Santa Rita Abbey

ABBEY JOURNAL........................................2005

13 December 2005

Well, well. As I begin this I can hear the machines revving up for another day of construction. Yesterday—the first  day of our renovation project—they jack hammered for hours. A huge pile of broken concrete is sitting outside the church cloister, and we are having fun making our way around the house outside in order to get from place to place inside. That currently blocked-off cloister is a main artery of monastic traffic.

The sisters are enjoying the trek to Vigils in the dark, under a magnificent starry ceiling. We have managed to find our way to the refectory, the church, and our rooms. It just takes patience. We are reciting Noon Prayer in the refectory instead of in church which is too near the jack-hammering. We have advanced the time for Lauds and Mass so the work can begin afterwards. They are finished before Vespers.

The cloister was built on rising ground and is a ramp with too steep a pitch for the eventual wheelchair pushing that it will support, so it will be evened out as much as possible. Our cloisters have no heating at all, so at present one emerges from the church into arctic wastes. That will be remedied by either baseboard or duct heating. We are consulting. We have large glass doors at the Chapter Room end, and they will be replaced with a wall and windows--something more conducive to keeping temperatures cooler (summer) or warmer (winter.)

Yesterday the jack hammering agitated the front doorbell apparatus, which rang all morning until we removed the little gadgets that carry the sound of the ring. Now we have to be careful to observe what is going on in front, lest a guest ring in vain.

Oh dear. More jack hammering. How do those men stand it? We all hope they have ear plugs.

I love the candles on the Advent Wreath. Three are blue blue and one is peach-colored. They stand like quiet stars in their corner during Vigils, Lauds, Mass and Vespers. A new one is lit before Vespers each Saturday, with a prayer. It’s kind of sad when the last one takes its flame, because that means Advent is coming to a close. This year we have the most of Advent that we ever have—four full weeks.

The candles have burned down into themselves, so the flame is a blue or peach-colored light instead of the white fire it started with. There is a lot of meaning here. Thus the flame of God’s life burns down into our very being, hollowing us out and merging our substance with his.

I did not have time to write on the Christmas cards. It was either that or sending them out for Easter—maybe. But we are remembering each of you in our prayers at this sacred time in which we pay special attention to God embracing our nature and drawing it into salvation. Also we came to a point where we could not add to the list, so please know that you are each individually loved and treasured, Christmas card or not. 

Sr Rita’s sister brought their elderly mother to visit and we have all fallen in love with her. The first day they came to Mass, as I turned toward them at the Pax, the early sun had side-lighted them and they looked like angels dressed in glory. You should see Mrs McCarthy’s smile. It’s sunlight itself. Her family is Rita and three wonderful sisters.

Sissy Corr, SND, who is in charge of the Notre Dame-Americorps Volunteer Program, came on her annual desert retreat. Her volunteers have grown from five to 250, and are branching out into Kenya. Their field is mostly literacy and English as a second language, which gives such a chance to people who would be terribly limited otherwise. We are so helped by this sharing with friends whose strong impetus to service is fed interiorly by a love of prayer.

We shared as well the story of Dr Glenn’s grit and generosity in the New Orleans flood. He chose not to miss his visit with Fr Bernard and the sisters in spite of the burden he is carrying as he seeks to reestablish his home and practice in that ravaged city. We have émigrés from the Gulf Coast in Tucson, and keep trying to wrap the battered lives of the world in prayer and fidelity to our own inner peace, and our peace with one another.

A little bird got into the cloister this afternoon. We tried unsuccessfully to shoo it out, and eventually Marg caught it we released it out the door. I hope it is not totally traumatized. Very pretty creature.

23 December 2005

 Happy almost Christmas Eve. We shooed another bird out of the cloister yesterday. Poor thing squawked in terror before we could usher it out.

We would appreciate prayers for the chaplain situation. Our beloved and totally generous Fr Carscallen can no longer come, and one of the monks who helped us out has gone to another monastery. A chaplain’s life is very demanding unless he is a scholar with a near-by library, because it’s pretty much a hermit existence, and in our case, way out in the hills.

May the gentle night of salvation wrap its arms around you and keep you close all year long.

15 November 2005. We are back, and if we were not cloistered nuns, I would lend out Rita as the perfect travel companion. Not only does she have a beautiful disposition, but she is also efficient. She could get across verbally to the sister at our lodging, who spoke Italian and a few words of English.  Rita speaks a few words of Spanish, and guesses well. She also noticed when our bus had overshot our lodging, and we were able to walk the short distance back.

 Walking was what we did in Florence, even though we were living in the Alt’arno, which is maybe half an hour from the city center. “Living” is a relative word, and “sleeping” might be more accurate, since we were out and about every minute of the day. The walk along the Arno is luscious, especially in the evening with the street lights glowing in the river and the car lights passing along the bridges. We had flown into Rome, and taken the train to Florence—actually two. Trains in Italy wander through lovely towns, olive groves, vineyards, and abstract art constructed of fields, hills, and vistas.

We gave our first morning in Florence to a leisurely stroll through the Boboli Gardens, the large formal gardens behind the Pitti Palace. The weather was pleasant and we had begun so early that you could taste the quiet as you strolled formal and informal paths. The informal ones twisted enticingly through woody sections in which they have done a lot about creating an ecological project. We who come from the desert reveled in the scent of moist greenery, shade, dappled leaves, and the song of birds.

 You have to realize that the gardens are not flat, but hilly and curvy and mysterious. You climb stone stairs and get lost and found. You meet a few Americans. One young art student from Kansas took our picture. We spent a long, beautiful morning in this green sanctuary in the heart of the jewel of a city.

Talk about jewels—this is the day we forgot to eat lunch. After the Boboli, we visited Santa Croce, which is the Westminster Abbey of Florence, with tomb after tomb of distinguished Florentines. Then there was the great adventure of stumbling onto the great Piazza del Duomo with its breathtaking church, campanile, baptistery, and museum. At one point, I mentioned to Rita that it must be about time for lunch, and she answered, “It’s five o’clock.”

I dislike lists of places-we-have-seen. Yes, we saw places, wondrous places and immortal works of art. But the city herself—she is a presence that we carry in our hearts and memories. The Old Sacristy, the New Sacristy, the Medici chapel, the ruined crucifix of Cimabue, the small Pazzi Chapel with its exquisite proportions—at every turning there is something about to reveal its triumphant mystery. But the streets themselves are each an adventure--the cobbled, busy streets wandering here and there into piazzas and lanes and little collections of boutiques. I like the Italian food shops off the street, where you can collect your pizza and gelato and wander along munching.

One day we began lunch with gelato and finished with a big cinnamon bun. Then, so fortified, we took on the monumental experience of San Lorenzo and the Medici Chapels. We were threatened with a transit strike on the Monday we should have left, so we decided to leave on Sunday morning which meant that she missed her opportunity for the Ufizzi. She did not feel deprived, and we got an extra day in Assisi. The hotel, besieged with Cistercians coming a day early, was a bit harassed, but we did get into our rooms by nightfall.

It took me two weeks to manage the key to my door, in the course of which ineptitude, I broke one key. The management was nice about it, but after that, I paused outside the door, fiddled with the knob and figured out that if it were lifted just so, the key would work without being manhandled. In these circumstances, one wonders whether one will ever get out of the habit of feeling in pocket for the key whenever one is leaving one’s room.

The crypt tomb of Saint Francis is simple. Its pews have wooden kneelers on which you can share a tiny bit in the spirit of the Poverello. Saint Clare’s tomb is in the crypt of the Church of Santa Chiara, and also very nicely done. An effigy of Saint Clare lies over her tomb, dressed in what is probably a better looking habit than the one she lived and died in.

On a very rainy day, we visited San Damiano where the “Poor Ladies” lived—Poor ladies indeed. It is rich in its view of lovely terraced pastures and fields, but cold and stony and bare. The dormitory in which she died is austere to such an extreme that it is a wonder it didn’t kill her long before she left for heaven. And the little chapel—you really, really had to love God to come there day after day to sing his praises.

In the church of Santa Chiara hangs the crucifix, the great Franciscan icon which legend tell us spoke to Francis at the moment of his conversion and told him to “rebuild my Church,” It hangs freely in a chapel next to the nave, pressed slightly forward toward the viewer. You want to believe in it, you want to have confidence that the early Franciscans so treasured it that this is the real thing, restored obviously, and probably many times, but the Jesus seen and listened to by this little man whose charm and holiness are such that you cannot count the hearts that journey to his city and find there some kind of rest for their troubles.

Someone conceived the idea of a Pilgrim Way. It is lovely—a walk of red narrow Roman brick, stretching from the Basilica of Santa Maria degli Angeli in the little town below Assisi, through about four kilometers of fields, vineyards and olive groves up the hill into the town of Francis. Rita and I walked up and then back on the last day. We turned right at the top and chanced upon the lovely Benedictine Church of St Peter. It is so simple, it would have made a perfect Cistercian church. The cupola is not plastered, so you can see the way in which the bricks were laid, and the columns and arcades are unadorned.

Our trip home was kind of a catastrophe. Waking the morning of our departure with serious colds, we then waited outside our meeting place for an hour while someone hunted down the bus which seemed to have gone to Perugia instead of Assisi. Sister Marie Paschale  ordered a taxi for those whose planes were earliest, so we got to Rome with time to spare for our trip to Paris. We even got across Charles de Gaulle Air Terminal in time for the transatlantic journey, and what more could we want? Plenty.

We missed our plane in Atlanta and spent the night sitting up in the Atrium of the Hartsfield Airport. We had lots of company, and some of it had obviously planned on the night vigil, since they had brought blankets and slept happily, if crumpled, away. The Atlanta Bakery has a concession that stays open all night, so we could make our breakfast of buns and tea, and meet a wonderful woman who sold them to us. Rita found out that she works the eleven to six shift at the airport and then goes to school. It was not a comfortable situation, but you do get to experience an entirely new place of life. Now you have evidence of what happens to those shiny floors at two in the morning. We did get home, through Salt Lake City, and took our colds to bed.

27 September 2005

 Life does keep happening, doesn’t it? Sometimes it seems to trample right over you and keep marching on to some distant goal.

The grass is still long and growing. It is no longer green exactly because it has gone to seed and the seed heads are blowing nicely in the breeze. This is encouraging, since that means nice abundant grass next spring. It is however a little disconcerting for our grounds-keepers, who are frustrated. It’s a lot to keep up with.

They are unbelievably sweet—Abel, who speaks very little English but whose smile communicates abundantly. And Gustavo his teen-aged son. If you add the construction workers, who are no longer with us but WILL BE back, the Mexican presence in our lives is sweet, and full of respect, skill and energy.

ÎÎÎ

This is the month in which we lost—as far as one can lose anyone to death—our good friend Don Cozzetti. I met Don very soon upon my arrival, when he gave himself so generously to the funeral of our former prioress, Sr Beverly. He was a warm, generous, hopeful person, always looking around for someone he could help. He would come to visit at Christmas with gifts of wine and donuts—always donuts, which Beverly had loved. He used to call his drop-ins “the donut run.” It was always, “Do you need anything? What can I do for you?”

We had visited him in the hospital several times during this last illness, and he and Joanie came out to see us when it looked as if he might be spared a few years longer. I guess God was impatient to pour into him the full measure and running over promised to faithful servants. We can do now for him only what he would most have wanted—keeping Joanie and his beautiful family close in our hearts before God. How hard it must be to begin living without such a vibrant and loving presence.

It was a blessing that he and Joanie and the family and friends could have what he called “a big Italian blow-out” of a party for their fiftieth wedding anniversary. The rest of the marriage to be continued in heaven, happily ever after.

Our good friend and his, Monsignor Tom Cahalane, presided at Don’s funeral at the Cozzetti’s own parish, Pius Tenth. We all went, except for the one sister who was recovering from knee surgery and her nurse. I love to watch the people at these gatherings. We seldom have the opportunity, but when you do, you sit there and watch person after person, each with their own burdens, their own life journey, their own aura of joy and growth and suffering and genuine holiness. Each unique and infinitely precious in the eyes of God. You look through divine eyes to the extent that you can, and it is very good.

ÎÎÎ

We followed this glad and sorrowful passage with our annual participation in the Santa Cruz County Fair. Janet, who masterfully runs the show, is always very kind to us. We live in Pima County actually, but on the border--which can create problems when you are on 911 in an emergency. However, the Fair exercises no discrimination in its welcome, and this is another opportunity to people-watch and people-enjoy. There were a couple of darling puppies to meet, one being a tiny Jack Russell Terrier being carried in its owner’s arms. Little dogs are the most delightful creatures, and I am always on the lookout for them when we are at Tucson International. They get transported in carriers under seats in front of their owners as living baggage.

The little children are adorable, especially when they are just about into walking, and dressed in the local specialty of jeans and cowboy hats. We were entranced with the alpaca exhibits, there being two alpaca farms in our neighborhood. One owner brought a gorgeous male into the hall in which our booth is situated. His fur was a very soft, luscious dark sienna brown, and he proved patient and gracious to his admirers. She was interested in providing us with a pair, but however fun it would be, we have not the facilities and personnel to mind them.

She herself was very interesting, having worked for thirty years a nutritionist with zoos. German in origin, she has the aural facility of picking up languages without any accent.

Those who have seen the latest mailed newsletter know that its point of greatest interest was a photo of Vicki with a (non-venomous) snake draped around her shoulders. This year, the Gray Hawk Nature Center brought along a large Boa Constrictor whose name is Squeezer. Sandy had fed him a couple of mice in the morning to be sure of his placidity, and he too was handed around for people to pet and drape over their shoulders. Vicki was not interested. She had proven herself to herself last year.

 ÎÎÎ

As I probably mentioned last time, Rita (as delegate) and I are on the brink of traveling to Italy for the General Chapter of our Order. We will work off our jet lag with a few days in Florence, and then take the train to Assisi in which the Chapter is being held. I am expending all my worry-energy on making connections—plane and train—and how long it will take to get through the passport check.

She is trying to get the accounts in order, being treasurer, and I have spent two days cleaning everything in sight, in case we go down into the Atlantic. I know we won’t because, although I am expendable, she is not. She also manages our Altar Bread industry with supreme efficiency and grace.

The major problem for me is getting into my luggage all the books I need in order to feel safe on any journey. My traveling library is somewhat heavy, but God forbid I should get caught without a book. We will be back on November First and poor Vic will be taking the trip to Tucson International at something like 10:30 PM. We will be back, I keep telling myself. A month seems like forever.

14 September 2005

           Well, I skipped a month. Or rather, I wrote a letter but didn’t put it on the website and that is just as well, since some of the news would have been misleading, not to say erroneous.

Those of you who have received Pam’s mailed newsletter are thinking happily that we have begun to build. You know, of course, that once one has announced something like that, it is bound to fall through. Sort of like sending out the wedding invitations and then the match breaks up. Or hearing about someone’s Reception of the Habit when the girl has already left the monastery.

In this case, a few complications arose which have put off the initiation of our project until the middle of November. That is fine. The middle of November is something one can see over the horizon and it will be here in no time.

Meanwhile the most scrumptious season of the year is upon us, and since we got some rain during this monsoon season (not a whole lot, but enough to wake up sleeping seeds) the grass is waving in the breeze, and in every place the sun manages to hit, we have carpets of little yellow flowers. We are living in a gilded world. Our hill has turned to gold, and the road to Tucson takes your breath away.

The wonderful air of fall, with mild temperatures and the old gold of walnut trees are Arizona’s substitute for the flamboyance of the East. Understated, fall insists still on being the best anticipation of the heavenly kingdom.

With all of you, good friends, we are praying for those in the South whose lives were so roughly reduced to the barest essentials and who have lost not only material comfort, but the living presence of dear ones. About eighty have come to Tucson, and many are planning to remain. It’s a fine city, and we love it; praying and hoping that our new friends will find work and a neighborhood of welcome and support.

Only one of our altar bread customers has suffered severely. They have been visited with “mega-damage,” the loss of their church and of one of their priests. Since they have no parishioners either, we are holding their account in abeyance.

The fair will be drawing the populace of Santa Cruz County next weekend, and we have our usual booth. Esther, who has discontinued her stained glass operation due to a heavy load of sculpture, went down to the carpenter shop where her things are stored and turned out a good number of sun-catchers. Clare’s icon cards, some hand-made collage cards from Melody’s art shop, her CD’s, and decorated T shirts from Kathy’s new creative work shop, will be on sale, though mostly this is our opportunity to let people know we are loving members of the county’s family.

This year, I must go to see the animals. Usually, the Gray Hawk Nature Center is as far as I get, though I have not yet worn a snake around neck, as Vicki dared to do last year. They have a huge Gila Monster on display, but you do not play with Gila Monsters. There is some legitimate reason why it is in captivity—ill health or something--because those creatures may not be caught and imprisoned.

I always wonder at the three types of rattlesnake that dwell so peacefully together in their glass box.

But young Four-H-ers have brought on their lambs and pigs and steers, and these are well worth visiting. These well-fed, well cared for animals are judged in competition, and then, I think, auctioned off. The ribbons must go home with the youngsters who raised the stock.

Rita, as nun-delegate of the Region, and I, will be leaving on the fourth of October for the General Chapter of the Order at Assisi. We are planning to work off our jet lag by a few days in Florence. Sty tuned for the report.

Today is the feast of the Holy Cross. We wish you all a happy feast.

23 July 2005

 To continue.

 The monsoons have arrived, which means humidity and distinct possibilities of evening showers. Not a gentle Irish rain that goes by that name, but the noisy, brawling flashing kind of “shower” that comes packaged in a monsoon season. The grass leapt up seconds after the scent of moisture got to it and everything is green. Our grass does not waste any time, let me tell you. It knows it has a limited amount of hours in which to sprout, seed, and return to its usual bleached desert self.

 Yesterday was quite livable. A soft cooling breeze sprang up and gave promise of another season eventually. I read in the NYTimes that the west is caught in a high pressure system that  is stuck here, and has refused to budge. Many of the homeless and aged have died in Phoenix, and the death toll of border-crossers is also high. Please let the heat break, Lord.

 I have to look up cave swallows in the bird behavior book. They seem to be holding Chapter under the eaves of the office building. There is only one nest, but at least thirty birds hanging along the wall. They look for all the world like a colony of bats. I have decided they are scouting the territory for the building of a condominium. Another cave has already been constructed. We shall see.

 I forgot to mention that at the end of our day of nature-watching at the Regional Meeting, we visited the Oratory of St Joseph. I lived in Massachusetts and attended a school in which we had many girls of French Canadian origin. We were also quite close to Rhode Island, to which Brother Andre would come to visit his relatives. Brother Andre was a local hero. He was also a character. We had his biography read in the refectory several years ago, and he was so loveable. I remember his enthusiasm for fast driving. He didn’t drive himself but he was constantly urging his driver on to bigger and better speeds. Considering that he was a miracle-worker, probably it didn’t matter.

 The oratory was built from the contributions he collected in his devotion to St Joseph. He kept an oil lamp burning before his little image of the saint, and used this oil to work his cures—so no one would attribute them to him, but to the healing power of his patron. The oratory is a huge, imposing building whose dome can be seen from anywhere and everywhere in the city.

 We entered by the lower church, the area which was all there was until after WWII, which understandably caused a pause in construction. The décor, the statues, the entire ambiance spoke of the time in which it had been built, of the devotion and sincerity of Brother Andre’s era, and of the  French nuns I had in school, now long with the Lord. A Mass had reached the Gospel, and with a few contemporary changes, it brought back the flavor of the Mass of that time. You could only smile warmly at the memory and bless the crowd who were so obviously comforted and engaged in their liturgy.

 We stopped at Brother Andre’s simple, polished black granite tomb--so small, for if he had measured five feet, he was doing well. You take an escalator to the upper church, built in the sixties when more funding had become available. This church looked like its own era, and stood very large and, at the time, empty, imposing in its very size. We went on to the little house that contains Brother Andre’s simple bedroom. It was locked by that time, and we peeked in the windows.

 Since the oratory tops a hill, a long staircase leads from below, with one section reserved for those who wish to climb up on their knees. This is worn by many years of knees. The stairway beside it was being used, as we passed, by a young man running up and down, perhaps in devotion, perhaps in an exercise of fitness. It was quite a run. No one seemed upset or in wonder at possible desecration. Everything was OK, and we went off having prayed and thanked God for the inexplicable and beautiful story of this remarkable little man and his long, long shadow.

 Right now, it is actually raining. Imagine.

We are on the point of signing a contract for our building, and will probably begin in the fall, after the Chapter. It seems impossible that we are actually going ahead, and will actually have done what we have waited so long for. We will probably begin with the cloisters: evening out of the floor and heating therein. Then according to certain variables, either the new building for offices, art, and music, or the senior wing. We hope to be done by next summer some time. After such a long wait, com, and hope that what we have will stretch itself to the task.

 Happy August, everybody. Winter will eventually come.

15 July 2005

 Hello, dear friends. I realize this journal entry is way overdue, but a lot has been going on.

 We hosted a small crew from the local TV studio yesterday. Requests from TV stations, newspapers, and so forth usually throw me, and by the time I have figured out how to MANAGE the thing, it has become so unmanageable that I usually say no. But after all, they have to make a living, and the Great Santa Rita Fire is news.

 The reporter was a lovely young woman, Jenny Rose, and the photographer was named Micah, a husky, quiet man who hauled his equipment around with professional zeal. They arrived early, so there was no such thing as even an attempt to manage or control the project. It was so peaceful just to let things happen and watch people passing in and out of  vision.

 They interviewed Esther, whose family lost its home and property in a volcanic eruption many years ago, and who had beautiful things to say about the symbolism of fire, and about her relationship with the mountain. To her the mountain is a person, and she is deeply bonded to it.

Of course, there are easier ways to get attention, but since we have never been in danger from this fire—and few people or structures have been so--the experience has been helpful in many ways. They say that it will be useful for the trees on the mountain. Mount Lemmon got almost totally burned a couple of years ago, and bounced back in no time.

 Shortly after KGUN9 left, a friendly Forest Service person rang the bell. He was coming around to reassure people that the fire-fighters had now got to the back-fire stage and all is going according to plan. The people who fight these things are truly heroic. Our Forest Service visitor had been spending fifteen hour days and was exhausted and longing for a shower.

The smoke has lessened, and most of what is coming now is from the backfires. You should have seen the fireworks at night, when swatches of flame glowed through the billowing smoke.

 It has however, been embarrassing to welcome guests when the temperature is heading for a record of consecutive hundred degree days, and the mountain on our back horizon looks as if someone had dropped a nuclear bomb on it. Things are not always this exciting. Nor this uncomfortable.

To back-peddle a bit: June, until the middle, was unseasonably mild in temperature. Then Rita and I went off to our monastery outside Montreal for the meeting of our Regional superiors in preparation for the General Chapter. Wouldn’t you know we had three or four rainy, cold days there, then a couple that gently embraced us with the best of Canadian weather. The meeting itself was excellent, deeply pastoral, and brimming with trust and confident exchange.

We each read our House Report to the whole assembly, exchanged questions and comments, and got a fine idea of where we all are.

 On our outing day, the monastery provided us with four choices, and we sorted ourselves out quite neatly according to interest. Rita, Francis Michael, Kathleen, Agnes, and I (the traditional nature-lovers) went with Fr Sylvain to the biosphere and botanical gardens. The biosphere had been constructed for the World’s Fair or the Olympics of several years ago. They did a marvelous job.

 First you walk into a tropical paradise, warm and humid, with a waterfall calming into a stream, about which loll a variety of animals—a couple of Cayman, a couple of large pig-like creatures Marg tells us were pests in Bolivia, marvelous parrots--and festoons of tropical flowers. Behind glass in a number of smaller enclosures we found snakes and the more dangerous fauna.

Display number two presented the Laurentian environment. It was rather a come-down, but what one would find outside Montreal—and you would not want to LIVE with Cayman and tropical temperatures. Then they have a two-decker establishment of fish and amphibian creatures. You walk into a large room with glass siding, behind which swim a number of beautiful fish. Upstairs, you are looking down from land on the scene you just saw from, as it were, under the water.

But the best of all was the arctic environment. I forget what-all creatures wandered there, except the penguins. A keeper was sitting in the snow with a bucket of little fish that he was feeding to four kinds of penguin. Two had a sort of whiskers dangling from their faces, and one of these was getting more than his fair share of the fish. The keeper put his two hands on the penguin’s sides and firmly positioned him at a distance. The penguin was quiet for a minute or so, then set off to take up a new place in the crowd and get back to the fish. We wondered whether the keeper recognized individual penguins, and could he tell this one had outwitted him.

They had a nice body of water to swim in, and when they wanted to get back onto land, they would pop up vertically from the stream and plop down on the snow, to waddle off in pursuit of whatever they fancied.

We also strolled through the gardens, but are remembering the animals as the prime attraction.

 Since coming home, beside fires and three digit temperatures, we are enjoying an augmentation of the choir and the community with several very welcome sister guests.

The library table has been commandeered for an on-going jigsaw puzzle. It has taken three months AT LEAST to complete a thousand piece puzzle of a field of red tulips. One passes by and casually looks for some piece or other and feels infinitely rewarded if ONE can be found before going on about one’s business. Pam’s parents gave us another very lovely one of several birds with flowers. It looked easy, but it wasn’t. Now we are between puzzles, feeling that somehow, before going on, we should congratulate ourselves on those two with some kind of party, but we haven’t had time. Still, one feels a bit lonely passing by without a puzzle to drop in on.

9 May 2005

 Dear Friends,

 I can’t figure out whether it’s spring or summer. The leaves are fully out, even on one of the Arizona ash trees we transplanted out of the way of the future construction. When a tree has that much courage—it was fully grown and had to submit to quite a trauma—your own heart takes a jump.

Please say a prayer the plans for the renovation and new building get themselves done and find their way to the hands of our contractor before he has to go on to other things.

We are currently building—or our contractor’s men are building—a reconciliation room which will be dedicated entirely to the sacrament. We’ve never had a really appropriate place for this, so it is being placed right beside the sacristy, its dimensions 10 by 10 feet, with a nice new rug we are also using for the family guest house and the parlor and my see-time room. The rug was a bargain, if we took the lot of it. Bargains are so comforting. But we have MILES of rug.

We—or rather our friends Doug and Joel—removed the wall from between the two parlors. The situation has hardly been practical since you couldn’t occupy both rooms at once. The sound carried through the wall between. Now we have a room large enough for gatherings. Instead of squeezing the whole community in to meet a sister’s family, for instance, we now have a spacious room for the exchange.

The soil samples have been taken for the new building. A huge machine turned up to drill its way into the subterranean regions of Santa Rita. It was exciting.

I think we will get our House Report for the Chapter sent on the last day by email. It is so hard to present a word picture of the community, with so many differing personalities contributing to the project. This year, I encouraged everyone to write her own, very personal account. The real document cannot be that personal or individual, but doing it that way for oneself could be a great help for each one to realize how she views her home, its wonders, its limitations, and its opportunities.

I was away for a week at a lovely meeting of the western superiors. Once a year we have a gathering for pastoral sharing. This time, we stayed at the beautiful Fetzer Institute in Michigan. Mother Gail and Father Peter are on the board of Cistercian Publications, and were to attend a board meeting at the University of Western Michigan, so it was convenient for the rest of us to meet there. I had two wonderful days at Mississippi Abbey, and now know all the sisters. Their landscape could hardly be more different from ours. Paint it green, with light inhabiting an infinity of leaves. I was impressed with the height of the trees. Ours are short for various reasons.

Sr. Kathleen played Sheep May Safely Graze after Sunday Mass, which put me into a sound ecstasy. Her whole body resonates with the music and you can see it in the way she moves and sits and uses her hands. Sr. Carol drove me over to see New Mellerey’s new infirmary, which is gorgeous. Their wondrously equipped exercise room should keep the community in fine health for decades.

This is the swallow season. I do not know where they go for the winter, but here they are every spring. We believe firmly that these are the offspring of swallows that have swooped here for generations--OUR swallows. They were born here, spent their babyhood and flight training in our eaves, and return summer after summer. They are very beautiful, but you have to be careful lest they fly in one of your ears and out the other.

19 May 2005

The reconciliation room has progressed almost to its completed state, with workers who are competent, considerate and quiet.

One of the swallows perches on the thermometer outside the cloister. You can get quite close. Maybe it is a baby that doesn’t know enough to be afraid. Yesterday they were all coping with a stiff wind. Swallows in a wind are something to see. It’s quite a battle.

The House Report has gone to Rome. Alleluia. We are so grateful for all the gifts God has bestowed on this community.

Speaking of alleluias, as soon as Paschaltime has ended, there is sure to be one of us at some service who pipes up with an Alleluia that is no longer liturgical.  Oops.

26 April 2005

Well, some months are just that way.

In the midst of the papal events, our dear Jackie Dumont slipped away into the arms of God. It was a long journey in ICU, and she bore it patiently. Her family walked with her on the road to heaven, and we were able to visit a few times ourselves, to bring her the love of her Sisters, our hugs and prayers and hope.

We miss her. We miss her transparent goodness, the love she so abundantly poured out on everyone within the compass of her daily world. The love she gave to each person she met was unique and special.

Even in the extremities of physical decline, her eyes would sparkle at the mildest of jokes, and she would tap out her own humor or write it on her slate. Because of the intubation, she was unable to receive Communion and told us she wished she could. We said she didn’t need to—she was sharing the Passion of Christ in her own way. Then she said she missed her puppy.

We were immensely privileged to hold her memorial service in our chapel, a place she so loved. It was not a Mass, since so many of the multitude of friends and family who came would not have understood the Mass. But we put together a reverent and appreciative service, and knew that she was with us every moment.

At the outset of this visit home, which had turned out so somberly, Jackie had called and told the portress that she would be with us for next Sunday’s Mass. She was so excited, she could hardly wait. And now, as she could not have foretold, she was returning to us safe in the father’s arms.

Spring is hovering on the horizon. Now and then we get a really cold day. The mariposas are sprinkled over the hillside, and those golden palo verdes in bloom line the way to Tucson. This way to Tucson has become somewhat controversial, with road work whose purpose no one seems to be able to figure out. We add extra time to our trip, and wait for the pilot cars to get us beyond troubled areas.

It seems that the great drama of papal death and succession has been played out on a world stage, and peace has descended on St Peter’s Square. Esther’s sister Myriam taped the events for us and the Sisters are watching them a little at a time. Last Saturday they took vicarious part in the funeral of our late Holy Father, and the papal Installation is undoubtedly on its way. Myriam is an angel,

Rita is attending the Regional Junior Directors’ Meeting in our South Carolina monastery, and Pam is carrying on gallantly as head of the Altar Bread industry. After her yearly private retreat, Rita will attend a business meeting in Chicago and say hi to her mother, who can no longer travel. By then she and we will be terribly homesick for each other.

For many years, we have had a double parlor, both of whose rooms we could not use at the same time, due to over-hearing problems. So finally we decided to eliminate the partition between them and create one large space. It has worked very well, and looks at least three times as large as we expected. How did we ever fit the furniture into those two little rooms; it just fits the larger one.

We have been using one of those parlors as a room in which to receive the Sacrament of Reconciliation, and now there seemed to be more space than we needed for the purpose. Besides, wouldn’t it be nice to have a sacred space specifically for the Sacrament? So our contractor and his carpenter have conferred and while we wait for the major building project to get underway, a small Reconciliation Room is going to rise beside the sacristy. It will have its own décor suitable to the character of the Sacrament.

Fr Ambrose is back with us for the months of April and May. Our not having a resident chaplain is really a blessing, since we enjoy a richness and variety of ministry that we would not otherwise have. Dom Ambrose is so transparently filled with Christ, so direct and pleasant and good, that we cannot thank God enough for the privilege of having our former Abbot General as chaplain. He will be followed by our dear friend Fr Robert of Ava, and for Advent, by the incomparable Dom Bernard Johnson. During the six months of no-monk-dom, we are served by two diocesan priests whose pastoral zeal is infused with the beauty of contemplative hearts. We celebrate our own simple Communion Service on the days they cannot come. Altogether, we are held in the palm of God’s hand.

Our hills are dusty olive green, and a tiny striped lizard is making its home in Clare’s pot garden. I  wish we could train it not to be afraid , because who would harm such a precious creature?

8 April 2005

Well, Easter has come and gone and the Holy Father is resting in the arms of God after so many years of suffering and  such a tumultuous farewell. Some weeks are beyond description.

 I’m glad in a way that we did not follow the TV coverage as things happened. Esther’s sister Myriam has taped everything for us, and we will be able to reflect on it at more leisure and in sizable portions. Sometimes, an overwhelming sensual experience hits with more than usual force people who live a quiet life.

We are celebrating the Office of the Dead today with a Requiem Mass whose texts are those of the Easter Season. The Paschal Candle rises out of a bank of lilies beside the altar, and Father has moved the prayer for the Pope back into the Commemoration of the Living as “the person who will be chosen as the next Holy Father.” It was something of a jolt, for since his death, the deceased Holy Father has been mentioned in the Commemoration of the Dead.

The Church moves on. After twenty centuries and a little more, I guess it can hold its own.

Our own personal landscape has been touched with several illnesses among family friends. One has entered Hospice care, others are struggling with chemo or severe accident damage. One hardly dares lift the phone. How great the gift of being able to pray for those we love, and to know our prayers are holding their hands and comforting their hearts.

Holy Week. We have simplified our ceremonies considerably, which gives us ample time for reflection without the nervous tension of “What comes next?” Some communities prefer a more elaborate set of ceremonies, and some prefer the simpler way. Each community has its own tradition, and each has its own form of beauty with which to enter the divine mysteries.

Thursday evening, we have a traditional supper together, and after a time of quiet, the Mass of the Lord’s Supper begins. After the Gospel the prioress and her assistant wash the feet of the sisters. We have tried to interest our lay guests in participation, but so far they are shy. This symbol of the Redemptive Incarnation prepares us for the Sacred Triduum.

It took me a long time—too long—to realize that the Sacred Triduum comprises Friday, Saturday and Sunday. Easter counts in. You don’t think of the Passion by itself.

Friday our ceremony begins at 2:00 PM, and we have a fair number of guests. It is so simple and so solemn, so full of prayer, so quiet and restrained. And I must admit that supper on Good Friday has a special joy—or should I say relief--to it.

I mentioned the Easter Vigil in the last journal. After the great Exsultet, we have the readings, the great alleluia, the beautiful texts of the Mass into which we pour our gratitude and from which we are filled with the grace of redemption.

Fr Mathew’s cheerful and deeply spiritual presence was itself a kind of Paschal candle. We were very reluctant to see him go.

Eastertide: Fr Matthew charmed us all at the beginning of Mass on Easter Monday by saying that there were two very special days in the Cistercian liturgical calendar—the day after Christmas and the day after Easter—because we are so grateful to have got through the preceding days. We celebrated Easter Monday by taking our weary selves to a picnic in Agua Caliente Park in northeastern Tucson. Clare and Vic had been assigned the duty of searching for a suitable place for an outing, and Clare consulted a guide book, made a phone call, and together, they conducted an inspection trip. Clare fairly floated back, she was so enchanted.

The woman in charge told her this was the best kept secret in Tucson. It is a family park, with a warm spring flowing into three beautiful ponds. There are ducks, fish, and other wildlife, gentle breezes, palm trees, well-behaved kids, babies, picnic tables, and so forth. It was the most peaceful of days. Each sister could follow the choices of her own heart. Chatting, walking, solitary reading, meditation, prayer…we were in an oasis, physically and spiritually.

Together we said Noon Prayer and ate our bag lunches. Fr Matthew was as delighted as we. About 2:30, the wind came up rather briskly and we bundled ourselves back into our cars to head home. The dogs we had left behind were glad to see us.

Tuesday, our visiting sister had a plane to catch about noon, so Vic and I took her and Fr Matthew on a pilgrimage to San Xavier, the White Dove of the Desert. Unfortunately, the left hand side of the façade is under repair and it was wrapped as if in a Christo art work. But everyone knew that the place we were entering was holy ground. Every time I see it, I think. “The men who built this knew the native peoples were worth it, more than worth it, when so many of their day dismissed the American natives as less than human. This lavish church was a tribute to who they were.” It was meant as an experience of heaven for the native believers—no square millimeter being without its sacred ornamentation, its gilding and its saintly presences. Baroque transplanted to a rough and scraped landscape, a statement of nature about the strong and towering nature of a God beyond all expectation.

How it must have comforted the bereaved, the old, the young in their frustrations and burdens--this gold heaven into which they walked every Sunday to encounter the Presence beyond all presences, the comfort beyond all comfort.

27 March 2005

 Dear Friends,

The Great Vigil is over, and God was good. The wind died down so that our fire did not blow out or worse yet, scatter itself around the county. We had quite a large congregation for 2:30 in the morning. Pam had put a notice in the local paper this year, and about twenty showed up. Esther and Cathy were whipping up new candles (with drip-skirts) for the unexpected extras. It was delightful to have so many.

Father Matthew did beautifully. It is not easy to say the prayers by flashlight out in the cold. Vicki sang the Exsultet which is so unimaginably gorgeous that her throat always sticks at a certain point—only making it more moving. As Merton used to say, it is “all of theology” but expressed in poetry.

 Then we move on to the readings, which trace the history of Salvation through the Exodus and the Return from Captivity into the great paean of Romans celebrating the mercy that has saved us. Our vessel for the Easter Water is a large, transparent bowl in the shape of a shell. This always makes me think of Venus rising from the sea in Botticelli’s painting, which is OK, because Christ has sanctified natural religion, and on this night of nights, we celebrate the rebirth of all creation.

 Our Brothers of Erlac unfortunately developed a flat tire on the way, and were helped after the Vigil by a kind friend who changed it for them while his family waited. Kathy and I brought coffee and cookies to help the cause. It was a blessing that the flat developed where they could easily get help. They will return to us for Noon Prayer and dinner. It will be our first joint celebration, because when Father James was so sick, they couldn’t leave him.

 In the past, we have had a Paschal Candle arrangement featuring a large rock over which water flowed continuously. It was very symbolic and beautiful. However, the weight of the rock was getting to be a bit much for lifting, and then the bird bath on which it rested and which received the water, developed a crack. This was when we switched to the Botticelli bowl. (I was going to say “Botticelli shell” but that is a mouthful, even on paper.)

 Now the candle emerges from a mesquite root, nicely sanded and polished and varnished by Esther. So another symbolism enriches us: the candle of the Resurrection is rooted in the Passion of Christ. The bowl rests on a stand in front of this root, and forsythia, lilies, and crabapple branches bloom behind the arrangement.

 Therefore, the sight was almost beyond belief this morning before Lauds. The bowl, the water, and even the surrounding air caught a shaft of bright morning sun, and exploded into light. This, you thought, was the Resurrection, played out in the language of nature.

 We have had the visitation of a vermillion flycatcher. And our old friends the Red-Shafted Flickers, are still around. What more could you want.

 With all our hearts, we wish you a very happy Easter time!

1 March 2005

 I am almost ashamed to say that spring has come, what with ANOTHER blizzard in the east. The pear tree in our Garth is bursting at the buds; it will become a big fat white wedding cake in a few days. The forsythia that the foundresses brought from Wrentham is gathering its momentum, and will be in bloom before you can say, “Where did winter go?”

 Soon we will have the transient birds on their way somewhere else. I don’t know why they insist on going somewhere else. What is wrong with here?

On Easter Monday we are going on a scientific expedition (=picnic) to a local park, Agua Caliente. We will each bring her brown bag lunch and whatever else is thought necessary in the pursuit of nature’s beauty. We hope for wild flowers. We hope for wild flowers on our own property, since we have had a few inches of winter rain. Right now the grass is green with silver fuzz. Soon, the new grass will shoot up beyond last year’s dry grass and the silver will be gone.

Rita and I went in last evening to pick up a visiting Sister, and the plane was delayed due to the Eastern snowstorms. So we wound up at home about half past one. Tucson International is billowing out in all directions. It is over twice the size it was when I first came to Arizona, and very nicely appointed. Where else would you find a lounge with walls lined with paintings by local artists and an ancient stone with pictograms that sits in a glass box?

Rita and I decided that the clientele of the airport is different at midnight from that which one encounters during earlier hours. But we were surprised to see so many people coming in. No one was going out, since the climate here did not delay anyone, as the climate further east had delayed incoming planes. Actually, in researching flights for meetings, I realize that some incoming flights are just late at night period.  

She and I have two meetings to attend this year—one in Canada and one in Assisi. For some reason, this seems to require an inordinate amount of planning. It may just be me. Cover all the bases.

The soft flour did not arrive on time, so today is an extra cut-the-concels day. “Concels” is short for Concelebration hosts. We normally cut them once a week, but right now, Rita is taking them for shipment out of the cupboard in which we have just put them. So all to the good, though we cannot figure out why the shipment was late.

 Several of our friends have taken seriously ill, and we are praying for them, severely conscious of their suffering and of that of their loved ones.

Our dear Cary will be moving, and this is a wrench to us all. She has become as one of us since the death of her husband, worshipping with us in the morning and bringing her courageous smile to each of our hearts.

The soft flour arrived a day late, so some of us have the morning off from Altar Breads today. Rita said the driver had run out of permitted hours when got to Sierra Vista, and couldn’t continue. He was, however, very friendly and nice. He gave her his background, first item on the list being that he has a nine-month old son at home. First baby.

5 February 2005

 We are been having wind. The gentleman on the radio will not let us off this particular hook. We are to have wind all weekend. It is a cold wind. At least we are not up to our ears in snow. At least we aren’t right now. I cannot see the mountains because they are sleeping behind clouds. What is happening within the clouds is anyone’s guess.

 Tomorrow is our Foundation Day. I remember the Foundation of Santa Rita from the other end. I was watching our sisters leave their original monastic home, and crying buckets. Which goes to show you that the plans of God must be trusted in when outward circumstances veil their intent. He did not tap me on my red nose and say, “Don’t worry. That’s where you will spend so many, many wonderful days of your life.”

 We are hosting a party, just because we like parties, and because even an undistinguished anniversary (= not the fiftieth or even the fortieth) deserves a day of merry gratitude. We have swept up some friends and with them will have Noon Prayer and a potluck lunch at the Family Guest House. Clare has developed a poster with historical photos. Vic has decorated the living room with pretty plates and napkins.

 ***

 Yesterday we celebrated in a different way. We offered the Mass of Resurrect ion for our dear friend Abbot James of Erlac. It was our great privilege to hold the Mass here at Santa Rita with his brethren and a tiny handful of friends. The monks wanted utmost simplicity, at which we specialize. Three of their friends attended in the guest chapel with our “Miss Cary” as Dom Bernard calls her in his Southern way. The monks were solemnly dressed in their black Benedictine Habits and shared choir with us.

 We placed a small table before the altar, and there placed the small box containing the ashes of Abbot James. Vicki had found a perfectly beautiful dozen of incandescent pink roses, and those stood beside the table in a cut-glass vase. Pachomius had requested Mass texts from the Easter cycle instead of a “requiem” Mass, and Pam created a booklet for the Eucharist that would express the glory of Fr James’ life-long participation in the mystery of the Resurrection.

 Never could one share a Mass like this without tears, and without reflection on the life being celebrated. Abbot James was someone of whom the word “journey” applied literally. From place to place, from country to country, the Spirit of God and his Benedictine convictions led him, until his small community took root in southern Arizona.

 St Benedict’s chapters on the abbot have had a monumental effect on monastic history:

 He should show them all that is good and holy by his deeds even more than by his words…Let him understand also what a difficult and arduous task he has undertaken: ruling souls and adapting himself to a variety of characters…Merit of life and wisdom of doctrine should determine the choice…Let him study rather to be loved than to be feared…Let him know that his duty is rather to profit than to preside over his brethren…He must be learned in the divine law…chaste, sober and merciful, prudent and considerate, discreet and moderate…

 Taking [the prudence of Jacob] and other examples of discretion, the mother of virtues, let him so temper all things that the strong may have something to strive after, and the weak may not fall back in dismay. 

 And so we lay to rest a good man, a man of faith, an abbot after the heart of Benedict. We honor the mystery of someone in whose life the life of Christ, suffering and risen, has been extended into glory. We pray for those he has left behind, our dear brothers of Erlac, and set them prayerfully in the mystery of their vocation.

 A lovely pyrrodoxia has just alighted on the swamp willow outside my office. What better symbol of the Passion and Resurrection could be found?

 ***

Our dogs are overweight. They are going on a biscuit-fast. Enough healthful food, but no more cookies. They have made friends with our new AB helper, Virginia, who loves dogs.

1 February 2005

 Dear Friends,

 We are sorry about all the severe weather from which many of you have been suffering. We had a couple of blustery days and an inch and a half of rain, but now we are back to Arizona sun and day temperatures in the fifties.

 Down the road from us there nestles in a grove of trees and flowering bushes the small Benedictine monastery of Erlac. The four monks who came to the US from Europe have persevered through many trials. Two from Austria, one Swiss, and one Danish, their little house is enlivened by a number of dogs, cats, and peacocks to which they have given a home. It is a kind of recreated Eden tempered by the realities of human trial.

 Abbot James, their founder, had to find his way through the emotional fallout of WWII, when his brothers could not remain in a French monastery. His conviction that he was not called to the priesthood, his Benedictine devotion to a full liturgical celebration, and his courage have placed these brothers in southern Arizona, glorifying God in fortitude and simplicity.

 Abbot James was failing physically at the time of my arrival at Santa Rita almost five years ago. I remember giving him my arm as he slowly made his way to Mother Beverly’s grave on a cold Christmas Day of 2000. Thereafter, the God he so loved led him further and further into the mystery of Parkinson’s, and the doctors kept urging his brethren to prepare for his loss. However, something else happened. He was loved into a long and quiet period of waiting.

Our former Abbot General, Dom Gabriel Sortais, chose as his abbatial motto a line from the prayer for the Holy Innocents: Non in loquendo sed in moriendo—“not by speaking but by dying”. He said that he was told how implausible that sounded: an abbot must speak, preach, conduct business. But he knew what he was talking about. It was in death to his personal agenda and to all that would lead him away from the will of God that he would bring life to his community.

 The long dying and the final sudden and peaceful death of Fr James reminds me of this motto: “not by speaking but by dying…” At one point, when his fragility was worrying the brothers, they asked Dom Bernard to anoint him. Vicki and I went along to assist. I remember the radiance in the face of this man who could no longer speak coherently. His struggle with a very difficult position—kept by divine love between heaven and earth—had resolved itself into a transcendent peace. God had laid aside the faculties with which he had served for so many years, and was working a final sanctification in his helplessness. Fr James had followed his vocation faithfully, and now God was putting the last touches, as only he could do, to a holiness hidden from the world but immensely valuable to it.

These years—one might even say “these terrible years”--were working also in the faithful monks of Erlac, as they tended their fallen father, gave him every care and every ounce of love that the human heart is capable of. Father James’ illness called forth in them a vocation within a vocation. His very being created a School of Charity in which they have been formed over and over to the Cross and Resurrection of Jesus.

 It has been a long journey, but God has taken into his arms this faithful servant, beloved and fulfilled in his longing. Now the brothers have another journey to make, back from the door of heaven, back from the days of constant care, the worry, the physical presence of someone who has been a mentor, a father, and a guide, and then their object of constant concern. His absence will leave a hole in their hearts. To Pachomius especially he has been doubly a father, having taken the place of parents he had lost to the war.

 We will celebrate a very simple, very monastic funeral Mass together on Friday, with our dear Fr Carscallen presiding. Father himself has a monastic soul. The chants are from Eastertime. Then when things have calmed down a bit, we will have our brothers over for Vespers and an evening of exchange.

We never have a speaker or a retreat without the presence of this faithful little Benedictine band. Pray with us for them as they offer to God this most precious gift of their hearts.

5 January 2005

 We had snow. Imagine that. Snow for us means one sixteenth of an inch which enchants the first light and is gone by 9:00 AM, but while it lasts, it is gorgeous. This was a gift of California, which has been so inundated with rain that part of it seems to be falling into the sea. We import our storms.

 You look out onto a white sky and a white land and white mountains. The trees are iced with brief snow, and out there at the top of a tree beyond the altar bread building, swings one of our ravens—black on white. After a few minutes, he croaks a bit and wings off.

 Instead of one or two red-shafted flickers, we seem to have a flock. Fortunately, they do not congregate on the same trees, or we would have no trees.

 I hope your Christmas was peaceful and meaningful. Advent this year was less frantic than usual, since we had decided not to present a program before the Midnight Mass. A monastic Christmas is especially nice, with Advent in an entirely different mode from Christmas, and Christmas full of merry theology. The Advent liturgy is sweet and longing, keyed to desert imagery, Isaiah, and simplicity. On the 17^th, the great O Antiphons begin, and the week before Christmas is liturgically solemn.

 Only a few days before Christmas does the decorating begin. Of course, cards have been coming and going, boxes have arrived, and Elf Clare has been wrapping presents in her secret room. But nothing SHOWS until two days ahead, when the lovely tree is trimmed, the refectory blooms in (this year) red and gold, and Clare’s handiwork goes under said tree.

 The refectory tree is, as they say, “faux” but one would hardly know, and the décor changes each year. This year, it was trimmed with red and gold heart-shaped ornaments, the table cloths were dark green with red stripes down the middle. Candles, strings of Mardi Gras beads, courtesy of Dr Glenn. (We know it isn’t Mardi Gras, but they match.)

 Someone asked Clare where she got the ornaments. “Oh WalMart or Dollar Store or someplace. And the best thing about them is that they bounce if you drop them.”

 For his 50^th anniversary Esther presented Father Bernard with a pencil portrait which is going to hang, suitably framed, in Glenn’s clinic. It was “to the life” as they say. There seems to be nothing she can’t do. Added to her Nativity scene below the altar for Christmas is a small angel orchestra, with David playing the harp.

 Pam and I were in my office when the UPS truck chugged in on Christmas Eve. ‘Look”, she cried. Becky, the driver, was all decked out in a Santa outfit.  

We have had our traditional three days with Dr Laurence Cunningham of Notre Dame. He comes on New Years Day and then goes to the Benedictines in town. This year his conferences on the Gospel of John set a contemplative pace, and he has become such a beloved brother that what would the new year be without Larry.

 We are now providing a setting in which our Father Immediate, Abbot Casimir of Holy Trinity can have a week of peaceful reflection. He is great fun, wise and patient, extremely interesting, and the best Father Immediate one could wish for.

 We have contributed what we can to CRS and Doctors without Borders, and we pray and think about the ravages of this latest terrible natural disaster. It is some comfort to know that even being human together with our suffering brothers and sisters is to repudiate isolation. To will comfort and union, to pray, is to touch the bewildered and aching hearts so far away and numbed or crying with pain. You send your own heart across time and space into the misery of people you have not met and yet love.

 Who are we NOT to have had laid upon us such burdens, such a stripping away of material security? Can we dare to feel sorry for ourselves when we have clean beds at night and enough to eat, and water to drink and wash in? I sit here and think also of friends whose burdens are less dramatic than those of the tsunami victims, yet still so heavy that with all my heart I wish I could lift them.

 A Centering Prayer group, guided by its own leaders, will be spending ten days in our Retreat House. The landscape, the rooms, and the guidance of its dedicated personnel create the perfect space for this deepening of the spirit. We space out our normal monastic day, grateful that being with us this way is a help to such an important event in their lives.

27 November 2004

 I hope you all had a beautiful Thanksgiving.

 There is a small, transplanted cottonwood directly outside my window. Its leaves are still yellow, like so many gold coins being tossed about in the wind. The mesquites farther out hold onto old-gold needles, and in the early morning sun, they also glow.

 Sr. Clare’s nephew was involved in an extraordinary accident, when he collided on his bike with a trailer truck. The wheels ran over his pelvic area. He is miraculously still alive and receiving treatment in Rhode Island Hospital. Clare has been receiving daily bulletins, passing them on to us, as his marvelously close family gathers to support his parents and one another. Clare is invoking the patronage of our new beatus, Fr Joseph Cassant. Clare has chosen not to go east, since she is not a good hospital person, and figures the others might wind up caring for her.

 By synchronicity, Martin was anointed by the son of an old family friend who “happened” to be in the hospital at the right time. Although anything more desperate than this drawn-out situation could hardly be imagined, you can see the growth in closeness both there in the family and in our community. If you would like to join us in praying to Blessed Joseph, everyone would be grateful.

 Sr. Jean’s two sons visited her in the middle of the month. Ted’s wife gave up her place to let Paul come. It was great fun. Not only did the boys (grandfathers both) get to spend time with their mother, they also were able to spend time with one another. Believe it or not, though they live in the same city, and belong to a very close extended family, they had not had this kind of one-on-one bonding since each was married.

 It was inexpressibly sweet to see tiny Jean walking between the two men. Jean and I go over the roster of young ones fairly often, attempting to keep them straight. It’s not the grandchildren who confuse us, it’s the next generation.

 On Sunday we will be celebrating the fiftieth anniversary of Dom Bernard’s Ordination, with a brunch in the family Guest House. His cousin and our good friend Dr Glenn is hosting the festivities and providing a lovely display for the sanctuary. Our Sunday congregation has been invited, We hope to salute the jubilarian with hearts full of gratitude for those fifty dedicated years.

 28 November. We are having a Very Gray Afternoon. A few drops of rain actually spat at my window. I think there are ten leaves clinging to the radiant flowering crab.

 The Mass for the First Sunday of Advent was “enhanced”, as Fr Bernard put it, by a gorgeous yellow floral arrangement in the sanctuary, white vestments with a lavish colored stole, and the addition of a second set of prayers—those for a priest on the anniversary of his ordination. I wonder how many congregations have fallen in love with Fr Bernard in the course of those fifty years. Ours certainly has.

 The family Guest house was full, as Vic and Dr Glenn hosted the table. Grasslands, the local provider for Dr Glenn’s festivities, had done itself proud, and a great time was had by all. We had a presentation: Esther was inspired to work a pencil portrait of Dom Bernard. It is a likeness to the life, and during the course of the celebration we drew back its veil for admiration. Glenn immediately asked the location of a framer’s.

 Now we are immersed in an afternoon of reflection, beginning the most poignant of liturgical seasons. Last evening the first candle of the Advent Wreath was lit, to the accompaniment of a prayer to the prophet Isaiah. Each of this year’s candles will have its prophetic patrons.

The sun has come out of course, and the crab tree’s branches, which got a little wet ten minutes ago, are all aglitter. The remaining leaves on the cottonwood beyond the Altar Bread Building are ditto, although they have the added attraction of a light misty aura and a backdrop of still-gray sky.

 Sun and gloom are having quite a battle out there.

 We are expecting Fr Eddie Fronske for his week of retreat. He is a family friend, a Franciscan who administers three parishes on the Apache reservation at Whiteriver, AZ. It is always a tremendous relief for us when he can get away for a rest.

 Have a wonderful Advent!

November 2004

 Well, it is almost Thanksgiving, and most of our yellow trees have dropped their leaves or been stripped of them by our enthusiastic local winds. Believe me, we have WINDS. A beloved little sister-retreatant was knocked down last year. She is such a good sport, but our hearts were in our mouths just thinking of it.

 The nice thing about our deciduous trees is that they are each one a picture in themselves. Not like New England where you have the full palette all at once, and the world becomes wholly glorious. Here, you have individual Arizona Walnuts or cottonwoods or a few exotic immigrants standing alone in all their yellowness, with the sun turning the leaves to liquid gold. You stop and gaze at one tree at a time, because there are so few. 

What was I doing at the Beatification of Blessed Cassant? We do not, of course, hop up and take off for Rome from southern Arizona at the first whiff of something interesting. The Order has been holding seminars for “recently elected” superiors, and the one this year was for English-speakers. If you don’t speak Spanish or French, you were included. Some really did have to struggle or avail themselves of translation. And even those whose first language is English had to listen carefully to get everything through the accents.

 But it was a marvelous experience.

 We had Asians—Japanese, Korean, and Chinese monastics. We had Africans from our various houses there, Americans, English, Irish, a Scot with an Italian name. There are many Italians in Scotland, I am told. The cultural mix was a great blessing. The opportunity to be with one’s friends and make new ones was also great. Email is wonderful, but it has its limitations.

 Anyone could have profited from the conferences. The Abbot General spoke on spiritual  accompaniment, Dom Francis Kline on formation. Dom Peter McCarthy on the abbatial ministry, and Dom Armand and Mother Gail on separation from the Order. Dom Armand gave some profound stuff on temporal administration. Dom Timothy and the Abbot General spoke about the current situation of the Order. We went to the generalate,  a walk down the road from our meeting place, the abbey of Tre Fontane) and met with the Abbot General's Council, being served into the bargain with a nice lunch.

 I could not complain about want of opportunity to walk. It seemed that exercise was rather concentrated rather than spread across the three weeks, but that was OK. I have memories of walking down Via Laurentina in the shade of lovely trees. I have no idea how those trees flourish in such a traffic-dominated city (read fumes). They must have a special charism. You peek to the side as you go, and behold!-- beautiful houses behind iron fences, with the most luxuriantly green grass you can imagine. I do not see green grass very often.

 We patronized a near-by gas station for Pizza. Italian pizza is thin and crunchy. At least Roman pizza. Since Mother Rosemary of Tautra is a graduate of the Sisters of the Sacred Heart, she and I went to visit Trinita Dei Monte and paid a visit to the image of Mater Admirabilis. It was pizza that day from one of those little street-side stalls. Excellent and inexpensive. In case you don’t know it, my friends, the dollar has sunk way below the euro, and looks to be going lower.

THE BEATIFICATION

I didn’t look forward to it. That has to be said at the beginning. It was to be a day of getting somewhere and sitting somewhere and partaking of a long ceremony. I am not much for ceremony. I am very weak on ceremony. However, you had to think that this day was not a day for individual piques. It was a day to slip quietly into the embrace of the entire Order, and into the heritage of this little spiritual giant, and say thanks. We were privileged to be there.

 PROLOGUE

 We began as usual with Lauds recited at 6:30 in Tre Fontane’s Chapter Room. Of course, “beginning” might be counted from breakfast at 5:30, and if you were provident, you took enough bread and cheese to sustain a long morning. At supper the night before, we had been issued little silk scarves, white with red “Diocese of Toulouse” printed on them. What were these? Damien thought they were napkins for wiping the tables, and went to work with his. Wiro pointed out to us that Fr Cassant’s monastery of Desert is in that diocese. So we should wear them the next day, expressing our union with the universal Church via the diocese of Toulouse.

 WE ARRIVE

 The Beatification was scheduled for 10:00, but we were to meet our bus at 7:30. It was a large and comfortable bus, and well populated by us, and by some more Cistercians who had been picked up at another spot. I sat next to a monk from Viaceli who didn’t speak English. It was awkward and I have come to the conclusion that if you were dropped into a place in which no one knew your language, YOU WOULD LEARN. You would not be ashamed that your French was barely understandable, or that instead of complete sentences and proper verb tenses and exact nouns you were stammering baby talk. You would need to talk and you WOULD. Unfortunately, I have not been so dropped for long enough to test this theory.

 I admire so much the monks and nuns who are speaking a second language slowly and carefully and who struggle with comprehension, stumbling over the various accents that can turn the tongue you learned in school into a dark and bewildering jungle.

 Our bus progressed through an urban residential district, which means apartment house after apartment house, each little apartment with its own balcony, crammed with greenery, and sometimes the wash on a line. Everything was crowded, neat and warmly colored—really lovely. No battleship gray concrete block, but more in the line of terra cotta, beige, and blush. Black after block of little streets off the main street, on all of which snuggled more apartment complexes.

Finally we reached the section of Rome whose signs bear arrows indicating the way to San Pietro. Shortly after our first glimpse of the dome, we traveled along the walls of the Vatican Museum and slid into the underground docking station for our bus. We proceeded then to the first of our hikes. We were to do a lot of hiking, which was a benefit on the score of having been deprived, for a week, of one’s daily walk, and less of a benefit on the score of its all coming in one day.

Up a staircase, and down a staircase and around this and that, and how in God’s name were we to find our way back to the bus at the end of the day? Stay together, don’t let yourself get separated by the crowds. Hold on to one another. Oops, there goes one of us elbowing her way through, and don’t lose her or you’ll be sorry. She must have experience with Roman crowds.

Just before we reached St Peter’s, a little band (a music band, friends!) dressed in blue and gold marched up the street beside us thumping its drums and clicking its heels on the cobbles in time to the beat. They carried banners as large as their obvious enthusiasm. “Are they part of the ceremony?” I asked Jacqui, who has been attached to the generalate and was a major source of information on things Roman. “Oh yes, they love that kind of thing.” This group of pilgrims wore a yellow scarf and had come from Malaysia in honor of Fr Pierre Vigne, a missionary and one of the day’s beati.

 SAINT PETERS

 The moment of emergence into St Peter’s Square zapped my lack of enthusiasm and turned me into a humbled participant in this wondrous moment. Wow. I had been to St Peter’s two years ago, and was rather too blasé about a new acquaintance with this great monument to Renaissance architecture. But oh my. St Peter’s Square, Bernini and all, is a colossal stage setting. Talk about drama. And this was a Big Day, a day on which to realize and show off all its potential.

 Beyond the fountain, the space within barriers was crammed with chairs. There were more chairs beyond that enclosure toward the front. And that is where we would sit. Please to situate yourself in imagination facing the great façade. You are standing or moving or being pushed along the level of the square itself. Closer to the church, you are looking at a series of steps up to the great portico, with a ramp to the right for you-will-see-what later on. A kind of wooden canopy shelters an altar on the floor of the portico. On either side of this, two more banks of chairs are ranged. (Who gets these, you wonder.) On your right and high up, picture a kind of balcony, which will later be crammed with people overlooking the ceremony.

 Most of the chairs are empty as we arrive and make our slow way through security, clinging hard to our shrimp-colored invitations. Jacqui keeps meeting people she knows from her Roman days. Oh God, we can’t lose Jacqui.

 Our places will be in the section just before the steps up to the platform, and the nuns from our group find seats together about four rows back. Well, here we are, about to be sitting almost in the Pope’s lap. Realize that it is about eight o’clock and we will be waiting until ten. I had brought a book, but there was no need of it. There was more than enough to look at. Each of the groups attending for a particular beatus wore a different colored scarf—five colors. We had some very nice Austrians before and behind us, (in green scarves) coming to honor Emperor Charles of Austria-Hungary, who died in 1922. I bet to myself that there must be political overtones to this beatification, and later find out that there are. But I’m sure he was holy all the same. And after all, he must have performed a miracle.

 The sky is a glorious dark blue, and interesting people keep arriving. Pigeons fly over. Every church square has its pigeons. Fortunately, there is a little breeze as the day grows warmer. I am sorry I did not bring my hat to Rome, but settle on parking a canvas tote on my head, and hope that I will not be on TV. (I have an umbrella, but figure that putting it up would be unkind to the people behind me.) All sorts of black-clothed men are walking around, some of them security people, and some of them journalists with cameras of various sorts. You can tell the security people because they do not kneel ever and keep facing in the same direction. They are not interested in the ceremony but in preventing an insurrection or an assassination.

 The section of chairs beside the altar begins to fill with black-clad men and women. They are obviously dignitaries and must have come for the emperor. Later the nice Austrians behind us tell us that half of them are government and the rest Hapsburgs. The bank of chairs on the opposite side of the altar is filling also with what is probably lesser Austrian dignitaries. They all come through the church, not through the crowd as we had.

Above the altar, on the façade of the church, five large portraits have been set against rather worn-looking tapestries. These are the traditional portraits of the beati, and right now, they are covered with pale blue silk hangings.

 A small group of Austrians in native costume and antique military uniforms sit below the dignitaries. Another, like group will come marching in soon and sit opposite these. The only trouble with this is that with such extreme costuming, they do look a bit as if they will burst into Sigmund Romberg any minute. Beyond the crowd at the left, about a dozen Austrians in costume ride horses up to form an honor guard. They leave during the Mass, but will return at the end. Two women equestriennes are among them.

 Contingents of Cistercians from Italian houses arrive and Jacqui recognizes her friends. We wave. Then we see Dom Emmanuel Coutant. There are seats for cardinals in the front row up on the left side of the altar, and several arrive. Our beati of today are, in addition to Fr Cassant, Sister Maria Ludovica dei Angelis, who died in 1962, Anne Katherine Emmerich, the stigmatic, Pierre Vigne, the missionary, and Emperor Charles. Anne Katherine and Fr. Vigne died in the 19^th century, and the rest are contemporary.

Finally the concelebrants file in from behind the altar—in green vestments because it is Sunday. Bernardo is one of them. I’m sure the abbot of Desert must be also, but I do not know him. Several Swiss Guards arrive to decorate the scene as they take up unmoving positions. I’m sure Michelangelo was not joking when he designed their uniforms, because they are part of the drama, and now that the Sistine murals have been cleaned, we know that Michelangelo had a dramatic sense of color. In addition to spears, they have swords in their belts. What on earth good this weaponry would now be I can’t imagine, and when has a Swiss Guard defended the Pope from contemporary attack weapons. However, they are pretty.

One of the guards seems to be new at the job, since a master of ceremonies is giving him instructions. The point of course is that when the Swiss Guards come, you know the Pope is near at hand. They are all very thin and you hope they get enough to eat. From what I hear, the life of a Swiss Guard is rather austere. They must be glad to get back to Switzerland when their tour of duty is over.

THE HOLY FATHER

 Five representatives of the beati come to the mike and read off the account of their person-to-be-honored. Applause from the various groups as their man or woman is announced. The dignitaries do not cheer. They are dignitaries, after all.

 When the readings are completed, we hear cheers and applause from the end of the plaza. The pope is coming along the passageway which divides the crows in half. He is seated on his chair which has been secured to a white open car driven by security men. Two of them—in black inevitably--are in the front seat, and I seem to remember a monsignor behind him. Even though you have seen pictures of the Holy Father, his appearance comes as a shock. He is slumped and almost inert. Disease has diminished almost beyond recognition one of the most vigorous men of the past century.

The applause is polite but not overwhelming. I remember the storm of recognition that greeted him in Boston in his younger days. There we were in the pouring rain, screaming our heads off. There is no comparison this time. The car moves slowly up the ramp and around to the back of the altar, whence he appears again on his chair. They have made efficient arrangements for his infirmity, since the chair on which he is rolled to the front of the altar is the same in which he has sat during his ride. It is not an obvious wheel chair, but a dignified and simple chair on wheels, operated, not by the patient, but by his attendants. And they can transfer chair and all, without requiring that he be moved from one chair to another.

He is immediately assisted by four priests in cassock and surplice, who set stools beside him for a couple of prelates, and place a reading table across the arms of his chair. The impression given is just a little jarring. One of us said afterwards that it is painful to watch him. What I imagine to be the Sistine Choir sings an anthem, and we proceed to the ceremony of beatification.

THE CEREMONY BEGINS

 The five postulators, each with the bishop of the diocese from which their particular beatus comes, present the request for beatification with a short account of the person’s life and virtues. This is Sr. Augusta’s first completed case, and she has had a hard time becoming established, since the Holy See was not happy to have a woman postulator. They did not know whom they were dealing with however, and she is still doing the work with great skill and determination. The postulator for Emperor Charles seems from his habit to be something like an Augustinian and he has two bishops of course—one from Austria and one from Hungary. He has with him also a man in black who might be of the royal family, since he gets a special blessing at one point.

 The Holy Father’s speech is very slurred, and deliberate from a manifest breathing difficulty. A horrible thought: does Parkinson’s eventually choke off your breath until you smother to death? He gives the formal declaration of beatification, and the blue veils on the portraits are swiftly and quietly drawn up, There they are—Sister Ludovica, Fr Cassant, Fr Vigne, Anne Katherine, and Emperor Charles. Every time I look up at Fr Cassant, I get tickled. Here he is, this wonderful little nobody, this dumb guy who practically couldn’t make it to the priesthood, the kind who would be so scorned or patronized by the intellectuals of the world, this saint of the ordinary, up on the façade of St Peters with the Emperor of Austria, two missionaries, and a stigmatic.

THE RELICS, ETC

 I can’t remember how many little processions emanated from behind the altar, regrouped and marched up to the stage. (“Stage”--I am taking this seriously as drama!) This time, representatives of each beatus carried a relic up to the stand which I had originally taken as the ambo. It was composed to two gold columns and a piece across the top, and may have been some hold-over from the 15^th century. This is an environment in which you have ancient and beautiful pieces mingled with the most atrocious kitch, and it’s a bit disconcerting. The last persons in that procession bore flowers and candles to the stand.

 The canopy over the altar, by the way, is not elaborate or expensive-looking. It serves its utilitarian purpose.

 The last part of the beatification ceremony saw the five postulators with their bishops again emerging from behind the altar and reverencing the Pope. Then he was wheeled to the side and faced the altar for Mass.

 THE MASS

 I imagine the readings were of the Sunday, but since they were done in the various languages of the beati, I cannot swear to anything. I have a note that the responsorial psalm was done by a Cistercian, and that is probably accurate, since I kept taking notes all the way through. The Pope leaned his head in one or both hands throughout. Wiro mentioned to me later that the disease has robbed his face of expression. He can’t smile, and so he looks not only depleted but terribly detached.

 A young, red-headed priest proclaimed the Gospel, in which language I can’t remember. He looked nervous. The homily was a joint affair, with mention of each of the beati and a few words on each end by the Holy Father. There was a time at these things when the Pope himself would eulogize the newly beatified at some length, and you would read it in L’Osservatore Romano, but that time has been swallowed up in Parkinson’s. Gail whispered that English seemed to be the forgotten language. German, French, and Italian covered the five we were celebrating. It is time for an English-speaking saint. Maybe Fr Tansy was that, although the Ibo must have their own language.

Chinwe contributed the only English of the day as she participated in the Prayer of the Faithful, and Josepha took part in the Offering of the Gifts. I kept looking up at Fr Cassant’s picture and smiling. If he had dreamed in his discouragement that his image would be hanging on the façade of St Peters, how he would have laughed. It also occurred to me that he is a fine patron for our Order’s precarious houses. What else was he, all his life? He reminds me too of Fr Paul Heide of Azul, who had to wait so long for the priesthood because of his difficulty with the studies, and whose spiritual simplicity and depth are so like Fr Joseph’s.

 A multitude of Priests (including some of our own), processed out to give Communion, which was managed surprisingly well, One of our priests told me later that many did not receive, and he was left with hosts left over. The Austrian horses clopped back into the side aisle, and the last prayer was said in three languages, one of which was Hungarian.

 AFTER THE MASS

 At the last, the Hapsburgs from the right side of the altar came up to reverence the Pope. Queen Fabiola of the Belgians was among them in her white dress and mantilla. Queens of Catholic countries have the privilege of dressing in white in the presence of the Pope. I think she must have Hapsburg connections—she is Spanish. Blessed Carlo’s oldest son is still alive, and he came last. Carlo never abdicated. He was exiled by the government, so Otto could be considered emperor in exile, I imagine. The nice Austrian behind us said Otto is 91. I remember reading in America many years ago that there was question of his being reinstated, but in a referendum, the Austrians turned down the prospect. The beatification seems to have energized an existing emotional polarization.

Blessed Carlo had eight children, so the descendents are numerous. It must be an uniquely thrilling experience to witness the beatification of your father or uncle or grandfather. I do hope that King Bauduin of the Belgians will be canonized during the lifetime of his wife. Gail said she should be canonized right now.

 After that, the Pope was re-settled in his car, which drove off down the middle aisle, and around the side in place of the horses. More applause, but not terribly loud. I saw several Ladies of Malta minding their charges who sat in wheelchairs along the middle aisle.

 I can’t say that we fought our way out of St Peter’s Square, but there were an awful lot of people, and we hung onto each others’ belts or hands for awhile. Once free of the other People of God, we went hiking off in search of our lunch, and after disposing of it, found our way back , wonderfully, to the bus station, where we waited for our chartered vehicle to arrive. Home at last.

NEXT DAY

Next evening, we had a Mass of Thanksgiving at Tre Fontane. Cardinal Echeveray was principal concelebrant, and the French took over. After all, Blessed Cassant is a French saint, so they got to add another to the long roster of French holy people. The Cardinal was archbishop of Marseilles and head of the Pontifical Office of Peace and Justice, and has a very kind face. The Bishop of Toulouse assisted, and another empurpled cleric whom I didn’t know.

 A celebratory dinner had been arranged for us at the nearby guest house—with real tablecloths, lamps in the darkness and bountiful Italian dishes. The pilgrims from Toulouse attended, and the ambassador to France. So ended a beautiful celebration.

22 September 2004

 We have partic