not to share, but to hear what other people said, to get to know him better in death than I did in life. And maybe that final lesson is the most important one for me to internalize. I talk a lot. A lot. But there are times when I need to sit and listen and learn. Not knowing exactly how I felt about Heywood’s death, not being able to say or do anything, not having anything to express or a way to express it, was a very strange and empty sensation. As I reflected on the experience, in the context of a workshop on prayer, it seemed clear to me that the sensation I was undergoing was exactly what I needed in my prayer life. Via negativa. The way of not-knowing. The moment of not-saying, of not-feeling, of being completely out of my depth. Of having nothing to say or give or do – not even tears to shed. Sitting and listening, being taught by reality – by hands clasped, by a virus, by a feverish, ventilated body.
June, 2006 Retreat time is very nice for me. It is interesting to see how my attitude has changed about retreat over the past few years. Retreat in the Ignatian tradition is silent, to allow God sufficient space to communicate with the retreatant, and silence is not something with which I was particularly comfortable. My first silent retreat, of just a couple days, felt somewhat uncomfortable. I made a weekend retreat in our Atlanta convent during the time I was initially discerning whether I had a vocation to religious life. It was awkward to be around people I normally chatted up a storm with and yet remain silent. I associated silence with punishment: I am going to punish you now by giving you the silent treatment. I associated silence with not-having-fun: “Class, I don’t want to hear a peep from you… you’ve lost your privilege to talk.” I associated silence with avoidance, with being socially outcast, with aggression. No wonder silence was tough for me! Later I began making monthly prayer days. Again, I tended to look at these in a negative light. Well, okay, they weren’t exactly punishment, but they were certainly ascetical acts. A whole day without reading the comics or watching the news or making small talk? I didn’t see how that was necessary for good, substantial prayer, but I just offered it as something I “had” to do, one of the “rules” of my new life. There wasn’t much incentive inherent to silence… it was only helpful and good in that it made me suffer a little bit and so discipline myself for God. I have to laugh at this now but at the time I really thought of silence merely as my way of asceticism. I could not possibly conceive of silence as something I would relish or desire on its own. Then my first eight-day retreat gave me a little more insight into the purpose of silence on retreat. I experienced a closeness to God, an intimacy into which I entered and in which I was able to remain throughout the retreat. Instead of jumping into and out of conversation with God, multi-tasking, I was able to absent myself from the daily routine and stay more synchronized with God. Prayer was easier, as I could slip in and out of prayer times without having to “power down” all the various activities of my mind, body, and voice. I was already in prayer mode. Intimacy with God was very much the theme of my prayer throughout that first eight day retreat. After that, silence was a friend instead of a tolerated in-law. Silence became a refuge instead of an exile. My prayer days became something I looked forward to and enjoyed. Prayer days were the times I could “hang out” with God, stay snuggled up to God, have deep conversations with God, without interruptions. My thirty-day retreat was a delight which still gives me things to think and pray about. I was anything but bored on retreat. Yes, I was silent (except for my daily meeting with my retreat director), but I kept busy with lots of long walks, crocheting, playing guitar, doodling, and (best of all) naps. I stayed away from anything that was intellectually distracting… no newspapers, no books save the Good Book (except at one point where I read some of the lives of the saints). No radio. No Internet. The world would somehow have to get by without my participation for a whole month. It was a way to proclaim that my relationship with God was the most important thing for me… more important than the comics, more important than email. To really pay attention to a reality that can be elusive and quiet means turning off those things that are loud and demanding. I was very, very graced on my long retreat and received lots of blessings. And somehow, the world managed without me for a whole month. I still make
monthly prayer days and enjoy them, and I just finished this year’s eight day
retreat. The dynamic of silence was again wonderful and nourishing, and I have
a newfound attitude towards silence. Silence for me now is neither something
awkward and annoying to be avoided, nor is it an ascetical practice to be done
diligently and perfectly as a sacrifice to God. No, it’s a tool, a way to tell
God I love Him by paying close attention to him. I don’t feel weird about
quietly saying hello to people in the halls or even introducing myself and
having a brief conversation with another retreatant. Silence isn’t a
black-and-white thing for me anymore. I don’t feel guilty about passing a few
words with someone, I don’t worry about someone seeing me and thinking that I’m
cheating. I don’t feel antisocial when I excuse myself to go eat in a quieter
place when the dining room is mostly filled with talking retreatants. I feel,
now that I am a more experienced pray-er, that if I’m honest and free, I will
know what I need to do as far as silence goes. On my retreat this year I kept busy with painting and drawing, which I have never done since required art classes in high school. But something in me wanted to try it again, and I’m glad. The process of art, in my case my desire to make an icon of St. Rafaela, was like the process of prayer – imperfect, gradual, cumulative. Little learnings here and there. Lots of doodles and drafts, and without pressure to perform. That was kind of the theme of this year’s retreat, when I look back on it. Not everything has to be a final draft. I’ve often lived by the motto, “life is not a dress rehearsal!” In other words, you have to strive for perfection… this is the only chance you get to live… be serious… perform like you mean it. Well, this retreat encouraged me to say, “hey, life is continual rehearsal!” Life builds on itself, grows, changes. Let up the pressure a little. Life, prayer, formation… all of them are progressive. Unfinishedness and imperfection are not sins. Incomplete growth is not moral failure. It’s okay to hand in a first draft.
Episode 56: One of Those Weeks July, 2006 It has been one of those weeks. You know, the kind that seems as if it belongs in a sitcom or TV movie instead of your life. A week (actually a couple of weeks) full of activity, of ceaseless impacts, one after another. I’m not complaining, really, although some of these impacts were definitely tragic ones, and painful. It is just interesting to analyze my own experience of being stretched, worked out, beaten up, pushed beyond my limits. I have had, these days, a kind of spiritual and emotional boot camp. My own capabilities (or, rather, God’s empowering grace) has surprised me through these experiences. I began on Thursday, June 15, driving from Philly to Athens, Georgia, a trip that took me about 15 hours. Then I was busy working the Eucharistic Congress, which was great fun but also exhausting. Immediately thereafter, it was a birthday celebration for me (early) given by my Athens sisters. Then on Monday I found out that a good friend had been killed and three others hurt in a bad auto accident. I made some phone calls and went to the wake. The next day was the funeral, then the next day a long drive to the hospital to visit my two pals still recovering from surgery and from the various injuries sustained in the accident. I had ministry again on Thursday…a prayer group known as Spirit and Truth. I spoke about religious life. On Friday I went down to the hospital again, having to stop on the way for some emergency car repair (which I myself executed, MacGuyver style, with chewing gum and duct tape). Friday afternoon my friend was released from the hospital and I drove her home, which took a good 5 or 6 hours. Then back to Atlanta, where I was staying in our convent. The next day was a vocations retreat for Hispanic women. Conducted wholly in Spanish, this retreat was a real challenge for my limited language abilities! Still, I enjoyed it. Saturday evening, however, I finally broke down after days of unending activity and wept and wept for my friend. Sunday was time for me to pack, go out for birthday dinner number two, and play computer doctor for my sisters. Monday took me to Athens, Georgia, then to Loganville, Georgia, and finally to Nashville, Tennessee, where I shared a birthday meal with my mom (Oh, my birthday was Sunday, and Mom’s was Saturday). On the drive to Nashville, in the pouring rain, I got a phone call telling me that my trip to Bolivia was moved up from mid-August to early July. My car needs fixing, my prayer life has been insufficient, my sleep sporadic. I have put over 2300 miles on the Taurus since I left home almost 2 weeks ago. And yet, through all of this, I have a peace and a sense of humor that keeps me afloat. Prayer isn’t always easy in situations like these. Today, in the Mercy convent where I am staying, I spent a few hours finally “catching up” with God. I struggled for awhile, feeling a little lonely and out-of-sorts. The numbing effect of frenetic activity had worn off and prayer felt painful, like a limb coming awake, with pins and needles and a little nervous anxiety. And in praying, I realized that in one sense what I was seeking in prayer was not the God of consolations, but rather the consolations of God. I wanted the hurt, sorrow, confusion to go away. I wanted to stop feeling icky. Taking this to God in prayer, I admitted that although my “lower” self simply wanted to feel better, another part of me really wanted to just be with God in the bitter and the sweet, to feel the way I’m feeling and know that God is with me nonetheless. I didn’t want just the God of spiritual highs. And so in my recliner, not finding answers and not finding a warm fuzzy, I got back in touch with God instead of running around meeting old friends and covering up the sadness, the doubt, the thread of anger. And little by little, I felt better, and fell asleep. And then the phone rang. July, 2006
Dear Jenny, I hope you don’t mind that this letter is public, part of my “Convent Files.” I imagine you would be pleased at knowing you had some measure of fame, even if it were just in an obscure blog. I want to connect with you, want to recall our fun times together. I want to tell other people about you, too, now that you are gone to God. I’m a lousy eulogist but not a bad letter writer, so I thought this might be a good way to remember you. Happy Birthday! You would have been 34 years old today. Remember how awful I was to you on your thirtieth birthday? The cane? The “over the hill” theme? And next to turn the big three-oh was Karl, I think. I’m lucky I moved away before my thirtieth birthday… revenge is sweet and I have been savage to you guys! I wish I had kept in better touch once I left Atlanta. You know how I am about the phone…I hate it! And you were never an email person. So I let too much time slip by. I’m sorry about that. I’m not sorry, however, for hating your cat. After all, Taz has some pretty disgusting digestive problems. While I was living with you, I learned to always wear shoes indoors, a lesson that has stayed with me. I do want to apologize for being so bossy, though. There were a few times I just kind of ran over you in conversation or when you were trying to come to a decision. I was impatient. Still am, as a matter of fact. Maybe you can help me with that. And I complained about your housekeeping, which wasn’t exactly fair considering how much you worked. Sorry! Still, even though I wasn’t a perfect roommate, I feel like I was pretty good. Remember the time we bought a pipe snake and got the clog out of the bathroom sink? YUCK! But what a sense of triumph when it was all over. Speaking of triumph, that’s what I felt after I changed the light switch in the upstairs bathroom. Success, and without electrocuting myself or others! I tried to contribute what I could to the house. It was the least I could do after you let me stay with you for cheap when I was trying to pay off my loans and enter the convent. You were a good friend that way – stepping in to help whenever anyone needed it. Sometimes you were so generous that we, your friends, thought you were being naïve, letting people take advantage of you. After all, you were simple, a little slow. Now I wonder if maybe you weren’t the most together and smart of all of us. Without knowing it, you lived the message of Jesus… concern, generosity, sensitivity, real human emotion. You weren’t pretentious, and you taught me how to be a little more “real”, too. You were tiny, physically, but wiry and strong because of the daily baby bench-press at work. Toting around the kids made you all muscle. I underestimated you big time that night I challenged you to an arm-wrestling match. Remember, in the basement of the old house? You beat me pretty handily as I recall. Maybe today for your birthday I will indulge in a Jenny-style dinner: Combos, Twix, Mountain Dew. I will forgo the requisite after-dinner cigarette, however, lest I scandalize the nuns! You seemed to be very excited for me to be entering the convent, and the questions and conversations that my journey brought about gradually led to my asking you if you were interested in entering the Church. You were, and you did! That’s a big consolation to me now. When I feel guilty about not staying in touch, or being manipulative or argumentative, I can remember that moment of invitation. I so wish I could have been there on your big day, when you were received into the Church. I never anticipated that you would be seeing God face-to-face before I did. You passed me! So now you’re the expert and I’m the student. So help me out, as I go to Bolivia. You loved to travel and never got to see as much of the world as you would have liked. So accompany me on my trip, would you?
There’s a lot more to say about what I
will miss about you, and things I wish I had done differently, and things I’m
glad about. But most of all, I want to say “Thanks.” I never said it enough,
never felt it enough, when you were alive. So, thanks. I miss you. JOY
August, 2006 Dear Family and Friends, Since I’m here in Cochabamba laid up with T'oro-T'oro-itis (my name for the infirmity that has laid low all the novices who were in T'oro-T'oro), I thought I would take time to update you all on what I’m doing and seeing in the extreme isolation and poverty of the north of Potosí.
The above pic shows some of the friends I have been ministering with these days. From left to right: Claudia, novice ACJ, from Peru. She speaks Quechua which is a big asset in T'oro T'oro. Marcela, novice ACJ, from Chile. She was my roommate while there were four of us novices together in Toro Toro (now I’m the only one and have my own room). Carmen Inés, Bolivian aspirant who is making her experience prior to postulancy in Toro Toro. She is only 18 years old but mature, responsible, and wise. Carmen Robles, acj, professed Handmaid from Peru. They are seated at some dinosaur tracks not far from our house! The photo below is of our trip to el Vergel, a green dripping water paradise only three km from town! Of course the 3 km includes a descent into the bowels of the earth, navigating a canyon, boulder hopping, rock climbing, and shimmying along narrow paths that threaten to crumble beneath your feet, but hey! Those 3 km took almost 3 hours each way. We went with our entire internado. An internado is like a boarding school without the school. Eighty plus kids live together in our home, because in their remote villages there is no education or very poor educational opportunities. They go home on holidays and some weekends, usually walking hours at a time to reach their community. We have both boys and girls, and we provide a safe, home-like environment for them. They have camp-style sleeping quarters (rows of bunk beds), three meals a day, catechesis, love, support, educational reinforcement, recreation, guidance, and of course access to the town school (which is a Fe y Alegria school).
What you can’t easily tell from the picture is that the first row of people is standing on a narrow rock bridge, not supported from behind. I am on the right, with a yellow straw hat and sunglasses.
Above, in Vergel. The nymphs above are (top row, left to right), Esther, an interna in her senior year of high school, Alinda, an interna in 8th grade, and (bottom row), Marce, the novice from Chile.
You can’t see the statue well, but Tata Santiago is dressed like a colonial soldier, in military garb, hat, epaulets and all, mounted on a white horse with a sword brandished above his head. Beneath the hooves of his trusty steed is, of course, Satan. The feast of Santiago is celebrated with mass pilgrimage from all corners of the countryside. Men playing pan pipes and chewing coca leaves (how can they do that at the same time???) descend on Toro Toro from all over, get sloshed on chicha (a brew famous in this part of Bolivia), and make noise all night long for a week. Oh, and there’s a Mass, too. (Sarcastic tone). Some progress has been made lately in that people are less likely to actually pass out drunk in church, but needless to say I was very happy to bid a fond farewell to Tata Santiago and his faithful once the week of partying was over. See below for a shot of the pipe-playing pasantes (pilgrims).
August 6th is the national Independence Day and the kids at the school hosted a daylong celebration of Bolivian culture, including dance. In the background you see the flag, the primary school building, and the omnipresent mountains that frame this glorious part of the world.
Above: ¡Viva, Bolivia! Celebrating 6 August with cheer and wine. This is the dining room and community room of the convent. Our home is small but comfortable and within the internado complex. Rarely an hour goes by, from 6 am to 9 pm, without the plaintive cry at our back door... “hermanita?” Someone wants permission to go somewhere, or wants to borrow something, or needs help with something, and can’t find one of us in the internado proper. So our back door is central receiving. More later, with more pics! LOVE, Joy
August, 2006 More news from Bolivia: stories from your friendly missionary JOY. Okay, so I promised some stories. Here goes, in no particular order. First off, I am now herbal remedy queen. Medicines are cheap here but not used as widely. I am a big fan of traditional medicine, aspirin, cough syrup and the like, but I am growing in my appreciation of Pachamama, mother earth, and what God gives us through our plants. Coca is really a wonder herb. I gargled with coca tea that I made myself, extra strong and with mashed-up leaves to release the natural anaesthetic. It helped soothe the pain of my sore throat (novocaine is one extract of coca). It also is a stimulant, not too strong, which has helped clear my sinuses a little bit at times. It's also regarded as the best remedy for altitude sickness and general lethargy. For the indigenous peoples of Bolivia, it is one of the most important cultural values, and some chew the leaf constantly... and I do mean constantly, including during Mass! I am sure that the leaf is addictive if you use it daily... like coffee is... but it is definitely not a "drug". Is it important to reduce cocaine use and manufacture? Yes, of course. But not at the cost of the local coca farmer who is only following the healthy tradition of hundreds or thousands of years. So, I will likely fail any drug test I'm given for awhile, until the coca clears my system. Another herb that I have made friends with is tara. I'm not sure exactly what it is, because I think the name is local to the Andes . It is a type of seed pod with an ugly taste, but an infusion of tara is an astringent and anti-infective which helped keep me going until I could reach traditional medicine. Also for gargling, but I drank a very weak infusion of tara in the hopes that the astringent qualities would help clear some of the gunk out of my system. I did feel better after a couple of days of tara, although the bitter smell and taste comes out of my skin, as I discovered after my trip from Toro Toro to Cochabamba . The "just in case" money I had tucked into my bra reeked of tara after being in contact with my skin for 8 hours. Eucalyptus, another favorite. Three of the interns from the internado, two of whom are among my favorites, brought me branches and branches of eucalyptus when they heard that I was still sick after a week of coughing. I mean, hundreds of leaves. My room smelled like a Vick's laboratory or a koala reserve. At any rate, I drank eucalyptus tea, crushed leaves to inhale the volatile oils, and generally made good use of the eucalyptus. I took my slip, stuffed it with leaves, tied both ends, and made an herbal pillow. The weight and warmth of my head released the vapors little by little over the night and helped me breathe. I have brought the rest of the leaves here to Cochabamba to share with the rest of the sick ward. Geranium leaves, I've used those, too, and of course lemon and honey and camomile, the old favorites from home. These are no substitutes for good old fashioned biochemistry and the pharmaceutical industry, but they do make good supplements. About my illness... I feel a little like Typhoid Mary, with my rattley cough and oozing eyes. I have conjunctivitis in both eyes now, plus sinusitis and inflammation of my throat, tonsils, and lungs. Yee hah! It is less painful than it sounds. Mostly I am tired all the time. I think what happened is that I got a little sick a couple of weeks ago, and never really gave myself a chance to get well. The short round of antibiotics I received in Toro Toro was enough to alleviate the symptoms but not really to eliminate the infection. By the time I reached Cochabamba Friday, I was in bad shape. Now I am feeling better, with 1500 mg of cephalexin daily (!), a heathly dose of cough syrup, and loratadine to fight my allergies. I am sleeping a lot, but I figure my body needs it and I am not fighting. Those of you who know how anal retentive I can be about going to Mass will know I really am sick when I say that I have not been to Mass in days. Today is Sunday and I am headed out to Mass, but I picked the closest and shortest Mass possible so as to be back in my bed quickly. The cost of medical care here is startlingly low. Of course, I say that with a fistful of American dollars and the backing of my American province. But really, it's shockingly low. For example, a consultation, round of antibiotics, and a week's worth of ibuprofen cost me less than $2 US in Toro Toro. A specialist, ear-nose-throat doctor with a fancy office here in Cochabamba charged 100 Bolivianos, or about $12 US for my consultation, and all my medicines, including antibiotics, cost less than $8. I wish I had brought more money with me... to stock up on loratadine, for example (claritin)... a month's worth of generic Claritin is about $2. The cough syrup here tastes better (like bubble gum, and without that nasty aftertaste!) and is less than a dollar a bottle. I will try to stock up! I have also experienced, in addition to physical/health poverty, a poverty of language. Some of my errors in Spanish are truly legendary and will be passed down from Handmaid to Handmaid for years to come. One of the funniest is when my shoulder was aching from sleeping funny. I said, "Ay! Me duele el hombre" instead of "Ay! Me duele el hombro." The difference is pretty big... "Ow, my man is hurting me" versus "Ow, my shoulder is hurting me." Thank God I can laugh at myself although at times I wish I was a little less funny and a little more profound. I have been useful for translating for tourists and traveling American missionaries occasionally, so that's good at least. Speaking of languages, I can sing a few lines of Quechua. "Señor juchasnikumanta kuyawayku." "Cristo, juchasnikumanta kuyawayku." "Señor juchasnikumanta kuyawayku." A really useful word in the internado is "mana". "No". All of the internos/as speak Spanish as a second language, after Quechua (and in some cases even Quechua is a second language, after Aymara). So they are generally compassionate and understanding in my butchering of Spanish. They try to teach me more Quechua, but for me it is like stacking wet spaghetti. The words just flop over and fall out of my head before they get a chance to settle in. Several of the internos have asked if they can go to the USA with me. I say, yes, if they can fold themselves up small enough to fit in my bag, they can go. I have not found any resentment of US policy or culture here, despite my presupposition that I would be viewed as the representative of an imperalist nation. Not even the adults seem to harbor anything against the USA . In fact, I am probably the most anti-American resident of Toro Toro, with my frustration at our foreign policy, the war, consumerism, free trade, etc. My prayer life is thriving here... prayer is my refuge and a real recreation for me. I made a point of not taking any "safety nets" with me when I left the US ... no English-language novels, no American music, nothing to blunt the pain... not even an English-language Bible! I am so so glad I did so, because instead of turning to a book or CD to soothe me, I turn to God. Never has my prayer been so fulfilling, even when it is dry and without feeling. I have a strong sense that I am doing God's will and that God and Rafaela Mary are very proud of me and my efforts. I have not felt this strongly assured of my path in a long time, possibly ever. I have learned a lot about just being present in prayer, and just being present in ministry, without "doing" much, or without doing anything at all. Presence has become a theme of my prayer life. I feel especially graced even in my illness, because I am learning how to accept service, not just give service. I have discovered that being served, and accepting help with gratitude and grace, is an encounter with God. It isn't just in giving of myself that I encounter God... it is also in receiving the loving care of another. More later, JOY
September, 2006 September 5, 2006
Well, I'm back in Toro Toro after recuperating in Cochabamba. My return came as a surprise... the plan was to wait until Sunday 10 September and go by flota (bus). I was still feeling a little under the weather when Sr. Lita offered me the chance to return with the parish priest of T’oro T’oro (who, as it turns out, was also sick and was also recuperating in Cochabamba in his religious community -- so it wasn't just me!). After a discussion it seemed like the better choice to risk going, given my limited time here and my fairly steady improvement, health-wise. I was a little nervous to be sure, and I prayed about it (don't laugh), asking God to make me really sick in the morning if my return was a bad idea. As it turns out I felt well and throughout the day Wednesday (the day of my surprise return) I continually felt better.
A big frustration for me here has been the difference of opinion in why I'm sick and how to get well. I have been told that eating spicy food, eating cold food, wearing a hat, not wearing a hat, and other various choices have aggravated my illness. Talk about blaming the victim! The doctor here in Cochabamba is nice but I am not sure I trust his instincts... his exams were under a minute and he diagnosed a bacterial infection by (this is gross) smelling, yes, smelling, my throat scrapings. Um, yeah, how about sending that to the lab? I am trying not to be too culturally snobbish, but really.
The journey from Cochabamba here was nice. I traveled with Father Paco, the Claretian priest in charge of the mission here. He is Spanish and has lived in Bolivia for 33 years! We had a great 5 hours of conversation about family, vocation, religious life, culture, you name it. I think we are now officially pals. I am going with him and a volunteer to one of the outlying communities (for whom T'oro T'oro is the big city) this Sunday. It was much nicer to travel by private car than by flota. First of all, there is no blaring music. Secondly, a four wheel drive truck has a little more agility than a huge lumbering death bus and does not tilt crazily at hairpin turns. Also you don't stop every five minutes to let someone on or off.
I am so in love with this country. The terrain is so beautiful it makes me want to weep with joy. I cannot describe in words how lovely the area around T’oro T’oro is. It is achingly beautiful. Paco and I stopped for a half hour to rest and have a snack and we experienced the most profound and beautiful silence... there was literally no sound except for the wind and the birds...and here we are in paradise, looking down into this river and hearing the sound of the air passing thru the canyon and over the water. Big wow. We pass through red rock country, with brick-colored cliffs soaring overhead. The whole terrain here has been subject to all kinds of seismic activity, so the layers of rock got shifted and tilted. It is hard to describe how it looks, but it looks like someone just picked up a huge section of earth, tilted it, and jammed it back into the soil at an angle. The layers of rock run uphill and downhill... it is dizzying at times.
There are many places in the road where rocks fall. It is a little disconcerting to drive along a road and see a huge, 1-2 foot diameter rock smack in the middle of the road. Wow, if we had been right here a few hours ago, I would be in heaven right now. The red rocks give way to granite and what must be copper deposits... in some places the dirt is green, yes, green! The road is paved in a very few parts and is mostly dirt. It is only one lane, so when one goes around a blind curve (which is about every 3 minutes, no lie, because you are skirting a mountain range with its twists and turns), you lay on your horn so that whatever is in your path will know you are coming. Thanks to this tradition, we avoided impacting a rather large, scary flota coming our way. We also managed to warn off two sets of farmers-with-bulls. Laying on the horn also works to scare off goats. I have seen more goats here than in my whole life prior. Literally hundreds... flocks and flocks, wild and domestic. They understand the horn and get the heck out of the way. Likewise the sheep, which are frequent but not as many as the goats. The pigs are generally indifferent and the chickens are suicidal. Dogs are a mixed bag; they either chase the car or get scared off. I am so glad I did not offer to drive... it is a special skill set to manage these roads. For example, let's say you survived the trip from Cochabamba to the T’oro T’oro area. A noteworthy achievement! But you still have to go UP the T’oro T’oro mountains to go back DOWN into the valley where the town is. Hairpin curves are scary going down, but even scarier going up, because you have to go FAST around the curve so as not to lose momentum. This entails taking the curve to the extreme edge and then whipping the wheel so you don't careen off the mountain to your death. Fun! Luckily I went to confession in Cochabamba so I was ready for whatever might happen.
It has been an interesting few days, the capstone of which has got to be yesterday's funeral. Talk about cultural immersion. If you want to really know a place, go to a wedding and a funeral. I am still waiting for the chance to go to a wedding here but the funeral part I got to do yesterday. I along with two Sisters and a veritable flock of internos -- it was the uncle of one of the girls who died. We began by walking and walking and walking to the place of the interment. Sure enough, there was a coffin, and mourners. A motley crew we were, some in jeans, some in traditional garb, some in mainstream (non-indigenous) dress.
A pause here to note that in every underdeveloped country I have visited, I have had tourist's diarrhea, here included. I don't particularly care for it and try to be very careful with what I put in my mouth.
There was a very nice señora who was ladling out an unspecified beverage from a sketchy looking bucket. The water here is not potable, we boil ours before drinking... and here is this lady giving out a beverage, I know not what, made presumably from dirty water, in a bucket that might or might not be clean, in the open air with dust and God knows what. And she hands me a cup. CULTURAL CRISIS MOMENT! Okay, what do I do? I need to care for my body, but at the same time, here is this señora, who it turns out is the widow, giving me hospitality. What do I do? Oh, and by the way, the cups get reused over and over again by the whole community without being washed ... there are 6 cups and 60 mourners, so this is public health enemy number one.
Of course you know what I do. I drink the stuff. It is actually not bad; it is like kool-aid. I am already on antibiotics so I just say a prayer and chug. I do not do the traditional offering to Pachamama by pouring out some of my drink... although this might be the smart thing to do health-wise, to avoid drinking much dubious water, I thought the theological detriment would be too great. So far I do not have dysentery. Needless to say when I get back to the United States I am going to have myself checked for everything from TB to tapeworms.
Meanwhile the mourners are drinking (and offering to Pachamama) chicha (the famous brew that gets half the valley wasted on major holidays). One of the pallbearers has an impressive, Dizzy Gillespi-esque mound of coca leaves in one cheek. The pallbearers hoist the coffin with leather straps and we stagger uphill another quarter mile to the cemetery. There, the gravedigger is passed out drunk by the grave... and no one blinks an eye. We just step over him. Sister Julia says a few prayers, there is some hysterical mourning, and then a big argument about whether or not to open the coffin to give the deceased food for the journey. Finally, as the sun is setting, the deceased is lowered into the earth. This is a tradition here. The family shovels the dirt over the coffin and a humble cross is shoved into the top of the burial mound. I have kept busy this whole time by consoling distressed internos and by policing the youngest kids (not of the internado), who at the age of about 5 seem to be very interested in putting out each other's eyes by throwing rocks. Fun! Of course the only thing I can do is look stern and say, "Mana!" as if I mean it ("Mana" is obviously Quechua for "no!"). They are not terribly convinced but do change their tactic to seeing who can throw rocks the farthest, which I consider a fine alternative to actually stoning one another at a funeral.
Then for dinner, a delicious soup at the internado. But what emerges from my soup but a giant chicken foot, with claws and skin and everything. This is the first time I have actually felt revulsion for a food product here. I am eating meat here without too much difficulty, but I just cannot eat meat that looks like the former animal. Chicken on the bone is too much for me, and even worse is a chicken foot, which looks disturbingly like a curled hand begging for alms. Truly a stomach churning moment. I choke down the rest of the soup, sans foot, and reflect that this was more traumatic than the funeral.
Today was my cooking day... I made pepper steak and apple pie. Everything here is from scratch... and no microwave... so I hand rolled the pie crusts and everything! I am very proud of myself. It looked and tasted great although it was a little watery inside. Apparently you really can't substitute milk and apple juice for cream in a pie recipe! Lesson learned. Still, I got rave reviews which was quite nice.
The kids missed me and are super affectionate and kind to me. I love them too. Saying goodbye will be tough!
I love this place. Cochabamba is nice because of the community, the other novices, the gardens... the internet access J but T’oro T’oro is "home". You know that feeling of your heart beating faster with anticipation when you get close to home after a long trip? That's how I felt coming back here. I feel more comfortable here... more of a fit. Maybe it is because deep down I have always been a country girl, it is in my genes, and I have loved to be "away from it all" in the form of telephone and email. I used to go camping every month... sometimes every weekend... and that craving for nature and human companionship without electronic interference has never gone away. Heck, the kids even cook on a giant fire in our backyard! If only I had marshmallows!
September 11, 2006
I have cried a lot today... the anniversary of September 11 has hit me harder than I anticipated. Maybe it is that I am so far away, or maybe it is the buildup of lots of other tears that have not been expressed. Anyway, it has been a tough day for me so far and it is only noon! I am very united with all of you in the USA.
Yesterday was my mission trip to an outlying pueblo. Unforgettable in many ways! Laugh....
First of all, the road. The road from T’oro T’oro to Pocosuco Chico is a couple of hours of ... I don't have words ... off-road driving. It is a "road" but imagine driving up and down the stairs of the Philly Art Museum. Seriously. Have you seen those SUV commercials where they show the SUV going up and down rocks and over tree trunks and stuff? This is reality in the north of Potosi. The drive was so rough that if you are prone to motion sickness, which I am not, thank God, you are guaranteed to be sick. I cannot overemphasize that this road was the bumpiest, roughest road I have ever encountered. It is less scary than the road from Cochabamba to T’oro T’oro, because either I am now used to being close to mortal danger or it is actually a less scary road. There are plenty of sheer drops, but it is not as widely traveled, so it feels less dangerous.
We arrive at the crossroads where we will begin our hour-long walk to the community... there is no drivable road. I concentrated a lot on falling quietly so as not to attract attention to myself. Imagine.... an hour's journey down into a valley, gorgeous, beautiful, but with lots of loose rock, gravel, and dust. I slipped a bunch of times and fell twice. Embarrassing, but no harm done. I am learning how to walk downhill in loose dirt. The secret is to move quickly (not carefully and slowly, as instinct might dictate). This is not a scientific explanation, but my inner polytheist/anthropomorphist would describe the technique as "stepping quickly enough that the dirt doesn't realize you are there and decide to slip out from under you so you fall on your tushy." Really, walking downhill in a plantless, loose-soil environment is more of a controlled fall than anything. You let gravity take you and resist just enough to not fly off the next ridge. "Well," I thought optimistically, "at least on the way out of the valley it will be easier...." HA HA! Hysterical and slightly mad laughter here. Yes, it was easier, biomechanically, fewer falls and so forth, but hello, uphill for an hour and a half at high altitude? This was the closest to hell I have ever come to... but more about that later.
So we arrive at the house of a catechist after an hour of walking. This is literally a mud and straw hut with a thatched roof. We are invited to dine. Oh yes, how I would love to eat some food here (irony). There is no way to say no of course, same as with the widow from the funeral. So out comes the food. It is interesting to see the pecking order. Priest, then male catechist, then Joy (not sure if they knew I was a sister or not), then other girl traveling with us (Margarita, an interna), then Prudencio, the male volunteer, then the family of the house. Padre Paco gets the only spoon and the rest of us are to eat with our hands. This does not bother me in the least, I am not particularly hung up on manners, just hygiene. But Paco offers me the spoon and I accept because it is nice of him to do it and I am learning how to accept nice gestures without fighting them off. The whole "just treat me like I'm from here, not a gringa" attitude is unrealistic and I have gained some flexibility in special treatment.
So, spoon in hand, I look down at my dish. Jesus, help. A huge bowl of rice with greasy brown lumps and a greasy meat chunk. I should say that we are sitting in the "front yard" which is a tiny fenced in area which doubles as kitchen and butchering place. We are sitting partially under an A-frame wooden support from which hangs a pot of raw meat, a carcass of what I think was a sheep, and a hide of some animal. Please take me now, Jesus, really, I cannot eat this. I poke one of the brown lumps and try it. Thank God, it is not a meat product, it is chuño, something I actually like, which I can only describe as a reconstituted freeze-dried potato. I will have to bring some back with me (still freeze dried of course) if customs will allow it. It is an interesting food product.
The rice and chuños I can handle, but the greasy meat lump I pass off to Paco. God bless him forever, I will pray for him to the end of my days. All this spoon and meat passing is done very subtly so as not to offend or embarrass our hosts. From a shared cup the four of us (Paco, I, Margarita, and Prudencio) share some sort of fizzy pop. Thank you Jesus that they did not offer water! Although truly, the water here probably comes from a well and is safe to drink. But anyway, it was nice to have something bottled. We left after blessing the land and before the chicken for dinner got killed.
A few more minutes brought us to the "pueblo" which consists of about three buildings. A group of hula hulas, pan-pipe playing men, greets us, along with a couple of girls waving flags. What a welcome! We are ushered into the "school" which does actually have a real chalkboard and chalk but is the size, I kid you not, of the bathroom Theresa and I share in Haverford. We are offered MORE food which I turn down not worrying if I offend. I am already stuffed. Paco and Prudencio set up for Mass and do some paperwork with the people while Margarita and I sit around awkwardly... she is shy and I don't speak Quechua, so we kind of do some mutual staring and smiling with the local women. The kids are SUPER interested in me... a woman wearing pants.... who is white... and can't speak their language.... and has sunglasses. I am the entertainment of the day. I try to engage one of the kids with my one and only full sentence in Quechua: "Imasutiki?" "What's your name?" She hides her face and giggles. This is the typical interaction I get with all the kids... they are wary of outsiders but so interested in me that they can't keep away.
FINALLY it is time for Mass... we crowd into a single room, all the people for miles around, for a Mass totally in Quechua. Although some speak Aymara, I think everyone understands Quechua. The men and a few women speak "Castellano" so I can communicate a little bit. And I can follow the Mass in Quechua, I have done it enough that I barely need the book to say the responses.
I assume that Father will consecrate a bunch of hosts to hold this poor pueblo until his next arrival. WRONG! He only consecrates the big host and the only ones who take communion are two catechists and me. I should say that by this point in the Mass I am silently weeping with frustration and sadness. It is the only time I can remember in my life that I regret being a woman. How I want to be a man so I can be a priest and serve people like these! They deserve more access to the sacraments than they have. One, holy, catholic, apostolic Church, ordain me and I promise I will stay out of the way and not cause any problems. Just send me to some abandoned place like this, you will never hear from me again but my people will have Church. Not for me, not for some feminist ideal, but for these people to whom we preach the "good news" of a church which they don't get to have and a Eucharist which they don't share. As much as I feel called to community life, I would give it up and be a lone minister here or in the thousand other places like it, if I could be a priest. I settle for offering a petition in the prayer of the faithful (en Castellano, por supuesto) that this area might have vocations to priesthood and religious life. I am so angry that these people starve for lack of Eucharist while theologians bicker about gender and holy orders.
Rage, rage, rage. Okay, calming down, Mass ends and now comes the omnipresent blessing of everything from children to farm equipment with holy water. Margarita and I slip out to go to the bathroom, which of course is mother nature. It doesn't bother me to go to the bathroom outside, I actually prefer it, because a tree stump or rocky bluff is more hygienic than most bathrooms here. After many camping trips, I am accustomed to going to the loo in the open air and I know how to find a good slope and how to hold my slacks so that no unpleasant accident happens with clothing or shoes. I have to laugh a little as I "go" because I am gazing out on the most beautiful scene ever, God's gorgeous creation, purple mountain peaks and green valleys, mile after mile of uninhabited glory. This is the most luxurious bathroom ever!
After taking care of our biological needs, it is time to be fed AGAIN. More rice, potatoes, and greasy chicken lumps and a greasy goat/sheep/cow part which I think was a vital organ but didn't inspect closely enough to be sure. I do manage to choke down some of the meat and toss the rest to visiting dogs. "Dinner" is followed by, yes, you guessed it, CHICHA! This is the first time I have had the chance to sample this very typical alcoholic beverage. The best way I can describe it is as a Zima-like, slightly sweet beverage. It definitely had a malt liquor taste... think cheap wine cooler. I only drank half because, well, getting smashed is not the best Handmaid witness. Then, the ascent …
I cannot overstate my physical exhaustion during the uphill grind. Just imagine climbing Stone Mountain three or four times after a big meal, booze, and with about half the oxygen available in every breath. Actually, at this altitude, I think the oxygen loss is only 40%, but when you are literally climbing a mountain, 40% might as well be 100%. Within a few minutes I was hyperventilating and my heart was beating out of my chest. We stopped to take a break and the fifth member of our party, a resident of the valley who was accompanying us, commented on my pathetic physical state: "Debil, ella, ¿no ve?" Thank God I did not have ample air to tell him off. Listen, buster, I am from sea level, where we have twice the oxygen! Of course the senior citizen priest makes me feel even more pathetic as he effortlessly wends his way uphill.
The big question for me now is whether or not I will have explosive diarrhea and/or vomiting. At one point I pray that if I am going to hurl, that I just do it now and get it over with. My heart was literally palpitating, beating irregularly, at one point, at which I thought, "oh, wow, I might actually die here." The rest of my body... fine... legs and arms fine.... head fine.... it is just the lack of oxygen that is getting to me. I am way more acclimated now than I was at first arrival in Bolivia, but I think my body just needs more time before launching into major uphill assaults at high altitude. I don't know how long it takes the body to produce more red blood cells to counteract sorroche, but my body hasn't done it yet!
When I say that this is the closest I have come to hell, I mean it. There was nothing funny or fun about this uphill climb. My vision blurred and everything! Try going for a run and breathing only half the number of breaths you normally would. This is what was happening to me. Everyone was concerned and I of course was embarrassed but I stopped being embarrassed when I realized that this was potentially serious and I really could kill myself by ignoring my body. Finally, I was more or less dragged uphill for an hour by Prudencio and Agustín, the famous fifth wheel who pointed out my weakness. This was the hardest thing I have ever done, physically, in my life. Worse than the half-marathon, worse than recovering from being hit by a car. I was so tired at times that my eyes actually rolled back... something I have seen only in dramatic swoons in movies. Later Paco told Sr. Julia that I really gave him a scare.
Needless to say I prayed a lot....a LOT... especially when my heartbeat was way off rhythm and I thought I really might have a problem. Normally I do not "spiritualize" things as in "offering up" suffering, but as I was climbing and facing the inevitability of more and greater suffering, of physical agony and powerlessness, plus feeling embarrassed, I thought a lot about Calvary. The last half hour or so I kept repeating (silently) "for all the sins of my life, I am truly sorry." Over and over again, thinking of all the lukewarm penances I've done, the offenses I've given to this God who climbed a mountain just to be killed... giving over this suffering that I am enduring in reparation for all the suffering I've caused or been involved in.
I should say that this has been a real grad-school level course in accepting limitations. I kind of tossed away my doctor's warning about altitude sickness and my cardiopulmonary condition (pectus excavatum). "You really should talk to a pulmonologist before you go to Bolivia." Yeah, yeah... listen, I've had this thing my whole life, it's mild and it doesn't slow me down much, this is nothing... and of course I didn't go to the pulmonologist nor to my cardiologist. Now I wonder if I should have listened. I have done wonderfully in the high altitude... not even La Paz, which sickens many, gave me any problems. But the combination of altitude and extreme exertion was just too much. Looking back, I should have known better. I just don't have the lung capacity to attempt something so tough within seven weeks of arriving.
Thank God for Prudencio and Agustín. It is not the first time that Prudencio has come to my rescue, so I jokingly told him on the drive back that I would choose a religious name: Maria Prudencia. When Prudencio helped me last time, in Vergel, the legendary hike of "3 km" that took three hours each way, I felt a little strange holding his hand and being led along the path. Holding hands for me is a romantic thing! But this time I cannot tell you how much I clung to his hand and the hand of Agustin, realizing my weakness and their strength. They pulled me uphill for an hour and it just felt like strength, love, support, and energy flowing through them to me. I told them in all honesty that I will pray a novena of rosaries for their intentions.
If sheer suffering counts, I have lost 20 pounds in this journey. In reality I think I probably gained a couple pounds with all that stupid rice.
September 12, 2006
Lots of tears yesterday... I feel so lonely and heartbroken. It is hard to describe why I feel so sad... it is partly being very upset and sorry about what has happened in the USA since 9-11, the loss of security, the war, the politics, the loss of freedoms. Also fear of what might happen on the 5th anniversary... more violence, another attack. Isolation, not knowing what is happening in the USA. Traumatic memories of that day... shame, sorrow, fear, plus anger and exhaustion. Yesterday was pretty awful. I just could not stop crying... in lauds, in Mass, in prayer, at dinner, I was a mess. I tried to be normal and happy for the kids but in Mass I just lost it and cried and cried. One of the girls next to me noticed the tears streaming down my face and that was all it took for all the kids in the lower grades (the upper grades weren't at Mass) to be interested and worried. I figured this was a teachable moment, so during the kids' dinner I explained to her why I was crying and that I was okay, I just needed to cry it out. And that was okay, she understood and told me that she cried a little too, at seeing me cry. Wow, the wisdom of children.
The trust these kids have in us is humbling. I feel so much like a parent, such is their trust and dependence on us. I have done lots of homework with our internos and bandaged wounds and comforted and exhorted and growled and all the rest. Their stories are heartbreaking, the little that I know of them.
September 17, 2006
You'll never guess what I did today....
No, really... guess....
Okay, often we don't have Mass because the priest is off in the hinterlands attending to the needs of those even more poor and isolated than we. That means that one of the Handmaids presides over a liturgy of the word. And today, for SUNDAY... with the whole (Catholic) pueblo in attendance, your very own Joy presided... yes, I even gave a homily in Español!!! I was sweating like crazy with fear but thank you JESUS I managed to do a pretty good job. After liturgy one of the residents who I didn't know asked me, "¿Eres de España, hermana?" I blushed with joy. "No, soy de los EEUU." "¡Pero hablas bien!" They are not used to Americans speaking good Castellano, so he couldn't place where I could be from. My accent wasn't quite right, and I'm white, so maybe from Spain? AWESOME! Really, I don't feel like I speak much better than I did when I left the USA but I understand three times more. Many times people ask me where I am from and express surprise when I say the US. The kids, especially, who are a little more forgiving of accents because they themselves speak with an accent and have Castellano as a second language, could not figure it out. Chile? Argentina? Mexico?
After Mass there is a general blessing with water... many don't receive communion so this is their blessing. So I blessed a bunch with water, made crosses on the foreheads of a bunch of babies, etc. I have tennis elbow from flinging water from (not a metal sprinkler thingy with holes like in the USA) a plastic flower.
The whole experience was awesome. It was the first time I have ever presided over a liturgy of the word, and in Spanish no less. I feel triumphant! Talk about conquering fears! I GAVE A HOMILY IN SPANISH!!!!! Wow. Next week I hear confessions. J
I am just in awe of God... barely five years Catholic, and I am here in Bolivia, South America, presiding over a Sunday liturgy in Spanish! I would never have believed it possible if you had told me five years ago. This God is so incredible! Okay, the adrenaline is coming down a little bit and I am tired. Maybe a nap. Love to everyone there!
JOY
September 19, 2006 Hi again.
Yesterday was another unforgettable day. I tend to have those pretty regularly these days! It began by my spending 3+ hours trying to breathe life into a bunch of old sick computers. The good news is that several which did not function now do... the bad news is that there are a couple beyond my abilities to repair. Then it was off to lunch at the house of some friends... Julia, me, and Carmen Ines, the aspirant. Delish and great fun. I was stuffed and joked as we walked home that the only thing lacking was chicha! Well, Julia made a point of popping in to visit our friend Hilda, who is elderly and alone. Surprise, surprise, Hilda makes chicha. Of course Julia knew this and it was part of a joke on me. So I drank chicha... two bowls worth!
September 20, 2006
I didn't finish yesterday's entry and I don't have much time tonight, because it is the day of the student tomorrow and we are having a dance and party here to celebrate. Today I went to another outlying community... it was much less dramatic than my trip to Pocosuco! I did however lose my glasses which is making life difficult. At least it is only a couple of weeks till I return! But as you know I am practically blind, I cannot even recognize faces at a distance of 5 meters without my glasses. L
I took a few pictures and really enjoyed myself... it was worth (I think) losing my glasses. We also encountered two stranded Swiss teenagers who are having their big travel fling before going to university. We gave them a ride to T’oro T’oro and invited them to the big shindig tonight.
My health improves by the day and I am having no problems. A few coughs in the morning and that's it.
Love to all and more details later. I want to send this with a Sister who is going to Cocha tomorrow so I will leave it as is for now. JOY
November, 2006 It's Monday night, and tomorrow is election day. I am very excited, because there is actually a candidate I agree with for whom I can vote tomorrow. He's right on the life issues, but he's also right on the social justice and civil rights issues. That's a rare combination. I am generally a "lesser of two evils" voter, because I am a hybrid... conservative on some issues, liberal on others. I have held my nose, figuratively speaking, when voting Democrat, and held my nose when voting Republican. But tomorrow I am actually happy about casting my vote! I won't say who my vote is going to; I just want to share how nice it is to not be frustrated and wary as I prepare to cast my vote. |
