My journey to this stage of my life had been almost six years long. When, as a senior, I was enrolled at St. Pat’s, my first experience with things Catholic, I fell in love with the nuns, the ritual of the Mass, the chanting of the Gregorian in the senior choir. That, incidentally was not always appreciated by the communicants, but more embarrassingly not by Monsignor himself. I don’t think I will ever forget the Mass (we were really making a hash out of our responses and chant) when Monsignor stopped Mass, turned around to face us and commanded “Will the choir please shut up!!!”
Never having had the benefit of much religious training (we went to the church nearest our home as we moved) I was ready for the guidelines of the Catholic Church. We had, of course, learned the "Now I lay me down to sleep" bedtime prayer. We had also learned the grace before meals that Uncle Ray said one day - to our childish hysteria - "Bless the food and bless the meat. Oh, what the hell, let's eat!" I had lad a long way to go and (unbeknownst to my parents) now was determined to convert.
I went on to Barry College, also staffed by the Dominican Sisters and by my junior year decided I’d waited long enough. When my parents learned what I was planning, war broke out in our home. I was taken out of college and sent to work at Southern Bell in downtown Miami. Settled into a job I liked and would have remained if not for the strike. My dad had me resign and take on the work of housekeeper at home as Mom had injured her back and needed a lot of help.
It was several months before my dad gave in and said I could go back to school. I made the conditions this time. I had earned enough money to pay for schooling myself and was determined to be independent as possible. I worked that summer too and was able to pay for my own senior year.
I was baptized when I was 21 (and not tossed out of house and home - although it was close) then applied to the Adrian Dominican Sisters to enter their community. As a new convert, I had to wait a year so worked the summer in the office at Barry and then got a job teaching 4th grade at St. Anthony’s in Ft. Lauderdale. My college major had been Latin so I had some major preparation to do for the 9 year olds.
I went home to Holyoke to be with my family (who all thought I was insane) until the date of my departure for Adrian. I remember praying on my knees with outstretched arms – praying for the courage to go ahead with my plan, for the ability to listen kindly to the members of my family who were so opposed.and to go forth without hesitation.
The day came – my dad wouldn’t even get out of bed to say good-by, my mom gave me a bag of my favorite cherries (and then I forgot to take them) and my brother drove me to Logan in Boston for my flight to Dearborn. I was finally on my way and really scared.
Monday, August 2, 2010
continuation of Remembering Convent Life
We were introduced to the Mother General (on our knees) who said some kind welcoming words. After we left her office we were ushered into the back of the most beautiful chapel I had ever seen. As the Eucharist shone down on us from its golden monstrance, I found myself hearing my father’s words of that morning, “God help you.”
Then we were outside in the garden on this lovely June afternoon. The parents and guests of the new postulants were trying to appreciate the sumptuous repast set out for their enjoyment. The click of cameras was an audible background as mothers were clinging to their daughters tearfully.
I could certainly understand it. While I had graduated college and taught a year, most of “my crowd” (as we were designated) hadn’t even graduated high school. There were over 90 of us – planning to be accepted by the Order after the six months of the Postulancy. . .I regarded it as a forever commitment, not just a try-it-out-and-see kind of venture. But that wasn’t the case for all. I heard many a parent (mostly the fathers) saying, “You just call me if you don’t like it here and I’ll come and get you right away.”
Well, we all start new ventures in our own way. As I had no parents or guests with me, I was passed and introduced from one group to another until there was a familiar face. A Kathy C., whom I knew from Florida before she entered, rescued me and we had a pleasant time catching up. She was looking forward to December and getting the habit. It grew late and the nuns went off to prayer, the postulants on sort of a sightseeing trip were led up the grand staircase to the dorms on the third floor.
Before we went up to the dorm, Kathy led me through the novitiate chapel. There must have been a dozen postulants stretched out, face down on the floor in front of the Blessed Sacrament – the host----in the golden monstrance.
It was rather a jolt and I just stood there, then genuflected, as Kathy lowered herself to the floor. I had no idea what was happening and, frankly, seeing all those black forms on the floor made me feel very uncomfortable. She remained there for a minute or two, then led me through to the stairs to the dorm. As the bell for the Grand Silence (no speaking unless in an emergency until after Mass the next day) my questions had to wait.
It was explained to us the next morning in the Postulants’ classroom. Sister MP sjpwed us how to perform the 'venia', beginning by kneeling down, kissing one's scapular (after we have the habit with the scapular) and then one makes a prostration on one's right side with the right hand 'pillowing' the head and the left hand flat on the ground."
There has been some discussion recently on the Dominican rite regarding the ritual prostration known as the 'venia', from the Latin for 'pardon' It is certainly a mark of profound humility as well as an act of penance. Howeve, like so many of the penitential exercises of the religious life, the 'venia' has fallen into abeyance.
We arrived at the third floor dorm and found those who had been first there, assigned to this floor, this dorm, were already in their bathrobes, holding their shower kits, and lined up for their turn at the elevator which would take them down to the shower room on the first floor.
I had been given a bed in the room just opposite the elevator, a room of 6 beds, arranged side by side, two, and three and one with curtains around it. Filled with questions and confusion about about the day and what life here was going to be like, it took me some time to fall asleep. The last thing I remember was asking myself the major question: How in the world did I end up here?
********************************************************************************
Then we were outside in the garden on this lovely June afternoon. The parents and guests of the new postulants were trying to appreciate the sumptuous repast set out for their enjoyment. The click of cameras was an audible background as mothers were clinging to their daughters tearfully.
I could certainly understand it. While I had graduated college and taught a year, most of “my crowd” (as we were designated) hadn’t even graduated high school. There were over 90 of us – planning to be accepted by the Order after the six months of the Postulancy. . .I regarded it as a forever commitment, not just a try-it-out-and-see kind of venture. But that wasn’t the case for all. I heard many a parent (mostly the fathers) saying, “You just call me if you don’t like it here and I’ll come and get you right away.”
Well, we all start new ventures in our own way. As I had no parents or guests with me, I was passed and introduced from one group to another until there was a familiar face. A Kathy C., whom I knew from Florida before she entered, rescued me and we had a pleasant time catching up. She was looking forward to December and getting the habit. It grew late and the nuns went off to prayer, the postulants on sort of a sightseeing trip were led up the grand staircase to the dorms on the third floor.
Before we went up to the dorm, Kathy led me through the novitiate chapel. There must have been a dozen postulants stretched out, face down on the floor in front of the Blessed Sacrament – the host----in the golden monstrance.
It was rather a jolt and I just stood there, then genuflected, as Kathy lowered herself to the floor. I had no idea what was happening and, frankly, seeing all those black forms on the floor made me feel very uncomfortable. She remained there for a minute or two, then led me through to the stairs to the dorm. As the bell for the Grand Silence (no speaking unless in an emergency until after Mass the next day) my questions had to wait.
It was explained to us the next morning in the Postulants’ classroom. Sister MP sjpwed us how to perform the 'venia', beginning by kneeling down, kissing one's scapular (after we have the habit with the scapular) and then one makes a prostration on one's right side with the right hand 'pillowing' the head and the left hand flat on the ground."
There has been some discussion recently on the Dominican rite regarding the ritual prostration known as the 'venia', from the Latin for 'pardon' It is certainly a mark of profound humility as well as an act of penance. Howeve, like so many of the penitential exercises of the religious life, the 'venia' has fallen into abeyance.
We arrived at the third floor dorm and found those who had been first there, assigned to this floor, this dorm, were already in their bathrobes, holding their shower kits, and lined up for their turn at the elevator which would take them down to the shower room on the first floor.
I had been given a bed in the room just opposite the elevator, a room of 6 beds, arranged side by side, two, and three and one with curtains around it. Filled with questions and confusion about about the day and what life here was going to be like, it took me some time to fall asleep. The last thing I remember was asking myself the major question: How in the world did I end up here?
********************************************************************************
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Chapter One continued
We were introduced to the Mother General (on our knees) who said some kind welcoming words. After we left that office we were ushered into the back of the most beautiful chapel I had ever seen. As the Eucharist shone down on us from its golden monstrance, I found myself echoing my father’s words, “God help me”.
Then we were outside in the garden on this lovely June afternoon. The parents and guests of the new postulants were trying to appreciate the sumptuous repast set out for their enjoyment. Many mothers were clinging to their daughters tearfully. I could really understand it. While I had graduated college and taught a year, most of “my crowd” (as we were designated) hadn’t even graduated high school. There were over 90 of us – planning to be accepted by the Order after the six months of the postulancy. . .I regarded it as a forever commitment, not just a try-it-out-and-see kind of venture. But that wasn’t the case for all. I heard many a parent (mostly the fathers) saying, “You just call me if you don’t like it here and I’ll come and get you right away.”
Well, we all start new ventures in our own way. As I had no parents or guests with me, I was passed and introduced from one group to another until there was a familiar face. A sweet girl whom I knew from Florida before she entered, rescued me and we had a pleasant time catching up. She was looking forward to December and getting the habit. It grew late and the nuns went off to prayer, the postulants on sort of a sightseeing trip were led up the grand staircase to the dorms on the third floor.
Then we were outside in the garden on this lovely June afternoon. The parents and guests of the new postulants were trying to appreciate the sumptuous repast set out for their enjoyment. Many mothers were clinging to their daughters tearfully. I could really understand it. While I had graduated college and taught a year, most of “my crowd” (as we were designated) hadn’t even graduated high school. There were over 90 of us – planning to be accepted by the Order after the six months of the postulancy. . .I regarded it as a forever commitment, not just a try-it-out-and-see kind of venture. But that wasn’t the case for all. I heard many a parent (mostly the fathers) saying, “You just call me if you don’t like it here and I’ll come and get you right away.”
Well, we all start new ventures in our own way. As I had no parents or guests with me, I was passed and introduced from one group to another until there was a familiar face. A sweet girl whom I knew from Florida before she entered, rescued me and we had a pleasant time catching up. She was looking forward to December and getting the habit. It grew late and the nuns went off to prayer, the postulants on sort of a sightseeing trip were led up the grand staircase to the dorms on the third floor.
Friday, April 9, 2010
The Beginning
Chapter One
Excited but regretful, I put out my last (maybe forever) cigarette as we taxied up the tarmac in Dearborn to deplane. I put my feet back into the white heels I had chosen for this blue and white Jonathon Logan dress and slinging my bag over my shoulder, I joined the line of passengers hurrying through the exit.
It was easy to spot the two women sent to “collect” me. I could see their familiar white habits (long gown, elbow length “turtle neck” collar, over the scapular, the glimpse of the black belt hung with pencil case, case for the pocket watch and full length rosary beads) immediately.
I had hoped my sponsor at Barry College would have had someone I knew from the Motherhouse, but these nuns were, though kind and welcoming, strangers. We had to hurry, they said as we got into their car as they both had appointments at the Motherhouse. They talked to each other, with an occasional word to me, all the way to Adrian, Michigan, the home of the Motherhouse of the Adrian Dominican nuns.
They drove up to the entrance of the beautiful gothic building and ushered me into a side parlor. I don’t think I ever used that front entrance again until I got the black veil and went out to my first mission a year and a half hence.
It seemed like hours that I sat alone in that parlor. It was at least one until another young woman and her parents were led there. Her name, I discovered was Eunice and her parents had come to be with her until the last moment.
I found myself beginning to ask myself what in the world did I think I was doing? I badly needed a cigarette.
We sat and made awkward conversation, she, her parents and I. Father was falsely hearty and Mother had to keep blowing her nose and wiping away the tears. Eunice looked even more uncomfortable than I felt. I thought she must want to just say her farewells and get through the next hours.
Finally, a young nun came and rescued Eunice and her family and it wasn’t long before my “guide” arrived. I had seen this nun around the Sacred Heart Convent in Ft. Lauderdale although I knew she taught at the high school. I had been a lay teacher at the elementary school there for a year and knew many of the high school nuns by sight.
I don’t remember her name, but it seemed time was of the essence again and I was hustled out of the parlor into a large room with a long table running through the center.
My suitcase was opened, the postulant outfit arranged on the table and my blue Jonathon Logan was changed for the black skirt and blouse, and the hose. The few words I remember from my dazed state were “Hurry and put your shoes on!” Mother is waiting to go back to her office. You and Eunice are the last ones she has been waiting for.”
While I was outwardly respectful and kept a pleasant face, I wondered whose fault it was that I was late! I didn’t imagine those hours of getting familiar with that parlor. As you can see, right from the start I wasn’t the meek and mild candidate I was supposed to be.
We went through the halls as quickly as I suppose the nuns were allowed to travel and arrived to meet the Mother General. She was a kind-faced nun whom I knew to be the sister of the Monsignor who had baptized me when I became 21 at St Patrick’s Church on Miami Beach. I had spent my senior year there at St. Patrick High School. Much against the wishes of my parents, I was a convert. And very much against their wishes, (holier than the church as converts tend to be,) I had decided to be a nun.
And, this was why while Eunice had her parents with her, I had no one. I was completely on my own and felt it sharply.
Excited but regretful, I put out my last (maybe forever) cigarette as we taxied up the tarmac in Dearborn to deplane. I put my feet back into the white heels I had chosen for this blue and white Jonathon Logan dress and slinging my bag over my shoulder, I joined the line of passengers hurrying through the exit.
It was easy to spot the two women sent to “collect” me. I could see their familiar white habits (long gown, elbow length “turtle neck” collar, over the scapular, the glimpse of the black belt hung with pencil case, case for the pocket watch and full length rosary beads) immediately.
I had hoped my sponsor at Barry College would have had someone I knew from the Motherhouse, but these nuns were, though kind and welcoming, strangers. We had to hurry, they said as we got into their car as they both had appointments at the Motherhouse. They talked to each other, with an occasional word to me, all the way to Adrian, Michigan, the home of the Motherhouse of the Adrian Dominican nuns.
They drove up to the entrance of the beautiful gothic building and ushered me into a side parlor. I don’t think I ever used that front entrance again until I got the black veil and went out to my first mission a year and a half hence.
It seemed like hours that I sat alone in that parlor. It was at least one until another young woman and her parents were led there. Her name, I discovered was Eunice and her parents had come to be with her until the last moment.
I found myself beginning to ask myself what in the world did I think I was doing? I badly needed a cigarette.
We sat and made awkward conversation, she, her parents and I. Father was falsely hearty and Mother had to keep blowing her nose and wiping away the tears. Eunice looked even more uncomfortable than I felt. I thought she must want to just say her farewells and get through the next hours.
Finally, a young nun came and rescued Eunice and her family and it wasn’t long before my “guide” arrived. I had seen this nun around the Sacred Heart Convent in Ft. Lauderdale although I knew she taught at the high school. I had been a lay teacher at the elementary school there for a year and knew many of the high school nuns by sight.
I don’t remember her name, but it seemed time was of the essence again and I was hustled out of the parlor into a large room with a long table running through the center.
My suitcase was opened, the postulant outfit arranged on the table and my blue Jonathon Logan was changed for the black skirt and blouse, and the hose. The few words I remember from my dazed state were “Hurry and put your shoes on!” Mother is waiting to go back to her office. You and Eunice are the last ones she has been waiting for.”
While I was outwardly respectful and kept a pleasant face, I wondered whose fault it was that I was late! I didn’t imagine those hours of getting familiar with that parlor. As you can see, right from the start I wasn’t the meek and mild candidate I was supposed to be.
We went through the halls as quickly as I suppose the nuns were allowed to travel and arrived to meet the Mother General. She was a kind-faced nun whom I knew to be the sister of the Monsignor who had baptized me when I became 21 at St Patrick’s Church on Miami Beach. I had spent my senior year there at St. Patrick High School. Much against the wishes of my parents, I was a convert. And very much against their wishes, (holier than the church as converts tend to be,) I had decided to be a nun.
And, this was why while Eunice had her parents with her, I had no one. I was completely on my own and felt it sharply.
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