Intensity-free post, please.

Where are all the Salvation Army buckets? I saw a handful while at Lyndsey’s a few weeks ago, but I saw a single one in Lancaster and I went to like every store there. Okay, that’s not true, but for real–where are they all?

I’m kind of worn out. No, not really. I haven’t done that much, just a lot more than nothing. I’m not normally a busy person, it’s true. I devote myself to my own little artistic endeavors and normally no one sees those anyway. So I’m not really worn out despite having been kind of busy, but I suddenly feel like I haven’t actually done anything except selfishly force people to be around me that I want. I’m not going to stop, I’m just saying.

My friends always do everything just right. It makes me happy and feel a little ashamed, making me think about what I should have done or how I could be better. In my heart I combine the lives Molly and Maggie have and that’s what I want. They don’t seem incompatible to me, but movies would try to prove otherwise.

Now I am sitting on my bed. It is three in the morning on Christmas Eve. I made the Browns change their Christmas party (and I say the Browns’ Christmas party meaning the Christmas party we forced them to host) to not Christmas Eve because I said I had to spend it with my mom, knowing she wouldn’t come to the party. Now I’m pretty sure she’s going somewhere tomorrow. Granted, it all may happen before I’ve even woken up. She says I never think of her. She says this a lot, every time we fight. And she believes it. She says that I only care that everyone else in my life is happy and that it doesn’t matter to me how she feels.

I don’t care about her or her feelings.

That is why I am still living at home. And why I’ve lived my life like a nun. Why I lie. Why I lie about the most important things to me. Why I feel like I’m getting an ulcer. I don’t care about her and I considered dropping out of school. I don’t care about her and I’m broke. Le sigh.

But you know what? It’s fine. I love her anyway, even if she doesn’t believe me.

And I feel like this right now:

 Which is too happy and cute to be mad.

The date is set and I’m counting down! At the end of January (January 28th, the feast of St. Thomas Aquinas, to be exact), I will be entering the monastery for a month-long aspirancy period, after which time I will return home for continued discernment regarding whether God is calling me to be a Dominican nun.

In the meantime, I get to enjoy time with my family through the holidays and into January. What a blessed time of transition!

One of the great things I always associate with the Bad Lieutenant is sports radio talk show commentary lurking in the background of the film discussing the New York Mets eventual comeback against the L.A. Dodgers.  Why?  Because my brother, like the Lieutenant, is a hard core sports gambler and he constantly reminded me of where he was, what he was doing and how much money he had on any particular game.  My brother also reminisces about hearing the same clips played in the movie, except that he heard them live.

In this movie, Keitel plays a degenerate New York cop, with massive drug, gambling, and sex addictions.  Ironically this corrupt cop is investigating the rape of a nun which leads to his eventual “salvation” or as saved as the Lieutenant could get.  There is plenty of grit in this movie so it is not for the naïve or squeamish.  The film has two ingredients that help make it a rose.  First it is original, there is no cliché story line here and second is Keitel’s acting which is almost disturbingly real.done

If you are going to go see The Bad Lieutenant Port of Call—or what ever it is, you owe it to yourself to see this one first.

Oh by the way, you can watch this movie on a date, but my significant other warns that you should not expect yourself or your date to be feeling particularly amorous afterward.

hilarious! this reminds me when i got into trouble as a freshman in high school because i pulled off the nun’s habit! why? because i was curious if they’re bald or not! hahhaha! i ended up in the principal’s office of course!

Silent Night, Deadly Night (1984)

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0088117/

Apparently the PTA fought to keep this movie out of the theaters back in the 80’s. I guess a killer Santa Claus is just not meant for the kiddies. The holidays haven’t been the same. Billy sees a crazed man dressed as Santa kill his parents when he was just a boy. If that isn’t enough, his creepy dying grandpa taunts him as well. Cut ahead 10 years later, we find Billy at work. When he if forced to play Santa, he makes them pay, they all pay! Mwahahaha! Linnea Quigley makes a cameo with a fun death scene and there is a show down with nuns. 6.5/10

DECEMBERING

The church was a bog—the shadows always

Decembering—and like December—fogged

In and revived by only Debussy—the walls

Shadowed and spoke of all they had seen:

Yes, endings, and beginnings—too soon

Endings and too late beginnings—the

Crèche life-size and coming to you in

April dreams when spring threatened

At the reenactment of the Passion.  The

Students were ushered in—boys on this

Side, girls on that—though the garb

Modified, the legs visible—the sandals

The sandals of hippies and protestors—

That young nun could do more with a

Guitar.

December 2009

Dan Davis, © 2009

Dear friends,

At our congregational meeting back at the mothership this past Saturday, we were all invited to engage in some intentional spiritual discipline as we enter more deeply into a communal discernment about our future as Sisters of St. Joseph. For me it was a no-brainer that in the face of my resistance to putting out my reflections on this blog, that it was precisely what I feel invited to in these days where, here in the northern hemisphere, the nights are still lengthening.

So, I return to you a somewhat reluctant, and very tired blogger who, nonetheless, has made a commitment to share a reflection at least every Wednesday and to engage with you via comments in between posts.

For this first post, may I simply and humbly ask your prayers for us as we ask for the grace to be open and interiorly free, as individuals and collectively, to hear the whispers of grace spoken to us at this time in our history? In return, I can assure you that we have very clearly in mind that our response must be not one of self-interest, but of generous surrender to the grace of God for the sake of all of God’s creation. I have seen signs in my own and other religious congregations recently that we intend to stand humbly in our own truth in the face of pressure from outside, and this gives me heart. At the same time, I am well aware of our own sinfulness and brokenness, and our need of prayers as we look unflinchingly and prayerfully at our gifts and our challenges.

Will you join us in prayer?

Advent blessings!
Your sister, Sandy

No one is safe these days but when Nuns are attacked it’s a particularly low punch.

Nun carjacked A NUN had her car stolen in a robbery in Levenshulme, Manchester. At about 4.30pm on Wednesday 2 December 2009, the victim – who is a member of Daughters of Charity – was in her Ford Ka, on Rushford Avenue, when she was approached by two men.

 The pair were aggressive and demanded she get out of the car. They then escaped in the car, leaving the victim, aged 62, stranded and distraught. The offenders are described as being Asian or of mixed race and in their late teens or early 20s.

The car was involved in a collision on Dickinson Road at its junction with Whiley Street shortly before 5.15pm the following day, Thursday 3 December 2009. Three men, described as Asian and about 17-years-old, were seen to run from the car. Detective Inspector Graham Atherton, from Longsight CID, said: “The victim is a very selfless individual who spends the majority of her time helping others in the community.

 She was in fact going about her honourable duties when this incident happened. As a result she has been left extremely upset and unable to continue her work in the community, meaning local residents will also suffer as a result of this needless and awful incident. I am determined to bring those responsible to justice and would ask anyone with information comes forward to police.”MAIL

The Nun & The Naughty Schoolgirls

What is spirituality concretely in your life? 

It’s really been a search for understanding. 

On my father’s side I come from the Sikh tradition. The Bedis are descendants of Guru Nanak so there always was a strong Sikh influence in my life. My mother on the other hand became a Buddhist and spent the last fifteen years of her life ordained as a Buddhist nun. My earliest and most formative years were spent in Kashmir with many Muslim friends and families. My schools were Christian — Sherwood and St Stephens. And of course the whole ethos in which I lived has been Hindu. So there have been a number of religious influences in my life.  

Through my growing up years I simply was like a sponge, absorbing everything. Then in my first college years I started listening to J. Krishnamurti. Then in Bombay I got familiar with the teachings of Osho. And I always was interested in philosophical questions. How did this all begin? How did we all come here? Is there a God, is there rebirth, is there karma? What’s the truth of it all because everyone is saying different things and not everyone can be right.

I was very heavily influenced by Buddhism because of my mother, and also as a child, I had gone with her to Burma. There, I was ordained as a Buddhist monk with the whole attire — shaven head, orange robe, begging bowl.  

What kind of an experience was it? 

It was a very pleasant though hard experience. It’s completely different from what you are used to doing. We would wake up at four, meditate, have a cup of tea then take a begging bowl and walk through the streets of Rangoon in a file of monks. People would be standing there at five o’clock in the morning to give us food, one handful for every family. All of the monks’ begging bowls would thus get filled. Once back, we would meditate some more before the midday meal — the only meal of the day; then do some studies, then a little time off, then some tea and more meditation, then back to bed. It was very difficult to get used to it initially.

“Ahh Doctor, come in come in.” The small Chinese guy at the door was paid not to know me and I shot him a glance to remind him of that fact, “So sorry, Mister Smith.” His wide, thin smile was as genuine as could be expected for a low paid goon in the drugs trade who thought he was worth more than being nice to the smoke-fiends. I’d let the Dragon Lady know, let’s see how he smiled after she’d booted him down to gutting fish in the cannery for a month. His smile twitched cruelly as he opened the door for me and I crossed the threshold between worlds.

I followed the curved path down to where a darkly translucent curtain divided me from my goal ahead. I could feel the tendrils of desire creeping around it, wafting towards me, and all the nuns in Steelhead couldn’t stop me now. I breathed the thick air in deep and pushed through the curtain to a room of cots and smoke and beautiful women.

They pamper you there. They guide you, help you, lose you and leave you.

I was in the smoke. With the Dragon lady. In the curls of her hair. Wrapped in the folds of her dress. I was far gone. I was with them again. Back with my family. Back with my wife.

**{}**

Through the darkness of impossible dreams hands found me. Strong hands. Cold hands, cold like metal. I was lifted up, borne aloft to fly safe from harm. Somewhere, in the night, someone was sawing a double bass in half. What a strange thing to do.

**{}**

The knock on the door was almost as unwelcome as the bright morning light assaulting my eyes. I stood, naked to the waist and with the face of a dead dog, and wobbled my way to the door. “Sister Sweetcheeks,” I growled at the shocked nun. Someone had replaced my throat with a bag of gravel and every word hurt like a punch in the tonsils, “to what do I owe this very great pleasure?”

The young nun tried to stop her eyes skiing down my chest and failed, she gulped hard and spun around to look out across the harbour, her face even prettier with some colour in it, “Another murder, doctor!”

Another? Once more she provided the slap I needed to wake up. When I had time, I’d like to think about that some more, but right now I had questions looking for answers, “Who? Where? Was it Dr Alter’s squid again?”

“No,” she replied not turning around but sneaking a sideways glance at me, “In the old tunnels, some poor wretch has been found hung! Sheriff Ortega has arranged for the body to be taken to your temporary morgue in the naval offices. He asks if you can get a report to him right away.”

“Does he now? Well tell him I’ll get on it right away, but I’ll be calling in these favours from the city soon enough.”

“Favours?” Sister Sweetcheeks looked round at me, her eyes alive with curiosity. God but they were beautiful eyes.

“You tell him Sis, the city owes Beck some overtime,” I smiled into her eyes, “and I intend to collect that cheque.”

****{}****

To be continued…
All the “Goodunnit? Murder in Steelhead!” posts can be read here.

*****{*}*****

Links to other blogs and stories:
1) The murders are discussed at the weekly town hall meeting here.
2) Dr Alter discovers she’s not only in the frame again, but seems to have a publicity department she was previously unaware of here.

Almost immediately after entering I noticed weight gain.  In the month I was there I’d gained 15 pounds. I was dizzy and started noticing swelling in my ankles. The prioress took me to the doctor. My blood pressure was much higher than its usual reading and with the swelling and weight gain, it was clear that I needed to change my habit (no pun intended) and do so STAT.  He put me on a low salt diet, but my prioress said that this doctor tells everyone to lose weight. She said she wouldn’t alter my diet.  Because the monastery was set on such a small parcel of land I also couldn’t really exercise. After a month, she brought me into her office and told me that she felt I was not called there, which was confusing to her because ‘you fit in so well here’.  There was nothing in her words that gave me any comfort. Two days later, amidst a heavy heart and tears, I left.

That was three years ago. The spiritual director I had was reassigned to his religious friary in Rome and my pastor was new to his parish, and offered no advice.

I became so frustrated, even angry.  I’d sold house, car and all my belongings more than once. What WAS our Lord asking of me? I am certainly no Job. I felt that if He wouldn’t allow some small grace in my life, I’d crack.  What was I to do?

Unable to find a spiritual director, or anyone who would assist me in this incredibly dark period of my life, I came close to spiraling into a depression. As a medical professional, however, I recognized the signs and ’smacked’ myself back into reality.  This was the hand I’d been dealt. And if I wasn’t called to religious life, He’d have to make that clear.

Over the next several months, I lashed out at anyone who tried to sympathize with my situation. I even stopped going to Mass on a regular basis.  It took a lot of soul searching for me to realize that even if He was NOT calling me to be His bride, He still loved me fiercely. And that was all that mattered.

So, I gave up any thoughts of religious life.

Several months ago, I started going to Mass regularly, praying the Divine Office again, and simply allowing myself to be courted by our Lord. One night I had a very vivid dream, similar to one I’d had in the early 90s.  Again, I was in the habit of a religious. I woke up crying but oddly at peace.

The first words out of my mouth that morning was “Seriously, Lord?!”  But since I allowed Him to open my heart again, He would not be deterred.  I tried to put it out of my head but the thought would pop up at the oddest times:  at work, while in the grocery store, until finally I said, “Fine, if you want me to go through this craziness again, I will do so but I have a dog now, Lord, as well as a TON of debt, so You’re going to have to make it happen, in whatever form that’s to take.”

Multiple unique opportunities have come into my life, some of which would allow me to work in the world, paying off debt while also being attached to a community. Each ‘opportunity’ is rather unique and requires discernment on its own. Perhaps as I either include or exclude any one of them as an option, I’ll share, but for right now, I choose to keep my own counsel.

Oddly enough, giving my ‘yes’ to our Lord to work in my life has yielded nothing but peace. I don’t have the frenzied anxiety that came from searching through multiple communities. I don’t have the pressured thoughts of ‘oh, no, what if I choose wrongly!?’ I don’t even have any thoughts that I’ll never be able to pay off my debt or because I’m almost 40, no one will ever accept me.  I just placed it all in the hands of our Divine Majesty, knowing He will take care of me in one way or another.

In the meantime, I pray and rid myself of many secular and extraneous things in my life, filling those gaps with Christ alone.

Don Bosco UK – Blessed Laura Vicuna.

Angel is very impressed with Blessed Laura Vicuna. She was 12 when she died. She joined a religious order at the age of 10!!!! She is awe-inspiring!!

I am often asked about which countries I enjoy photographing the most.  That’s very hard to answer, but I do enjoy going back again and again to Buddhist countries, Laos, Thailand, Cambodia, Bhutan, Tibet, Sri Lanka, and Burma. 

Buddha statue in Mandalay, Burma, 2008

Monk at the Jokhang Temple in Lhasa, Tibet, 2000

The ethics and the aesthetics of Buddhism are melded in a unique way. The vivid color of robes and sacred places contrast with the monochromatic tradition I grew up with.

 Young monks play with computer games in Sera Monastery in Bylakuppe, India, 2001

Every time I have visited a Buddhist monastery, I have seen a playfulness among the monks, a joy in the way they conduct themselves and the way they interact with each other. 

Young nun, Rangoon, Burma, 1994

Monks in the Rain, Angkor Wat, Cambodia, 1999

A monk studies Buddhist scripture in the late afternoon at a monastery in Aranyaprathet, Thailand, 1996

As I photographed the picture of the monk and the cat in a monastery in Thailand, it occured to me that all the qualities that I observed – contemplation, serenity, meditation – are ones that are antithetical to the hard-charging, ladder-climbing Western culture. 

Young monks study Buddhist scripture at a monastery in Litang, Kham, Tibet, 1999

Pilgrim praying at the Buddhist academy of Larung Gar, near Serthar, Kham, Tibet, 2001

The Monks have a way of taking something we could consider mundane, and transform it into something sacred. 

Candles are a form of offering at the Tibetan Prayer Festival, during which thousands are lit under the Bodi tree. Bodh Gaya, India, 2000

Monasteries have always been places of refuge for people and animals who have no other place to go.  Monks will share whatever they have, no matter how small. 

Woman meditates in Bagan monastery, Burma, 2008

Even though they get merits for helping people in need, one never has the impression that they do it for any other reason other than their good nature, dedication, and hospitality. 

Quotations from the Buddha:

“Teach this triple truth to all:  A generous heart, kind speech, and a life of service and compassion are the things which renew humanity.”

“Just as a candle cannot burn without fire, men cannot live without a spiritual life.”

“In the sky, there is no distinction of east and west; people create distinctions out of their own minds and then believe them to be true.”

Once again, I started discerning. This time, many years had passed, and I knew I was called to the charism of the Carmelites.  Actually this was a desire all along but I knew that since I was giving myself to our Lord unreservedly, I should do so from within Carmel. Over the past decade, whenever I would read about a saint, it was inevitably about a Carmelite. Whenever I read about any spirituality that sang to my soul, it was Carmelite spirituality. Other than a couple of books on Benedictine and Dominican life, all of my books had to do with Carmel in one way or another. It was time to allow Grace to truly lead my life.

One afternoon, I was at a get together with various religious, including a community that was fairly new to our diocese. One priest came up to me and asked if I was called to be a nun. I blinked, startled, and said I was actually thinking about it.  He suggested a particular order as one of those sisters sidled up to us. I smiled and said I was sure they were a fabulous order but I was called to be a Carmelite. The sister said that they had a great Carmelite devotion, which piqued my interest. So I wrote to one of their monasteries. She said that they do have a Carmelite devotion, even having a large statue of St. Therese in their monastery. So I decided to visit. What could it hurt, right?

However, I really felt called to the Carmelite life. Therefore I must consider Carmel as my true choice. I had written to several Carmels.  At this point I was nearing my mid 30s and many Carmels felt I could only be an extern, or they wrote back to say that I wouldn’t be a fit to their community at all. One spoke to my heart and thus I decided to visit them as well.

I enjoyed both visits. And since I finally allowed my heart to embrace the cloistered life, the life I had never allowed in the past, I could see myself in either community. I wrote to Carmel after my visit asking if I could continue to discern, or even enter. I received no word. The other monastery, however, welcomed me with open arms. Since I had pled with our Lord to open the doors of the place He was calling me to and close the doors of those He was NOT calling me to, I took this as His will for me and entered religious life once again.

The dream begins as I attend the meeting of a group which is religious or spiritual in nature. Apparently, they  function in tandem with a cluster of religious organizations, or perhaps their purpose is ancillary to the spiritual life of a larger group of people . . . maybe a whole wide swath of society. I know the group has some work that they regularly accomplish. Perhaps they present an annual event such as a religious celebration.

I’ve gone to this meeting . . . apparently for the first time. During the course of the meeting a topic arises about which I have strong opinions or some close knowledge. As the discussion strays off topic, I offer my input. The other people are impressed by my incisiveness and candor. By the end of the meeting, the group has elected me to its membership. “Just what I need,” I think. “Another group wants me to give it direction. Next thing I know they’ll be electing me leader.” Despite my inner thoughts, I accept the calling because I sense that it’s virtually inescapable, as these sort of things almost always are.

The dream shifts to a different sort of gathering—one that is perhaps some sort of “fellowship” after the group’s meeting. In any case, the assembly seems somewhat larger than if it were still only the official representatives who participated in the meeting. Or, maybe I now simply notice people who had been at the meeting but had kept quiet during it. One of these is a particularly remarkable young man in his late twenties or early thirties. I’m struck by how beautiful this man is. Maybe 6-feet or 6’2” with a mop of dark curly hair, broad shoulders, muscular arms and chest. He’s gorgeous! I think to myself, “Wow! I’d sure like to get to know him!”

I’m not certain that we speak to each other at the first gathering. I guess we must, though, because I vaguely recall hesitant, but pleasant formalities between us. My initial burst of enthusiasm fades, though, to something more like “Oh, that’s how it’s going to be. He’s way out of my league, and he surely knows it. Like usual. Damn!” As it turns out, however, this first encounter is definitely not the end of the relationship between the two of us.

After another time gap in the dream, the relationship has progressed somewhat. The two of us have encountered one another at various later events. Now, when we run into one another, we talk more fluidly and openly. I know his name. (Let’s say it’s Tony.) Yet, my sense is that our acquaintance arises mostly because we’re members of a loosely-linked community of some sort, and that fact causes us to “bump into” one another from time to time.

In the next dream episode we bump into one another breathtakingly for “real.” I don’t know what the event or occasion, though it has the air of a rather formal party in a large home or some performance space. The event is drawing to a close. Tony and I see one another in the vicinity of the door . . . at the coat check maybe. The space around us has the feel of a vestibule. We look at one another and know that “this is it!” We move into one another’s arms. It’s as if we both recognize that it’s now or never. We don’t seem to care whether it’s the right place or the right time. Our attraction has been building over time and this is the moment to acknowledge it. We obviously like each other significantly more than we’ve let on to that point. Then, we kiss. I feel his tongue tentatively, gently at my lips. I open my mouth slightly and he just barely crosses the threshold. As if he’s thinking, feeling: “Do I dare? How far should I go?” Because I sense that tentativeness, I tighten my arms around his shoulders. Though he’s taller than me, I’m in the higher position as if we might be standing on stairs.

The kiss becomes more passionate, but my attention is drawn to our groins. We’re both erect. His penis is beneath mine and presses up into my perineum. I know I’m going to ejaculate; we both are. And then I do. And, almost immediately, Tony does, too. I can feel it happening. Then, I wonder whether he’ll draw back, let go of the kiss, the embrace. I’m afraid that’s what will happen. I even loosen my arms a little to let him go if he chooses . . . but he doesn’t! He holds the embrace, almost as if he simply can’t let go of me and this wonderful moment. Nor do I want it to pass. And I’m amazed, utterly convinced of his boundless power in my life from that moment on and certain that he loves me, me and no other. All of this clarity and certainty just blooms in the dream-me. It’s almost like it’s been there all along just waiting for his embrace to flower into such unmistakable, unforgettable abundance.

After another pause in the dream time, Tony and I are “man and man,” lovers, husbands, married. We live together in a bright and airy upstairs apartment. It’s my home, our home! Our place has something of the feel of what I imagine a New York loft might have—a sense of solace and security from the big city outside. One comes up the stairs (more than a single flight, I think) to a little landing where ours is the only door. It has a window that lets light out onto the landing from inside the apartment. Go through the door and one is in the living room where a bank of tall windows lines the wall directly across from the door. A comfortable-looking, light-colored leather sofa stretches from six feet or so inside the door across the central part of the room toward the windows. Everything seems “white” even though there are other colors in the room. It’s washed in light. I don’t remember much else of the furnishings. I believe there’s a white brick fireplace some distance behind the sofa. Turn to the left and one passes a big eat-in kitchen and bathroom on the right. The hallway is wide, almost another room itself. Then you enter into a huge bedroom with windows on two corner walls, at the foot of the bed and to the right from the opening into the hallway. Everything is “white” here, too. In fact, the whole apartment is filled with almost unearthly light or white “glow.” A magical place!

Tony and I don’t actually spend much time in this place during the dream. It’s the haven where we know we can return for one another’s comfort and for the life-giving affection between us. Even in the dream, it’s amazing to me how “at home” I feel in the certainty of Tony’s love for me. As if after that first embrace there’s not any more doubt. Though I know what our apartment looks like and how it’s laid out, I only remember actually coming home to it in the dream at its very end following the episodes still to come.

The next episode of the dream is set in a big and rambling downtown building that may have once been a church or some other edifice of elevated purpose—a library or school, perhaps. Tony and I go to this place because a special ceremony is going to happen, a communal memorial of some sort, like events I’ve attended in the past for people who’ve died of AIDS. The commemoration is to be capped by a musical performance of a well-known men’s chorus and an intriguing chamber ensemble. When we arrive, many people are milling around. Some are preparing for the event; others will be the audience. We can hear the chorus rehearsing somewhere in the distance. We go upstairs—sort of into a space like a choir loft—to check on our seats. But there’s still quite a bit of time before the performance begins.

We’ve heard that the building contains a space that someone is talking about turning into a rooftop restaurant or club. Intrigued, we decide to check it out. We proceed back downstairs and along a wide hallway. We turn to the right and now we’re outside on a roofed portico with a colonnade of pillars that support arches two or three stories overhead. From this balcony, the colonnade opens over a lower section of the building where we assume the rooftop location will be built. I look out and wonder, though, why anyone finds this location ennobled enough to make a good place for an entertainment venue. Yes, one has a vista of the city, but it’s dominated by a busy elevated highway. I think there’ll be too much noise and pollution for people really to enjoy themselves.

Tony takes my arm and directs me back toward the main hallway. Now I see that it continues directly on from where we turned aside earlier to look out across the rooftop. A big square tower looms up over the rooftop courtyard at the end of where the hallway leads. I believe it obscures the late afternoon sun. When we reach the junction of the two hallway/colonnades, we turn to the right toward the position of the tower. Things are different in this hallway. The people are more organized. Rather than the memorial scene we’ve left behind in the performance hall or the curiosity-satisfying scene we’ve explored down the hallway immediately behind us, the people in this third hallway give the impression of pilgrims. It seems there’s something venerable or holy that we couldn’t see from the previous colonnade, but that can be seen from the transverse colonnade that looks across the rooftop below . . . to the east, I suppose.

In any case, rules of proper behavior pertain in this hallway. Two lines of people move in opposite directions. Those going away from us along the open colonnade are supposed not to linger for more than 30 seconds or so in their observation or veneration of whatever is the blessed object or vision. Those coming toward us along the wall on what is to us the left-hand side of the hallway are leaving the pilgrimage site. Everyone is hushed. Not silent, but speaking seldom and softly in reverentially lowered voices. Tony and I join the line leading toward the tower and along the pilgrim’s side of the colonnade. We follow the rules but either we do not look out or, if we do, I see nothing particularly noteworthy. Maybe I’m still too unimpressed by the sight of the highway from the previous viewpoint. Or, maybe I’m more interested in the behavior of the people here. I seem to be thinking about and analyzing the behavior regulations that everyone has tacitly agreed to follow. It all feels a little peculiar to me in the dream.

When we reach the end of the pilgrim’s hall, there’s a bank of bleachers or tiered benches on which people may rest. I’m not sure why they’d need to do so since it’s not like the hallway is particularly long or strenuous to traverse and the “vision” has certainly not swept ME off my feet. In conformity with everyone else’s behavior, Tony and I seat ourselves for a few minutes at the end of the pilgrim’s hall. Some others are also seated. To our left two or three elderly couples are resting. I get an inkling that, for some—maybe even for Tony—the religious experience of the pilgrimage is much more powerful or draining than it certainly is for me. I guess it depends.

Among the married couples beside us is a particularly short and heavy woman who has, for some reason, left her shoes at the foot of the aisleway that leads into the pews. It’s almost as if she simply couldn’t bear to have shoes on her feet as she climbed up toward her seat. But now that decision presents a bit of a problem for her. As her companions arise to leave, she struggles to rise with them and squeeze her way down the aisle to reach her shoes. In order to get out of the way of this departure, Tony has gone ahead down the aisle and walks along with the others of her group. I think he even strikes up a little conversation with one of the older men. I see that the last woman is struggling so much, however, that I must stop to help her. I say something reassuring and take her elbow. I help her down the stairs. She retrieves her shoes and we walk slowly, somewhat haltingly, back toward the performance hall.

When I reach the entrance to this place, there’s a row of six or seven choristers seated in chairs along the right-hand side of the hall. All of them are older men with graying hair. Their uniform for the concert includes a white tuxedo jacket. Each of them holds in the crook of his left elbow a bouquet of a dozen or two calla lilies. I think to myself that this is quite an extravagant offering, but it clearly means something to these men. Their care of the flowers shows they understand that. I go up the steps to join Tony at our seats and the concert commences.

Another gap in sequence falls here. I remember something of the music. It’s a combination of world beat, new age and very ethereal, almost synthesized pieces. But I’m not thinking categorically about the kind of music in the dream; instead I simply experience it and enjoy it. I remember being quite moved. It’s powerful music that, from time to time, makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I also remember a comfortable awareness that my man is right beside me (at my right shoulder). But for more than those two impressions, the concert itself is a blank.

When the concert ends, though, and people are leaving the theatre, the orchestra continues to play. As Tony and I linger so that others can exit ahead of us, we wander over to where the instrumentalists are arrayed. All of the instruments are strange. But, they seem more organic than synthetic. I clearly remember one of them. It consisted of an array of three- to four-foot long elegantly curved dark wooden staves that radiated up and out from a central point. One played this instrument by striking knobs on the end of the staves with a special mallet. The sounds it made were pitched something like the bass registers of a piano but with treble overtones and more like something plucked than hammered. It had an unearthly sound but one that was more angelic than demonic. The player was a woman in a long black dress. At one point the music began to shift, and she used a pedal to change the position of the staves. Where they had been more or less parallel to the floor, pedaling brought them to an upright position (perpendicular to the floor) and the knobs all swiveled to the tips of the staves, but she continued to strike them downwards as before. Now the sound of the instrument became more like that of an organ than a piano. It was a fascinating instrument and I delighted to watch it played, for the performance was almost like a dance. The music grew increasingly more ethereal until it ended. Tony and I applauded a little, quietly, and thanked the woman for hers and the group’s performance. Then, we left.

I must attend a meeting of the group from the beginning of the dream. It is taking place in an upper room of the same building as the concert. So, I wave good-bye to Tony and he goes off home. I climb the stairs to the meeting—the first since my election to the group. Things do not progress long before I grow frustrated with much of the group. It seems the men are reluctant to proceed with the planning that is our primary job. They keep offering one after another reason why we should attend to this issue or that before we get down to our business. I become more and more upset with these idiots. All the women understand that we have deadlines and much real work to accomplish if we are to bring off the event that is our objective, but the men want to dither over ideas! Before long, of course, I speak up and try to get these guys to move off their duffs.

They reply by wondering, “Just who do you think you are! You scarcely joined the group, but already suppose you can run it!” I counter by pointing out that it was they who elected me to the group on the basis of the soundness of what I had to say at the last meeting. Well, they weren’t having any of it. So, I said, “Fine! I don’t need this meeting or this organization. If my input isn’t welcome, I’ll take it elsewhere.” Of course, they really don’t want that either—especially the women among them. Eventually, the group gets me to relent my repudiation of them, and I agree to attend at least one further meeting.

At that point, the woman who has been sitting to my left at the end of the table—a woman whom I hadn’t really noticed until this point—turns toward me and rises from her chair. Suddenly, she’s a nun in a modern brown habit with a white turned down collar that has its tabs in the back of her neck. I immediately see obvious power in the woman’s sudden transformation from virtually unnoticeable to this nun who looks me in the eyes, takes the backs of each of my hands in hers and begins to sing! She sings a “power hymn” to me. Though I can no longer name the hymn, it was one I knew in the dream, one I recognized as a real hymn from waking life. As she sings to me, I began to sing along and, not long after that, the rest of the group begins singing, too. My singing, our eye contact, her touch transforms me. I feel power surge into my chest and know “I have been changed.”

The meeting ended, I go home to Tony. I climb the stairs to the familiar landing. The light is coming through the frosted glass. But, oh no! There’s a leather strap hanging on the outside of the door beside the handle. I recognize this strap. It’s about three-inches wide and more red than brown. It has curved ends and is about three feet long. The reason I’m alarmed by the peculiar detail of its hanging on the door outside the apartment is that Tony has told me in the past what the leather strap would mean if I were to find it where it is now. If I’ve ever done something “bad enough,” if I’ve ever offended him or hurt him so much that he might leave me, he’ll hang that strap on the door as he closes it. I don’t know what I’ve done, but I’m scared I’ve lost him. This is the man I love! I’ve come to hold him so strongly and deeply inside myself I can’t imagine a life without him. All of this thinking transpires in a couple instants.

At this point, the real me knows that it is definitely time to awaken, get out of bed and be on my way to work. But I say, “No, I’ve got to finish this dream. It is NOT done here!”

The leather strap is somehow involved with keeping the door shut. I have to twist and manipulate it around the handle in order to open the door. As I’m doing that, it gives me more time to think. In another flash of insight, I realize that Tony has NOT said he’d hang the strap there ONLY if he were leaving me. He said he’d put it there if he MIGHT leave me. I realize that gives me a tiny bit of a chance . . . maybe. And, in a moment of lucidity, I—the real I who is having the dream—tell myself he isn’t gone, he can’t be gone, we are bound much too tightly by our love for one another!

At that point the door opens. I walk into the bright living room. No Tony! I call his name half-loudly. He doesn’t answer. Okay, maybe my lucidity wasn’t clear enough to bespell him to be there!? I’m getting a little panicky again, but I haven’t been to the bedroom yet. That’s our special place, the place where the world falls away and we love one another and dream together! I turn to the left and walk slowly down the hallway. The brightness of the bedroom opens before me; he’s left all the blinds up. I turn to the bed and, thank God! There he is! Half-asleep, half-petulant, he’s lying on his left side with his face toward me. His right leg is bent and his knee falls across the other leg to rest in a swath of the sheets. He’s half-dressed, as if he couldn’t quite bear to finish taking off his clothing before he climbed into the solace of our bed. I go to the foot of the bed. Lose my shoes and climb up from there to join him. Our limbs intertwine; we don’t say a word. But by the way he wraps himself around me and I around him, I know I’m home, I’m safe, I’m loved more than I deserve to be, the two of us are fully reconciled, there’s joy and incredible blessing right here. What more could one want?

The dream ends. I awaken and arise immediately, full of the power of this remarkable dream! Clearly, there is no end of grace if I will but grasp it when it comes to me.

Since returning back to AZ, I knew I was called to give myself to our Lord unreservedly. But how? Back then, we had no convents of sisters who wore traditional habits, aside from a few older sisters who wore blue suits and short veils. So, there was no visual presence of these women in the life of the local Church. And yet, I somehow knew that if there were still sisters in the world today, I was to be a part of their ranks.

After a few foiled attempts, I was finally directed to a Dominican sister across town from me. I met with her and it was clear straight away that she was to be my first spiritual director. For the next couple of years, we met together for prayer and discernment. I even started attending a religious life discernment group moderated by a diocesan priest and a fellow sister of my spiritual director.

I’d written to so many communities that I am sure I could have wallpapered my bedroom! Because I had no past experience with sisters or religious life, I was almost obsessive in my desire to know all about religious life before I made the decision. A small nudging inside me proved to be very helpful and yet also very disturbing. I really felt a call to enter contemplative life. It spoke to my heart in a way that other communities did not. However, at the time, my brothers were approximately 8 and 5, so I was really afraid I’ve never see them again. I knew if I entered some monastery, especially one not too accessible to a nearby airport, chances were I would rarely see them. I prayed and prayed and couldn’t seem to offer up that attachment to family. So I started looking at communities that were contemplative but active as well.

I finally found one community that seemed to mesh with my own spirituality and decided to visit. During my visit, I really felt comfortable with these sisters. Is this were I was called? It was at this time that my spiritual director was killed in a car collision. I was crushed, as I’d developed quite an attachment to this wonderful sister! And now, I was back to having no one in my life that I could turn to in my discernment.  But, I prayed about it, felt no real reservations about applying for entrance and asked to be admitted.

That was in 1993.  I entered this wonderful community and felt like I’d found my home. Within a few days, however, I noticed that within the cloister many of the sisters spoke only Spanish, and were not all that charitable when I pointed out that I couldn’t understand what they were saying. I spent many weeks in turmoil as I not only spoke a language they were determined to speak in front of me, but I had no offers of any to assist me in learning to speak their language. Eventually, heart heavy, I realized that this wasn’t going to change. So, I asked to leave.

Six months after returning home, I was still grappling with the idea that I was called to contemplative life, but so afraid to give up that last bit of attachment. I was alerted to a relatively new community who was having a retreat at their convent for those interested in religious life. I decided to go. While there I was invited to enter their community as they felt I would be a good fit.  When the founder of their community was there, even he invited me to apply and I thought that surely our Lord was speaking through this holy man!

I of course entered, and absolutely loved it there! The prayer life, the sisters, everything was amazing. I’d come home. Shortly after entering however I got pretty ill, going to doctors almost every week. It was a serious drain on my energies. I couldn’t believe this was happening!  Was I called to religious life or was this a cruel hoax? Four months later, with this same infection still hounding me, I asked to meet with my postulant mistress as well as our prioress. We all decided that perhaps I should go home, get better, and return during their next entrance date

I took a train across the country to go home. By the time I reached my destination, all symptoms from my infection were gone. I didn’t understand it. Why would our Lord give me SUCH a fervent desire to enter religious life and a desire for a life of prayer when once I do so, I’m set upon with trials immediately? It must be that I’m not called to religious life after all.

Years went by, about 12 in all, and I tried to lead the life of a good Christian. I went to Mass, I prayed the Divine Office whenever possible, I prayed the Rosary and had several smaller devotions. I even thought I was called to married life, but our Lord who is rich in mercy made it clear after some pretty difficult lessons that I was not called to that life but to set myself aside for my Beloved alone. God is a jealous God and He wished for me to know that people are fickle, only He is faithful.

Years could not erase the seed planted in my heart. My heart spoke its desire and its desire was that of religious life. The cloister was no longer a hindrance in my heart. In fact, I yearned for the One who could fill my heart like no other.