Opera – Finding a way in February 23, 2009

Turandot

(Most opera goers pronounce it as Too-ran-dot)
This is a lovely opera for an introduction. The story is uncomplicated and follows a narrative. There are comic as well as tragic figures. Large numbers of singers and chorus numbers intersperse with beautiful arias and best of all there are two intermissions! Plus, each act is just 45 minutes so you’re not straining to get through it . Trust me, these are serious considerations!

Probably the best reason to start here is Puccini’s music. Although he is a modern (20th century composer) his music is lush, harmonic and imminently hummable. No need for a music degree nor is it necessary to have someone explain 12 tone harmonics or leitmotifs. Anyone can simply listen to the orchestra and the singers and be bathed in lusciousness.

Okay – here’s the back-story. Set in ancient China there is an emperor with a daughter. Her name is Turandot. Princes and potentates from around the globe want to marry her. But because her female ancestors were butchered and oppressed by men in the past, she refuses to marry! <a href=”http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FQ4sAJi4304 “>Feminism is not new!

Her dad thinks this is unacceptable so she comes up with three riddles that any suitor must answer to win her hand. So far the kingdom is littered with heads on spikes because the guys can’t get it.

The kingdom is sad and depressed because the blood is flowing in the streets and there is no heir. So the opera opens.
Lots of singing and jostling for position as all the subjects gather to see the Prince of Persia get beheaded for missing the riddles. Wonderful music as the tension between being grossed out and excited runs through the crowd.

Emerging from a crowd is a blind man, being led by a servant girl…and a little way over is a tall, dark handsome stranger. Turns out they’re related!! Dad lost his kingdom, son ran away, slave girl cares for dad because she is totally in love with son. Beautiful singing ensues. Her name is Liu and she, arguably, has the best music in the whole show.

Young Stranger is ticked off that the Prince of Persia is going to be beheaded and he rails against the cold-hearted Turandot. Then… the moon rises, and Turandot raises the shades of her room and commands silence. Young Stranger falls immediately, deeply in love. Ping, Pang and Pong (the three bureaucrats) come out begging him to reconsider – after all what is a woman but a pair of legs, a couple of boobs. Better to have hundreds of wives than just one! Prince of Persia is beheaded (while he is hollering out her name – TURANDOT!) and Young Stranger suddenly is seized by the urge to try his hand at the riddles.

Dad and Liu beg him to reconsider, but brash Young Stranger doesn’t listen. He dashes up the stairs, bangs on the Gong three times and declares his love for Turandot.

End of Act 1.

Act II opens with Ping, Pang and Pong reminiscing about their lives before this dreadful stint as Cabinet Officers with Turandot’s Love Life taking center stage of the kingdom. They have beautiful arias about their various summer homes, and they make arrangements for this next Emperor-Wannabe to die.

Scene 2 is this gorgeous, glorious over the top (in the Zeferelli production!) rendition of an Imperial Hall. I can’t describe the scene in the Met production, but it was in the first link where she was singing about her ancestor. It’s lush and gorgeous and maybe 200 or 300 people on stage! Marvelous!!!

Turandot sings of her ancestor and why she cannot trust a man with her soul. Her dad reminds her that if he answers the riddles she has to marry him (she is chagrined). Ping, Pang and Pong read (sing) the rules of the game. Tre Enigmi.

Young stranger stands entranced, ready to go.

Riddle 1 – What dies each night but is reborn again each morning? ESPERANZA! (Hope) … Ping, Pang and Pong are excited!! Right answer!

Riddle 2 – What flickers red like flame, but is not fire? IL SANGUE! (Blood) … Turandot is a bit shook up now…he has gotten two right. Ping, Pang and Pong are getting stoked!! Lots of singing, rejoicing and flag-waving.

Riddle 3 – What is like ice, but burns like fire? Lots of tension in the music here. You can practically here the tick-tock of the clock. Then, Young Stranger shouts out: TURANDOT!

Pandemonium ensues!!! He has won!!! Really – all hell breaks loose. The Emperor practically dances a jig. Ping, Pang and Pong do amazing Chinese gymnastics (they can get back to stimulus packages and war on Japan). Blind King and Liu are relieved he won’t be beheaded.

Turandot is not too happy.

She sings a beautiful aria begging her dad not to make her marry. Suddenly we see that she’s not just a cold-hearted bitch. She’s scared. She’s imminently human.

Young Stranger sees this too. He loves her. He is moved – he offers her an enigma. Guess his name before sunrise and he will offer his head to the Mandarin Executioner.

Turandot revives and sends all her minions out into the dark of Peking to find out his name.

Liu is plunged again into fear and sadness. Lots of hope from the Emperor, he wants a son-in-law and an heir. And to get off that freaking high pedastal.

End of Act II.

Act III has the song that everyone came to here.

Nessun Dorma. Listen to it here for sheer beauty and for crying.
Here it is within the opera.

Honestly – this may be one of the world’s greatest songs. When sung well it is heartbreaking. It means “No one sleeps” – all must be actively seeking the name of Young Stranger. He, who knows his name, is pulled by his love for her and also his willingness to sacrifice himself. He both wants her to fail and succeed.

The mob who just wants the bloodshed to end grabs Blind King and Slave Girl saying “you were with him, you know him” (doesn’t that sound familiar? Think Peter).

They threaten to kill the Blind King if Liu doesn’t tell his name. So Liu says, fine I’ll talk. Turandot is there too – and so Liu speaks to her.
It’s hard to imagine a more beautiful scene. Such love. If only all of us could be so noble, eh?

Side Note: During the Premier of Turandot in 1926 it was at this point Toscanini laid down his baton, turned to the audience and said “Here the maestro died” or something like that. Puccini had notes and sketches for the end, but he died before it was finished. The curtain came down slowly. An opera within an opera kind of thing. It’s one of the reasons I love this stuff!

Young Stranger is now enraged with grief and sadness. He bursts upon the scene, cries over Liu’s body and as it is carried away (with Blind King sadly singing along) Young Stranger turns to Turandot, grabs her and gives her a big giant kiss and tells her his name – Calaf. He doesn’t want to live in a world where this kind of love (Liu’s) is not valued.

Turandot smiles enigmatically.

So, she gathers the Empire together. Tells her father she has the name …. She sings a gorgeous reiteration of the main themes and shouts his name: Love!

The Empire rejoices, all is well and we’re swept up in a Happily Ever After with huge orchestrations, clashing cymbals, wonderful tympani and tears streaming!!!

Magnifico!! Brava!!!

End of Act III.

Not too many operas have happy endings unless they’re comedies – so this is another reason I love this one!
Here is the end scene.

Best DVD: MET
Best CD: Zubin Mehta

The Guest House (by Rumi) February 15, 2009

This being human is a guest house
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!

Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still treat each guest honorably.

They may be clearing you out for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

More Panic Story. February 6, 2009

I went to a shrink today – been having a few panic symptoms on the edge of my life. Rather than waiting till (or to see if) it gets all huge and center I decided to go have a talk about it.

It was nice seeing him again – it’s been two years. Life is good and we chatted. With about 15 minutes to go we spoke of the anxiety. He surmised that maybe I’m ready to put myself out there – writing, painting, school, whatever – and that maybe that frightens me. Makes me quake.

So I am thinking about that. It sure seems trite. SURELY I’m not that trite. Surely not!

Hmmmm. So I will write. And dig out the book and the stories that need revision. And open the blinds in the little studio room. And get the blankets off of the easel.

At least I still have a bottle of Xanax if I need it.

I think I’ll use this blog for my stories and my fiction. Just to see what it looks like. And write thoughts and rants and journal entries elsewhere.

(This is what I do – organize myself out of creating anything)

Mothers February 1, 2009

I’m a mother. I have three daughters. Gave birth to them in 1986, 1987 and 1988. They are truly the light of my life. I also have a step-daughter who is the closest thing to a daughter that anyone could be. She has a fine mom and so doesn’t need me to be her mom, but we are friends and family and there is a great deal of love and compassion between us.

I have a mother. She’s 74 and lives in the same town as I do. I think anyone would say we have a close relationship and I certainly want to keep working at that. However, I feel a distance that has always been there – as if she doesn’t really see or love me. Not in the deepest, most powerful sense. I used to hate her for this. But I understand it now, and know that to the best of her ability she does, indeed, love me.

I did spend many years petrified that my girls would feel about me like I felt about my mother. Disdain, condescension, dislike, thinly veiled contempt. I thought everyone felt that way about their mothers. I thought it was inevitable. Daily, my daughters present me with love and a relationship that does not contain any of those things. I wonder if they’re just fooling with me, trying to conceal it. But it seems to be so sincere. They actually love me.

So yesterday I found out that my mom has had a suspicious mammogram and sonogram. Breast cancer runs rather rampant in my family – her mother, father and maternal aunt all died from it. Her only sister had a double mastectomy about a decade ago. My mom has lived for 40 years with a daily terror of breast cancer. Each test that came back negative was a momentary reprieve. Followed by 364 days of worrying about the next test.

So for two days (since the Friday sono) she has been sick – throwing up, headache, unable to move – and I don’t blame her at all. I probably would be doing the exact same thing. I feel very, very sorry that she is worrying so much. I feel very, very sad that she is so scared, and so unable to express herself or feel any hope or possibility of good result. I am trying very hard to love her in this.

I know I will be there for her. I will do whatever I can, and whatever is necessary. Cook, clean, nurse, dress wounds, whatever. Really. That’s what I do, and I do it well.

If I could take away her terror I would. The same thing I would do for my girls. Yet I can’t. Not for them. Not for her. I suppose, at the end of the day this IS love. It just feels different. Rough edged. Murky. But there it is.

Give me a break. January 27, 2009

I read a board that has many people on it, of all kinds, all faiths, all genders, all whatevers. There is a woman who is deeply, passionately into feminism in the current American political scene and she posts regularly her ideas and viewpoints.

I’m in stark disagreement with her about so much of what she says. I come from such an entirely different experience and viewpoint it is funny that we would both consider ourselves liberal, both consider ourselves feminists, and be at such polar opposite ideas about how to go from there.

I think what I resent the most, or find the most irritating is her seemingly constant yearning to be offended. To stretch commentary and action to edges beyond reason in order to support a theory of broad-based misogynism and deep, unabated sexism. It is almost to the point where whole swaths of words cannot be mentioned on the same page as any woman or female trope because it will be considered a sexist, misogynistic and hate-filled rant.

I find this boorish, facile and childish.

Women have certainly overcome some astonishing obstacles, and as a gender I’m sure there are many more. I have four daughters and work hard to support them in their various paths and hope to have instilled in them some confidence in their abilities – a confidence which lies outside the boundaries of biology.

But I also hold them responsible for their actions, I demand that they challenge their own tendencies toward lazy thought, and I question their blind attachment to someone else’s belief. Even if its mine. I refuse to do anything other than that with a female politician or doctor or teacher or crossing guard. It is self-defeating – as a group – if feminists go out of their way to be offended by individuals and thus make broad sweeping statements about groups as a whole.

Certainly individuals will be asinine and hateful. Hold them accountable. Don’t condemn the world. Or men. Or make laughable arguments about the word “fish.”

I have a tendency to overuse the word “stupid.” However, I don’t think I’m that far off base when I hear that word rise in my mind in response to her arguments.

My daughter’s pain. January 24, 2009

My daughter just called. The one who lives in Seattle – 3,000 miles away. She said that a friend of hers was just disconnected from life support. Thursday night this friend took too many pills, then called my daughter. They were on the phone till the friend fell asleep. My daughter called everyone she knew who knew the girl, hoping someone would pick up and go find her. It was the middle of the night on the east coast, and no one picked up. She had no idea where her friend was. My daughter didn’t sleep much, and then the next day she found out about her friend: in the hospital, in a coma.

And today she died. She was 21.

My daughter called sobbing. Telling me it was all her fault. That she didn’t call the right people, she should have called the police. That she should have done something. My heart broke. Shattered in pieces. For her friend. For her. For the parents. For us all.

And my daughter is 3000 miles away. Growing up. With grief. With pain. Without me near. I remember the days of kissing away the hurt, and brushing away the fear. Now I just hope she will keep talking, keep calling, keep reaching out.

And, I hope that in Seattle there is an adult who will be there for my child. To console her. Let her know it isn’t her fault. That she’s not alone. That she doesn’t need to do anything dramatic. Just cry. Be sad. But keep talking.

Tina January 23, 2009

Sometimes I get a flash of memory about a person that I have known. Someone from grade school or college. Sometimes just their name. And if the time is right, I’m in a mood, and the phone isn’t ringing I can bring this person up as I knew them, and I find myself standing there too.

Recently I saw a name on Facebook of a woman that lived in my neighborhood when I was 7 years old until I was 13. Her sister and I were very best friends. This was at a very powerful time of my life, I really believed in myself. Our neighborhood was filled with small houses, backyards connecting, and there were kids in nearly every house. In fact, I can think of only two houses with no kids – one a man who played in a band and was a party animal bachelor of whom my mother roundly disapproved, and the other an elderly couple next door to us with a grown daughter. My older brother played endless pranks on them. Until Mr. Henderson killed himself. Then the pranks stopped. I’ve never talked with my brother about that, I wonder if he felt responsible?

Tina (she is the sister of the woman on Facebook) was one year my junior. We looked very much alike – moreso than either of our sisters. We lived in a wonderful world of play and pretend and imagination. We fancied ourselves twins, separated at birth and now our adoptive parents are committed to never telling us the truth about our connection. Only some random Fate put us in the same neighborhood.

We read “The Lion’s Paw” and relived the journey of the three children across Florida in the black-painted sailboat constantly shifting characters, adding to the adventures, deeply engaged in the universal themes of orphans, war, family and independence. We played and we sang and we danced and we made up intricate productions for other kids in the neighborhood. Tina and I were writers, producers and stars. We marshalled all the children from my younger brothers and sister, to even the Taylor kids who nobody liked, but sometimes you need soldiers or subjects or frogs depending on the play.

We spent all of our time outdoors, I can’t remember her bedroom at all. Maybe we spent the night together occasionally, but not usually. We played until 9 or 10 at night, went home, bathed and fell dead asleep. We would be up early and back outside and there we would live all day long. We biked, we ran, we skated. We lounged. We snuck through yards. We mocked the younger ones until we needed them. We were invincible. We ordered “falls” from the back of a comic book and pinned the nasty dark brown ponytails to the back of our heads and fancied ourselves elegant like Nancy Sinatra. Only brunette.

We climbed trees and rolled down hills. We knew every dog and every cat and every house and every kid and every dad who drank, and every mother who looked the other way. We knew which cupboards held cookies and we knew where Missy’s dad kept his gun. We babysat on New Years Eve and read the whole book “Joy of Sex.” We had to use the dictionary because neither of us had ever heard of a clitoris and had no idea what it was. (I have to say I was in college before I really grasped that.)

We were a gang of two. We would always be friends. We would always be twins.

Then in 1973 my grandmother died. She left us a small pile of money and we immediately moved. Across town. I had my own bedroom. The house was on a lake. We had a big green front yard and a pool in the back. With a chain link fence around the whole yard.

I didn’t see Tina for a year. Til she came to high school the year after me. We barely knew each other then. We had hollow eyes when we looked at each other. Both afraid the other would tell what kind of childish kids we were. We went our separate ways.

And all of this flashed into my head, and heart, when I saw her sister’s page on Facebook. I cannot tell you the heartbreak and the love I feel when I write this.

Caritas Internationalis January 14, 2009

Caritas Internationalis have announced an emergency appeal for their humanitarian response to the Gaza crisis.

The appeal comes as news filters through from Gaza that one of Caritas Jerusalem’s medical points in Gaza was destroyed by an Israel F-16 fighter jet on Friday.

The clinic, in the Al Maghazi district of Central Gaza, was completely destroyed in the bombing that also razed four homes. At least another twenty homes sustained heavy damage in the blast.

As all of the families had already fled the area and were staying in various schools of the district, nobody was hurt in the bombing. Five Caritas medical points remain in Gaza.

The Parish Priest of Gaza has referred to the deepening crisis there as “inhumane and criminal.”

Of the 884 people confirmed dead, at least 275 were children, 93 were women and 12 medical personnel have also been killed. Supplies of medicine, food and blankets are all at critically-low levels as humanitarian access remains extremely difficult.

As part of the appeal, Caritas Jerusalem aims to provide medical services through its centres and mobile clinic, assist four of the Gaza hospitals in dealing with the crisis, as well as the direct provision of food, hygiene kits, financial support and blankets to people affected by the crisis.

Fr Manuel Musallam, Parish Priest of Gaza, said on the telephone from Beit Hanoun in Gaza this morning, “There is extreme fear everywhere here. The bombs the Israelis are dropping are literally cutting through people and through homes. Night and day the sound of children crying is everywhere. The people here don’t sleep. They have lost everything.

“70,000 people are living in schools and they are very cold. The ones who haven’t gone to schools are living in their bathrooms or stairwells because they are afraid of being injured by shattering glass from bombs. There is no water here. We are almost out of diesel for our generator that we have allowed people to come and cook from. When the diesel runs out we will have nothing.

“The Israeli aggression has made these people live like animals and our school is the zoo.

“There are dead bodies lying on the streets. The clinics are carrying out operations on the floor. Women have no place to give birth. One pregnant woman was shot on her way to a clinic to give birth. They tried to save the baby but it too was dead.

“Life and death for people in Gaza is the same.”

ENDS.

For more information contact: Conor O’Loughlin, Caritas Communications Officer in Jerusalem +353-86-2071942

NOTES TO EDITOR:

As part of the appeal, Caritas Jerusalem specifically aims to:

* provide primary health care services and out-patient care to the people of Gaza through its main medical centre, mobile clinic and medical points
* assist 4 of the Gaza hospitals in dealing with the crisis, through the provision of medicines and supplies, including 2 ICU ambulances
* provide food parcels to 4,000 families
* provide hygiene kits to 2,000 families
* provide financial support in the form of cash to 2,000 families and
* provide blankets to 1,000 families.

Conor O’Loughlin
International Humanitarian Communications Officer

Donations can be made here.

It is the new year. January 3, 2009

Yep. The new year and I’m in my customary fog.

Anticipation clouded by held-breath; yearning tempered by cynical hopelessness.

Surely there is a better way.

I think I’ll pray.

My Retreat December 11, 2008

Driving up the road, between the rows of Magnolia trees, I felt myself passing over a threshold into some kind of different space. I wish I could say I felt it as sacred, and maybe I did. But mostly I felt it as different. Out of the ordinary, out of the routine, out of my daily experience. Different.

I was driving in to the Monastery of The Holy Spirit in Conyers, GA for a week-long retreat among the Trappist monks who live, work and pray there. (You can find them at www.trappist.net). Many months ago I had decided to take the first week of December and set it aside as a time of reflection, prayer and meditation. Some of the time spent there would be in talks or workshops, some would be in prayers said on a daily cycle by the monks in the Abbey Church, and most of the time would be spent in silence. Reading, writing, meditating, thinking, walking – and I wasn’t sure what else. I have never had that much time to myself. So I just didn’t know what to expect.

When I arrived I realized had a lot of expectations and projections. I was expecting the grounds to be wholly holy and that I would feel unworthy. Nope. They were beautiful grounds, to be sure. But they were familiar beautiful earth, and I felt very much at home. The Abbey Church and retreat house were simple and homey – again, I felt very much at home. The afternoon was clear and crisp, there were piles of autumn leaves in the parking lot, and accumulating on the brick steps up to the retreat house. They crunched under my feet. I love that sound, that smell, that sight – so it was a welcoming, comforting familiarity. I think this is when I began to breathe deeply.

My dear friend, Jane, accompanied me. We have known each other for over 25 years and it was a real pleasure to be able to share the anticipation, and the experience, with a fellow sojourner. We checked into our rooms and unpacked. Not surprisingly we brought way too much stuff. Even for a week! Many bags of clothes, books, coats, our own pillows. Things to do, to read, to draw with. Ways to occupy ourselves. What else would we be able to do? No TV, no phone, no internet. We both looked forward to unplugging, but it was not without its own trepidation – could we do it? Would we be glad of it? Would we go crazy? Aside from our companionable journey, this is my story and I will simply say she enjoyed it as much as I did. What she gained from the experience is hers to tell.

The rooms are simple, spare and comfortable. A single bed. A desk. A chair. An open closet. A window. Plenty of light. There was a Dogwood tree just outside of my window, with browning leaves and bright red berries. I could see over to the side of the Abbey Church. We two shared a private bathroom with shower. And this was our home for the week. We settled in easily.

It took some getting used to – finding our way around, figuring out which staircase to use, keeping a sense of direction as to which hallway led to the Church, which one to the elevator, which one to the library. Found the conference room. The Dining Room. The front desk. There is the library again. One staircase led up from the Dining room and out of a window we could see the small cemetery with symmetrical lines of crosses – this must be the final resting place for the monks. It was touching.

At 5:15 pm we made our way to the Abbey Church for Vespers. I have heard this word – vespers – my entire life, but had no idea what it meant. Certainly I had never heard a service. We followed a young woman from the Retreat House who had clearly been here before. We did what she did. Entered. Bowed. Took a seat in the choir stall. Facing us were long rows of slanted tables or shelves. Filled with various notebooks, tablets, songbooks, laminated cards, schedules. It was highly confusing, and intimidating. Small tabs on one notebook were labeled Ord, Tem, Com …. I had no idea what this meant. Nothing looked familiar. And yet, it all felt very comforting.

The church is beautiful. Long rows of choir stalls. These are individual wooden seats, that fold up and down so that while standing one can rest against the back. They face tilted tables for all the books and psalters needed for the services. Vigils, Lauds, Midday, Vespers, Compline. Such names. They invoke a mystery, and the experience does as well.
Vespers is a chanting of psalms, with readings, and moments of silent prayer. First called by large bells in the tower ringing the time, the attention, the silence. Then the rap of the Abbots crook, and we all bow. “God help me.” “Please Lord, make haste to my assistance.” “Glory Be to the Father, to the Son and to the Holy Spirit, as it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be, world without end. Amen”

We follow the lead of our young woman guide, who is kind enough to share her private time by pointing us in the right direction, to the right book, and gently shepherding us through the rituals of up, down, sit, bow, stand, pray, keep silent. Then a prayer and we are done.

The monks, men of every age and description, yet united in their white robes, with black over-apron, a strong leather belt about the waist and when it was particularly cold a cream colored robe over that. With long sleeves that cover the hands. A hood. Enough to keep them warm. There are ancient rituals mixed with modern technology – microphones and speakers allow the lector and cantor to be heard clearly by all. Elderly monks have wireless headphones to aid in hearing the services. Electric lights installed above the choir stalls illuminate the words and music.

In the deep interior of the church is a spacious, beautiful sanctuary. A large marble altar. The tabernacle exquisitely housed behind large gold curtains. A crucifix hangs from the ceiling over the altar. And all is watched over by a rose window with stained glass and a glorious Virgin Mary, Queen of Heaven, the Christ child, the Father’s hand and the Holy Spirit. In colorful, reverent detail.

Along the walls of the church, behind the choir stalls is a wide ambulatory (or hall) and above that stained glass made by the monks, create windows of ever changing hues of blue and white and clear glass. Abstract shapes that fit and move and seem to undulate as the sun outside rises and sets through the days we visit. There is a door from the church that leads directly into the Retreat House, down the stairs to the Dining Room, up a few steps to our own rooms. We quickly become accustomed to the routine and feel the rhythm of moving slowly but with purpose between our different activities.

From Vespers that first day we go to supper. Through a small cafeteria line we serve ourselves lemonade, a salad bar and piping hot pea soup. There are various types of bread available, and pecan or apple pies for dessert. Dining is in silence. Although Fr. Anthony likes to turn on Gregorian Chant CDs and we hear the soft strains of music over the thundering silence of our own individual experience. At least it was thundering for me. At first. The silence was so loud it echoed in my ears and in my head. I imagined they could hear my chewing the lettuce all the way out to Highway 212.

The final prayers of the evening are Compline. Beginning again with “Oh God have mercy on me,” answered by “Lord make haste to help me,” the Monks chant psalms in the dark. This service is the same all year long, so they chant from memory. Lovingly. With feeling. Near the end the Salve Regina sung in English is a haunting and lovely hymn to Our Mother. Silently we line up for a blessing, restful sleep and a peaceful death. Holy Water. I’m filled with awe and humility and with the love of this beautiful place. I sleep like a baby.

Vigils are at 4:00 am. Psalms and readings, followed by a thirty minute silent meditation in the darkened Abbey Church. I am intimidated at first, afraid I will cough, sneeze, snore or otherwise disturb everyone. My chronic fear – I am too big for the space. But no, I am able to sit in the loving presence and meditate, ponder and pray. I feel a new kind of energy moving around me. I suppose it has always been there, but I have usually slept through it.

Mass and Lauds begin at 7 and there is finally something in the Church with which I am familiar. I hear the prayers of the Mass Ordinary and it is as if two long separated shoe-strings are being tied together in a living bow. The prayers from the life and the prayers from the Mass come together into a single breath. And it is air that I, too, can breathe. I am a part of this. It is a part of me.

The days flow together with a dear and gentle ebb and flow. From prayer to discussions to writing to smiling to napping to sitting peacefully in the cold, autumn woods. I take walks by the lake, along the road and meditatively along the Church and buildings. I notice the trees against the sky, the leaves at my feet, the birds who don’t seem to twitter with as much frenetic activity as they do at my house. I begin to see the small “flaws” and “imperfections” but rather than feel any sense of let-down it is with relief I see them as human. This monastery and grounds becomes real to me. Not some other-worldly, inaccessible abode of holy people. But a living breathing earthly home for loving, prayerful human beings. I feel myself exhale.

The week has a singular rhythm and develops a kind of heartbeat of prayer. Slow and steady and very much inviting me in to participate and to partake. I do not have to perform or achieve or succeed. Just simply show up. Each day I am grateful that I have – just shown up.

It is now five days since I’ve returned home. My sleep is still sound, safe and restful. I rise much earlier than I did before I went. Each day I’m now up by 5 am, and am drawn to some silent reading and prayer. I notice the weather. I hear the earliest birds and the latest night mammals foraging their ways back into burrows. I see the last of the stars and the first streaks of the sun. I am present for the threshold. This is a gift of the retreat.

I also feel space in my life – physical and mental and spiritual. I move more deliberately and with more awareness of those around me. My steps are sure, and yet they are softer. My voice is heard less. Inside my head and out. My smiles come quicker, my frustrations don’t last as long. These are gifts of the retreat.

My faith has a little more ground to grow in. And, this is the real gift of the retreat.