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ABBEY JOURNAL....................2007
23 December 2007 Dear Ones, Here we are in a chilly but sunny run-up to Christmas. The tree is up and decorated in the new Chapter Room. Our friend Helene brought the lovely slip covers for its chairs the other day and the effect is breath-taking. Or breath-taking for those who like simplicity and space. Now the chairs harmonize with the carpet. We haven’t used the room for so long, it will be a sort of shock to return to it. It does have the best view in the house. We have had two storms, which is far more moisture than usual, and maybe we will have spring wildflowers. Yesterday, a flock of Gamble quail went scampering across the back yard. It takes a very interesting God to think up quail. The Christmas cards are to be opened, the music chosen for Mass, and the last mail before Christmas is expected. A few house presents have not come. It’s inevitable. The Great Garage is complete, with three bays for vehicles, and two for the golf cart, the bush hog, the tractor mower, various tools and a dog apartment. To the side is the doggie-run, necessitated by the inability of Shana to stop barking at every little incursion—real or imagined--on her doggie-world. We hope the new accommodations will be appreciated by our local canine population. The Christmas Tree will be blessed this evening before Vespers. It really is Christmas Eve, isn’t it? Christmas Eve. I just went out to check the lovely lighting arrangement Pam has put up outside. The edge of the roof is lined with tiny lights, as well as the door and windows of the church—AND our famous twenty-foot high agave stalk. WOW. In addition, a peach-colored full moon was rising over the mountains. The Tree was blessed by Fr Bernard in our new Chapter Room, with its lovely slip- covered chairs. 11:30 AM. The Vigils Service was beautiful. The darkness; our semi-circle before the altar with Esther’s new figures beside three flickering candles; the individual psalms that came across so clearly from the microphone; the lively early American music; the Gospel read with so much feeling and perfection by Fr Bernard—I haven’t taken part in a more moving Vigils in all my Christmasses. I really do love that music, and it historical weight. There is an entire hour between Vigils and Mass, and one can get coffee and do lectio or pray quietly. The full moon is taking its time going home behind the mountains in the west. We will have a couple of Bach pieces for Mass. That boom box has its peculiarities. It would have been prudent to steal the one from the Family Guest House, but the angels came through. 3:15 PM. We played the Little Toccata and Fugue for the Midnight Offertory, and The Air on a G String for Communion. For Day Mass, it was part of Brahms’ Variations on a Theme by Haydn for Offertory, and Tchaikovsky’s Meditation for Violin and Orchestra for Communion. Our congregations have shrunk—partially from death, partially from people moving, partially because there are so many Sundays when we don’t have Mass. I keep falling asleep. The Erlac Brothers came over for dinner, which was very nice. All the sisters pitch in to help Vicki with the assembling of the feast, and Fr Bernard has his share to make. That is a fun tradition for Big Feasts. We opened gifts in the afternoon by the tree, and before Vespers, Esther gave a little concert of carols on the keyboard. We had a quiet supper in the parlor, and so to bed. Tomorrow is a Hermit Day. Happy Christmas to all! 8 December 2007 Why does Advent turn out to be the busiest, most complicated season of the year? The liturgy is exquisite, the early winter environment invites reflection and peace. And yet the world crashes around one’s ears, determined to eliminate any sense of order. There is too much to get done, too many appointments and commitments. Events avalanche into one’s schedule, as if such a thing as a schedule could be imagined. The liturgy splinters off into shards of planning and worry, embarrassment, self-recrimination and fatigue. And yet. Something within keeps whispering that control of a well-regulated, predictable and spacious inner world is not exactly what Advent is meant to be. Right now, my meditation is the Gospel pericope for January 5. (We won’t go into why. We will just accept that January 5 is what is currently required.) Mark has Jairus asking for help, and getting it. And in between request and gift, the woman with a hemorrhage stoops to touch the hem of Jesus’ garment. What a crazy situation this must have been. There was nothing well-regulated about this noisy, pushing, dusty, desperate bunch of people. Jesus was being hassled, touched, reached for, implored. The power of the Spirit in which he lived was being drawn out, wrenched out, demanded. The world around him was twisting and pulling him like toffee. You’d think that when the Word became a man, his life would project seamlessly the great serenity of God’s inner life, wouldn’t you? You wouldn’t predict this return to the chaos of pre-creation. You wouldn’t expect such a violent confrontation with the human condition. You wouldn’t expect…But if we take up our expectations and put them to one side, we may be able to see the dynamic of redemption taking hold of its author and pulling him beyond our concepts of serenity, beyond our determination that order must prevail. Drawing him into what? Into the deep places of the human heart, where he begins an act of possession, where he begins to lay his life’s blood on our wounds and bind them with the darkness of divine mystery. Advent is a waiting, a giving of ourselves to this deeply personal healing process. It is not a romantic interlude in the liturgical year. It is down to earth, clouds with occasional rainbows, wind tossing bare branches. So what has our Advent been like so far? We have taken part in a ceremony of Blessing at the Bishop Moreno Pastoral Center. Esther’s lovely sculpture of Christ with the Children has been given a simple, striking setting that brings out the coloration on which she worked so hard. The words “Remember—of such as these are the Kingdom of heaven,” have been scripted underneath. Remembrance is the key, and attentiveness to the safety of every child. The Head of the Child Protection Office of the diocese was present, and one of the claimants in the bankruptcy suit. The rest were members of the staff at the Pastoral Center. We were honored and moved that our sister could contribute to this act of remembrance. One of our sisters is recovering from a double knee replacement—yes, both at once. That seems to be the practice now, and she is giving herself to the rehabilitation process with her usual strength of mind and a prayerful presence to the day by day advance into movement and recovery. She will be home for Christmas. The 20th is being shot for, but it is always possible that she will be discharged earlier according to her progress. We have had two storms. Yes, two. Two real, honest to goodness storms with wet stuff coming down to sink into our dry and famished earth. Maybe next spring we will have an abundance of wildflowers. The garage and the doggie-run are finished. Not to mention a nice brick enclosure for our trash bins. I have been thinking that at last the renovation has been finished—finished, finished—when it became apparent that the kitchen needed repainting with attention to those little corners and the moldings. Ah well. Now we ponder the problem of when to schedule this. Putting kitchens out of commission creates a delicate situation. Dr Glenn has been here to give his big heart to our Fourth Annual Neighborhood Sunday Brunch and a St Nick’s Day party for the sisters. Pray for him, because he is struggling with re-establishing a practice in the ruins of New Orleans. To add to the meaningfulness of it all, our friend Mary Ricker, a member of the Wrentham community’s associates, comes for her retreat at this time, and Dom Bernard’s friend Bob Hampton plays a wonderful straight man for the traditional spoofing at the party. This morning after Vigils, Esther came to tell me there was a white cat at the window. A white cat with tortoise shell markings on its face and a striped tail, a cat that was crying continuously. This was not exactly what we needed. However, we put her in the new garage—where she enjoyed walking on the rafters--and faced the prospect of taking her into town to the ASPCA. (They have a sale several times a year to give their animals a good home.) Vicki began by calling our neighbor, Brad Haber, and lo, it turned out to be his cat. “How did she get out?” We think she discovered their doggie door and got confused once outside. She’s a dear thing, and we were very glad to get her to her home. 3 November 2007 Well, Friends, Where did the year go? It’s not fair for time to go so fast. The construction crew is about finished with the garage. Our next chore is to convince the dogs that their new apartment is the loveliest thing in the world, and they are ever so privileged to have such a nice bedroom. The vet advises putting a few snacks in it. It will have some loose carpeting because they both have arthritis. They will have nice doggie-beds, and the doggie-door can be secured at night. It shouldn’t take long to replace their run, where they should stay unless chaperoned. The problem is a case of super-, hyper-vigilance which propels them barking out toward any movement–human or animal—that triggers their obsession. They wouldn’t hurt anyone, but they want people to think they would. There they go—trot-trot. We have had the most wonderful supply of transient bird life. Red-shafted flickers, Virginia’s warblers, a small woodpecker whose identity I have not checked, hawks… We will have to do something about the All Souls Day Procession. To walk the long way to the cemetery or to cross the back yard are both difficult options. The back yard is stubbled and hummocked, and therefore difficult for those with walking problems. The road’s length would take countless repetitions of our songs—though the prospect of a procession with a scooter and a golf cart does appeal to me, especially if we put little flags and bunting on them. Maybe we could have an indoor ceremony, and private visits to the cemetery later in the day. My idea of the ideal procession is the kind with banners and colorful costumes and a marching band to keep the beat. Yesterday, as we (decorously) approached the cemetery, a whole flock of ravens lifted off and settled in near-by trees. “…quoth the raven, ‘Nevermore.’” They are very intelligent birds and quite comical. When they fly, the sun glints off their oily feathers and turns the black to white. Dom Bernard has arrived for November and December. He looks great and we love his homespun homilies and the taste he gives us of his cosmopolitan life experience. We can’t imagine Christmas without him. The doorbell is ringing. Where is the portress? Is it me? Our only trees that turn for Fall, have turned a luscious golden yellow and are flinging their leaves on the yellow ground. Sr Rita will attend a financial meeting of the National Association of Treasurers of Religious Insitutes, NATRI by acronym. It is being held in Miami, which is a city she has never wanted to visit. But at the end, after learning all about investments, she and Sr Christa of Wrentham will take a tour of the Everglades, where she will see—we hope—alligators and multitudes of tropical birds. What else inhabits a swamp? Our Wrentham Sisters are planning to build a new dwelling for their candy industry, since the present one is inadequate. I think the plans require a redistribution of various elements of their complex. Thus always. We wish them the best of circumstances and peace during and after. Our experience has been that a functional workplace with adequate space is a godsend. And we are grateful to all of you who have helped us to this end. 7 October 2007 Happy feast. Today being Sunday, the mem of Our Lady of the Holy Rosary got—well, not dumped—but, as they say formally, suppressed. One would not know it existed unless one were well schooled in the sanctoral cycle. Anyway, since the administrator of St Theresa’s has transferred to a parish in Mexico, the Saturday evening Mass was eliminated, and we all went to the firehouse Mass Sunday morning. It is very different. A room in the firehouse is fitted up with chairs and tables, which surely lend themselves to other uses at other times. The altar is a table with a large white cloth and corporal, and the congregation chats companionably for half an hour or so before the Mass begins. Then the attractive woman who leads the singing announces that we are ready for Mass. Everyone shushes, and a teen aged boy acting as altar server and cross bearer leads in, followed by two small girls bearing altar appointments, and then Father. We had prayers for vocations and prayers for the erection of a church building for this congregation of St Mary of the Angels Mission of St Theresa’s. Then Mass began. We do not know what will happen next Sunday. We are to call on Saturday to see what is what, but I think we will start going to St Rita’s in Vail. The roof of the garage has been tar-papered, and only awaits it metal topping. Then the garage doors will be put in place, and we can movie in, to the dismay (we hope) of the pack rats. Yesterday was dispose-of-the-snake day. A middle-sized rattler was pretending to be a hose, being all curled up with one. Since the other crisis people were otherwise engaged, it was up to me to call 911 and ask for the mighty Sonoita-Elgin Fire Department. They were here in no time, a nice woman firefighter who drove, and a thin young man. They use a long-handled pincer sort of thing, and when the snake is dangling from it, pop the animal in a big white bucket with a twist top. Then they take it off to the wilderness so it can fight with some other snake whose territory it is invading. This gives the firefighters some thing to do on a dull afternoon, when they have the benefit of not needing to fight fires. A friend has given us an interesting clock. It has three settings. It can be used as an alarm clock; or as a strike-the hour clock; or as something known as manual (which we have not tried.) We have left it set at strike-the-hour, and it is in the refectory for our amusement. So now we hear a different bird call at each hour. At first we started to look around for the bird, then we got used to it. The rooster is a bit unnerving.
23 September 2007 It’s fall, that incredibly sumptuous season between the energy-depleting heat of summer and the chill of winter. Could there be anything nicer than the brisk, cool, sunny days of fall? Our Saturday Evening Five went off to Mass last evening for Sunday. And lo—we got in on a Baptism. The tiny gentleman becoming a Christian was three weeks old and named Nathaniel. At the end of the ceremony, Father turned to the congregation and said, “I now introduce to you the newest member of the Christian congregation.” I’m sure that by the time he finished speaking, new members had been Baptized into the Church all over the world. So now we’ve witnessed a Confirmation and a Baptism. The parents were very happy, and we shook the hand of the papa. Mama’s arms were full of baby. I thought only too late that we might have given him specific wishes—you know, like the fairy godmothers at christenings. The good ones. And on the way home, I kept going over possibilities in my mind. May he grow up to find a fine wife and found a beautiful family. May he grow to be responsible and compassionate. May he enjoy the simple things of life, and friendships and a job that gives him satisfaction. May he love God and understand the language and meaning of the Church his godparents are accepting for him this evening. He was so cute, and really good until he got that water on his baby head. At which time we heard a few little squawks. Three-week-old babies, even boys, are so tiny. He comes from a Mexican-American family and is an exquisite shade of bronze. No more close sightings of owls, though they are hanging around, and last night one sat (for a minute or so) on the Disabled Parking sign beside the front door of church. Today we are having wind and they say we might have a bit of rain. It is always a bit. The garage has its roof trusses up, but our men will have to nail on the rest of it and then the metal panels to finish. They are juggling several jobs at once, so we have to be patient. The structure should last forever, barring a particularly virulent storm, tornado, or earthquake. Our sisters in Indonesia seem to be having regular earthquakes. They are on that Ring of Fire, and consign themselves to the Providence of God. Remember the horrendous tsunami of a few years back? The parish is gearing up for the Great Fiesta—the patronal feast for St Therese. We won’t be going, but we will keep them in our prayers. Last year the folk dancing took place right next to the church on Saturday evening, so we got to see some of it. Those kids are so well-trained and well-practiced. They perform in many places and have even been to Europe. 3 September 2007 Our brother monastery in Huntsville, Utah, has elected a new abbot. Actually we are their daughter house, but the structural intricacies of the Cistercian Order are a bit much to go into here. Their abbot, who is now Fr David Altman, has a function toward us that is known as our Father Immediate. The bishop, who presides at an Abbatial Blessing had designated August 29 as the day--the memorial of the Beheading of St John the Baptist. Several abbots were to attend as well as Fr David’s sister Jane. I flew up on the 28th and home on the 30th. There was time, in addition to the ceremony and the lovely picnic that followed, to visit several of the sites in Salt Lake City and environs. On the inward journey, we flew over a large lake—large but not large enough we thought—my seat mate and I—to be the Great Salt Lake. Perhaps it was Lake Tahoe. When we did actually approach the Great Salt Lake, there was no mistaking it. It’s tremendously impressive. I was the first of three travelers to be met on that morning. I have been in many large airports, but something about this one gave me the sense that I might be wandering for days without rescue. Plod-plod. Have faith. You will get somewhere. A nice man on my journey to what I was devoutly hoping would be an exit smiled and hailed me with, “Welcome to Salt Lake City!” I was immensely cheered. Finally, what with moving walkways and following the crowd, I got to a sign saying “Waiting area.” There seemed to be no monk in sight, much less tall Fr Casimir, who cannot be missed. So I sat down. Then as my eye wandered, I spotted him seated. Oh of course, seated he is not conspicuous. We had a chance for a nice conversation until he went off for traveler number two, who was Fr Thomas of Vina. We then had a three-person conversation until Cas left to pick up Fr Damien of Gethsemani. He took us to lunch at a lovely cafeteria-style restaurant, and then we toured the center of town. First we visited the Catholic Cathedral, the Madeleine, dedicated to St Mary Magdalen, and built and decorated in a colorful kind of Romanesque-Beuron style. I have heard that its choir more than equals the world-famous Mormon Tabernacle Choir, but of course, we did not hear it. I should have asked how the tiny Catholic presence to Utah was able to erect such an imposing structure, and maintain such an excellent choir, but I forgot. We then visited the Mormon tabernacle, whose acoustics are so unparalleled that the choir prefers to sing there, rather than in the new Assembly Hall, whenever possible. Non-Mormons may not enter the Temple, but the new Assembly Hall is not only open to visitors, but is used by any number of outside groups, such as Rotary or business groups. With a sweeping balcony, it seats 21,000 persons, and is beautifully appointed in red. Our guides were most courteous and informative. Traffic is heavy in Salt Lake City, but nothing like Montreal. At the monastery, I was dropped off at the Ladies’ Guest House, while the monks continued to the monastery. On the upper floor, Father David’s beautiful sister had already arrived, and they were out together. On the lower floor, two Franciscan Sisters were staying, one of whom was a niece of Brother Mark. They had traveled by train from Chicago, journey of twenty-some hours, but beautiful. I decided I was no way going to make my bed on the morning of departure, so I slept cozily in a big arm chair, reading and dozing alternately. We attended Lauds with the community, and the Mass of Blessing was set for ten. It was just a tiny bit unnerving to have the Mass of the Beheading, with Salome and the head on a platter. David gave an excellent homily, meditating on the charism of leadership shared by all the baptized. Fr Charles presented him for the Blessing, and after the bishop had performed that ceremony, the community gave their new abbot the Kiss of Peace, and the Mass progressed. The monks of Holy Trinity are long-lived, and they have five former superiors in the community. The Mormon friends of the community had set out tables under the trees in the front, decorated with Black-eyed Susans. A caterer from up north had been cooking for days, and the serving table was enticing. After lunch, Fr Casimir asked if the little party of abbots and me would like to see the National Historical Site of the Golden Spike. Of course we would, and we went off, but without Fr Thomas, who had got stuck somewhere. If you have read Stephen Ambrose’ Nothing Like it in the World—all of us seemed to have had it read in the refectory—you will understand the importance of this site. In fact, on a wall in the main building, there is a list of twenty-five national historical sites that every American should see, and this is one. Here, the two wings of the transcontinental railroad met, and a commemorative golden spike was driven into the rails. When you read the account of the labor involved, the years in which the Irish on the East and the Chinese on the West blasted and dug and lugged and graded and slung sledge hammers across the country, you can understand the title of Ambrose’ book. And as you stand at the spot where the Central Pacific and the Union Pacific met, you realize the cost and the heroism of unnamed laborers who created something of which there was nothing like it in the world, a work of sweat and brawn and grit which bound the United States together. (To be continued.)
1 August 2007 A wow moment. Last night as I was returning from my walk, I could see the Great Horned Owls, both of them, seated on the front porch railing. I slowed, switched from the gravel path to the grass, and proceeded slowly. My walk became a sneak. How long would they stay there? Oh if only I had binoculars. I decided to skirt the front area and enter the house through the back. Senseless to disturb those majestic birds. But having snuck inside, I could watch them through the window. I was maybe two yards away—behind the glass--and you know how owls can turn their heads all the way around. They are drawn to that spot, I figure, because they can catch the moths and beetles that flock to the porch light. Their owl-y heads were going up and down and around constantly, and often those enormous eyes in the solemn owl faces would look straight into mine. I could study the striped beauty of the feathers and the set of the wings in repose. At one point, one of them swooped down to pounce on a beetle (I presume), the great wings spread in descent. Having dispatched the prey, it returned to its post on the railing. The second owl was sitting on the ground. Then there was the night of (gasp) rain. When I stuck my head out the door, the desert willow was dripping water, and as the porch light sparkled in it, you’d have thought you were seeing a big, enchanted Christmas tree. We are going to have some garage. The slab has finally been poured, and it’s rather large. It is to house our two cars and truck, the bush-hog, the tractor-mower, the little golf-cart when not being used by chaplains, and the dogs, with their own section. I almost said apartment. They have their own door, and a fenced-in yard, mostly for the night. They would get spooked and run off after every little critter in the neighborhood if they were to be loose at night. During the day, with the exception of guided walks, they are free to flop next to the kitchen door or putter around the garage work place. The “guided” as in guided walks are so they will not race off after snakes or rabbits or whatever. We had a lovely evening with the pastor of St Therese’. Because they no longer have a weekday Mass to which we could go for the Assumption, he came over to celebrate with us for the 15th. I got hopelessly confused as acolyte, and did everything wrong. After Mass we had a gathering with him in order to find out about his connection with a parish in Bangladesh, where he once ministered. A group in Nogales is sponsoring the work done in that parish for its disabled members. The group is giving him a birthday party, something that in his Mexican culture is never done. But they hope to raise funds thereby for the Bangladesh work. Horribly, the priest who created the ministry with Father, was due to come with a layman to speak to this group of the situation. He died of a sudden and aggressive cancer the day before he was to leave Bangladesh. The layman who was to accompany him was denied a visa by our super-, hyper-nervous government, which assumed that since he wasn’t married, he would be looking to slip away and stay here. We have just finished for refectory reading a book by a Sister of St Joseph of Orange about her ministry in Santa Ana to the young poor Hispanics. She has made a couple of retreats here, and her facility makes an enormous difference to many lives that without her would wind up in gangs or other kinds of hopelessness. 31 July 2007 Well, well, Just back from the pastoral meeting of the western superiors. It is held in the retreat center of the Immaculate Heart Community in Mendecito, Calfornia. Which is extremely beautiful. Extremely. The history is interesting. The property is large, with lavish grounds and a number of buildings. Even the trees I could identify are different from any I have ever seen. Live oaks, for instance, are high and wide and big. Whatever ours are not, they are. Then you have the most paradisal sort of flowering trees and bushes. And positively enormous eucalyptus, with the bark dripping off the trunks to reveal gleaming white inner skin. Someone remarked on the negative side of all this: you are listening, from morning till night, to a chorus of mowers, clippers and other forms of floral maintenance. But that is a small price to pay. The Sisters of the Immaculate Heart were the glory of the Archdiocese of Los Angeles. They maintained a college, a high school and many other schools in California. Highly trained professional women, their novitiate was based at this property in Mendecito, which they had bought for $40,000 in 1942. Forty thousand—can you imagine? This miracle was negotiated when the real estate market in California was extremely depressed, since everyone was afraid of a Japanese invasion during WWII. The Sisters did not fuss over torpedoes. They had faith in God and in their mission. You should see the pictures of their glory days—loads and loads of novices being primed to emerge into the educational and art world of the western coast. Then came the well-publicized conflict with Cardinal McIntyre, and the decision on the part of the leadership and many of the Sisters to begin a new life as a lay community. The general at that time has written about it in her book, Witness to Integrity. The great house is now used for retreats, and they are in the process of re-possessing another large house on the property. As far as I know, this is an enormously popular place of peace and inner rebirth, and the community is very happy with the way their vocation has found its way into new and beautiful paths. You should see the chickens. I have never seen anything like them—large, fluffy and dressed in flamboyant colors. They also give colored eggs. And the oranges. Can there be anything like freshly squeezed orange juice from freshly picked oranges, except maybe eating the oranges themselves. And lemonade from—you guessed it—freshly squeezed lemons from their trees. I forget how old the orchards are, though I was told. I saw some little new trees in line to replace old ones. Well, to get off the food. We went to the beach for a few hours and I sat in the shade and people-watched. They allow dogs, and the dogs had a great time chasing balls and getting to know each other. I can’t understand how people can lie in the sun when you know it’s dangerous, but there they are. Maybe I am just used to Arizona sun, and running in and out to get the mail before it gets to me. Now, I would not want anyone to think this week was a matter of fun and frolic. It was a very serious exchange, and more helpful than the business-oriented Regional Meetings of all the superiors at once. During a week like this, we can converse and question and share experience in a way that is not possible otherwise. The wisdom on which one can draw is so valuable. Here are people who have borne the brunt of the day and its heat, have lived for years with hearts laid open and problems soluble and insoluble, have known intimately what it is to turn to a God who is the only solution, the teacher and the savior. Monastic life is not a serene and untroubled world that avoids the growing experiences of life outside its walls. The monastic journey throws all of us up against everything, within and without oneself, that presses on human weakness and incapacity. It not only challenges, it pulls down defenses and redistricts the inward universe. The abbot or abbess walks this road in a particularly lonely manner, and needs to know there are people somewhere who understand and from whom wisdom can be drawn. So you need not only the talk, but also the time of wandering on the mountain and pondering the enormous eucalyptus. You need the early morning walk in the silence before the garden crew has shown up, and the fog and the history of a place. The presence of the Immaculate Heart Community is encouraging and supportive. They have been through a death and risen to new life. Nothing is impossible. The hiking paths talk to you of the switchbacks of life itself, the noon sun speaks consolation, even as it dizzies your balance system. Life is a dizzying prospect, and the Way of the Cross is not just a pious meditation. Thank you, God, for life, for the switchbacks and the deaths and the Simons along the way. 2 August 2007. It is raining. Of course it is raining because the ground has been meticulously prepared for the pouring of the slab for the garage, and it is too wet to proceed farther. We had seven inches in July. 20 July 2007 Dear Ones, Several important events have occurred. To wit. We had about four tenths of an inch of rain. It did cool things off a bit, though its contribution to the flora was negligible. Those horrible, repulsive Colorado Toads have emerged from their long hibernation under the soil. I should not speak thus about creatures of God. But they are repulsive. Imagine, the same God who created quail also created Colorado Toads. It’s a great mystery. A common ordinary toad is a beauty queen by comparison. But in addition to scoring low on personal appearance, they are poisonous should a dog (for instance) have the bad taste to mouth one. They are poisonous because they are so limp and soggy and gushy that they would have no other protection in the event of an attack. Aren’t you glad you know this? The garage is in process. The library has only a few touches to go. All those books have been shifted into their new home. We are now looking for a place which would like to have the culls, a school possibly or a parish library. I have to call the chancellor’s office. Oh dear, the construction crew broke a phone line. Fr Robert’s two months have flown by. He will be leaving us on August 1. Mass every day was nice, and even nicer was the return of our Sunday Congregation. One Sunday we had the Firehouse crowd in addition, because Fr de La Torre had to be away and there was no sub for their Mass. Our governor has hit the front page of the Christian Science Monitor. A Say’s Phoebe has just alighted on the porch railing outside my office. Clare, who is on retreat, said that she saw a Western Tanager, which is mouth-wateringly beautiful. Now, the big event. Mindful of the toads, as I stuck my head out for some fresh air the other night, I peeked cautiously around the corner of the house. God forbid I should kick a toad in my insouciance. There was no toad, but there, sitting on the porch railing, was a Great Horned Owl. Talk about majesty. I looked at him and he looked at me, and then he lifted off and disappeared into the night. Wow. A couple of nights later, I saw what seemed a smudge on the top of our Golden Flowered Agave—remember it’s twenty feet tall? Hmmm. Did something break? As I watched, trying to figure it out, the smudge slowly spread its wings and swooped off. Then last night, the smudge was back, and out of the smudge an owl face turned toward me and after considering me for a moment, took off. Then a second smudge spread its huge wing and glided off after the first. By this time, it is not easy to breathe. A little while later, the shadowy figures were still around, and slid from one side to the other of my vision. Maybe they won’t be so visible after the moon comes out. The trouble with moons is that they kill the stars, but they do provide about half the light of day when they are full, and lots of sharp shadows. The owls may be more cautious in the half light than they are in the dark. There was a time when a Great Horned sat on the church roof and accompanied us at Vigils. They are the bassoons of the owl orchestra. What a noisy night. We did get rain out of the noise, but we will have to see how much. 2 July 2007 WELL. The library is almost done. The Scriptural section needs re-doing, but that can be attended to a little at a time. Fr Casimir, our retiring Father Immediate, was here for a week, and asked us which aspect of the renovation we each liked best. Clare loves the reading section of the new library, because of its “space.” It spans both sides of the wing without walls intervening. On one side you enjoy a reading space with the art, poetry, travel, languages, and drama books around you, and the periodicals in wall display hangings. On the other side, you have the music. It’s nice. Rita said she liked the whole of the renovated spaces. I like the hall in the library, now that it is free of cartons. I like the white walls and ceilings and the blue rug. And the little living room—we euphemistically refer to it as the “lounge”--of the Senior Wing is very inviting. The contractors will be back on the 7th to tackle the garage. It is regrettably necessary because of the local wildlife that feels so cozy in our engines. The animals nibble while luxuriating therein, and that can be very expensive. At the end of the garage, our dogs will have their apartment. They spend their days plopped outside the kitchen door being hot. Summer is hard on dogs. What will be the dog yard is presided over by a magnificent cottonwood. On the far side of the Altar Bread Building a lineup of cottonwoods is growing in stature, and I am afraid they may crowd each other eventually. People planting trees don’t always reckon on the extent of future growth. What if each of these trees attains the stature of the one behind the future garage? This is a serious matter. It’s too bad, however, that the lovely space opened up by the demolition cannot be sustained. There is no other place to put the garage. One night last week as I was washing my supper dishes, I looked through the window and—wow—at least twenty deer strolling from behind the Altar Bread Building toward the slope of the hill. Wow indeed. Deer after deer, little and big. Our poor wildlife is thirsty. They come at night to drink from the tree wells. Speaking of which. The other day we looked out from the sorting room at Altar Breads upon the sweetest sight. A family of quail was lined up on the edge of a tree well, drinking. That means mother and dad and a clutch of little ones, all in a row. They may have sensed their audience, or just had had enough, because they walked off shortly, the tiny birds sort of hopping and flying to keep up. A full moon lights up the landscape at night, but the disadvantage is obvious: it kills the stars. One cannot have everything. We had a great time with Fr Casimir. He has been the best of all best Fathers Immediate, and we are sorry his term is up. Faithful and dear Fr. Robert of Ava will be chaplaining us for another month. We are losing a lovely Vicar for Religious also. Sr. Jean Olmstead, a Religious of the Blessed Sacrament, is retiring from the office to attend her aging mother in Vermont. She came out for a tour of our new environment and a fun gathering with the community. Her Congregation was founded by Saint Katharine Drexel for service to our peoples of color, and Sr. Jean has worked with both African and Native American peoples. Kind of harrowing to hear stories of the segregated years. And even worse to realize that racism is far from dead. The desert willows have blossomed and shed their petals. The swallows' nest are now inhabited by the young of sparrows. Can’t figure out exactly how that happened. The eucalyptus that Abel had to cut down is sending up a new sprout right in the middle of its stump. We do not allow pets in the retreat house. The complications would be obvious. But an exception was made recently when a sister-retreatant was unable to find a doggie-sitter for her—Chihuahua! Great fun. 16 June 2007 Well, first and foremost, our Agave is over twenty feet high. Its stalk just avoids the porch roof and its floral branches begin a few inches above it. What intelligence. The flowers have not fully opened and when they do, they will be hung with veils of insect visitors. On Thursday the wreckers came to dispose of our former novitiate-office building-weaver’s studio. I had expected a big bulldozer that would plow into the structure and collapse it. What would have happened to the remnants I had no idea. Instead, however, we got a huge machine with enormous jaws on a long, flexible neck. Unfortunately, we had to go to work, because we could have watched all day. Esther said, “It looks like a dinosaur!” It did indeed. I kept thinking of horror movies, especially when the huge toothed maw was opened and facing our direction. Two very large disposal vehicles would line up beside the demolition. The jaws would collect and dump the refuse into these vehicles, which would carry the junk off to whichever dump was able to accept it. We went out after Mass and half the roof was gone. The jaws were scooping up debris from within the building. Then after a short time, they went to town on the rest of the roof, crunching away as if it were a few sticks of celery. They did the same with the brick coating of the structure, but that had to be done separately, since one dump took the inside refuse and another the bricks. The sisters who remembered when Vicki and Fr Romaine had built the brick coating around the double-wide trailer (which had served at the construction site of some buildings of St Mary’s Hospital), recalled how long it had taken to construct--and here it was gone in one day. The cleaning up is not quite done. The man who came yesterday was working both machines. He would be the dinosaur till the refuse machine was full, drive that to the dump, and return to resume his identity as dinosaur. We cut concelebration hosts at Altar Breads that morning, and this usually goes a bit overtime. After Lunch, Marg, Esther, and I set out for the Bishop Moreno Pastoral Center in town. We were to deliver the bas-relief of Christ and the Children, and Marg was somewhat uncertain about the way to get there. That part of town has a lot of one-way streets. When we got there, Esther and I carried the piece in, while Marg went to park. The bishop and most of the staff were there to receive us, and when the sculpture was unveiled, it received a very satisfying amount of oohs and ahs. It will be displayed on the wall just within the front door, with an appropriate plaque. Our friend Paul Duckro, who is head of the Office for Protection of Children, Adolescents, and Adults, was also there to welcome the beautiful reminder of Christian responsibility toward the young. We met the new chancellor of the diocese. The former chancellor, June Kellen, a lovely woman, had felt it was time to retire. This man is a very nice Hispanic gentleman. By the way, my women’s college has engaged a man as its next president. When I was there, only Sisters of Providence had served as presidents. Then a wonderful Carondolet sister was engaged, and now, without any gender discrimination, they have simply taken the person who was most competent.] The man who photographed us for the diocesan paper interviewed Esther, while Marg and I had a nice chat with the retiring Vicar for Religious, Sr Jean Olmstead. We hate to lose her, but she knows she is being called to care for her aged mother on the east coast. She is a Sister of the Blessed Sacrament for Native and African Americans. She had some very harrowing details to share with us of the early days of segregation. They founded the only Catholic college for Blacks in the south, and yet the sisters could not receive their degrees from it. Some terrible etceteras. Squirrel outside. I don’t know how they have taken the destruction of their condominium under the old building. But some swallows lost their nests. We had not known about the demolition in time to prevent them nesting under its eaves. Anyone who wants a superb book on animals should check out Temple Grandin’s Animals in Translation. She is the well-known autistic student of animal science, and feels that her “disability” gives her special insight into the animal mind. Every paragraph is haunting. We might be hosting the congregation from the firehouse tomorrow. Fr DeLaTorre has to be away for the weekend, and he may not have been able to get a sub to cover the firehouse Mass, so he suggested that the people come to our chapel. The renovation has had a few side-effects in the line of cooler temps within the house from increased insulation. There was an article in the NYTimes today about Phoenix’s horrible summer temperatures. Tucson is pretty high too, but we are ten degrees less hot. With breezes that sometime feel like high winds. Happy summer! 13 June 2007 It will end. I am firmly convinced. We are now at the count-down for the re-shelving of books. It’s a bit of a chore, but very enlightening, since you get to see everything, and, “Oh, I haven’t read that one. It looks good…” And, “”Where did I put the other two Cahill books that we were saving to go into a series with the other two?” Many of the cartons hold either series or encyclopedias and will not take much time to shift to a shelf, not needing culling or reflection on where to put them. The dogs have almost moved back into their former home base, since the one they are now inhabiting is due for demolition. Last night they were barking, seemingly without reason, but when I went into the kitchen, Marg and Chiara were gazing out the window at a small herd of deer beside the Altar Bread building. They must have heard me getting ice out of the frig, since they looked our way with big ears up, but did not run away. The dogs (within an enclosure) seemed to be a blip on their mental screen, not to be anxious about. I put out a request for knowledge on the red suitcase I had got on sale after New Years at JC Penney. You do not want to lose something like that—after all, on SALE. I checked again last night and found it by the texture. It was blue. Go figure. We will have a Hermit Day on the feast of the Sacred Heart, by popular preference. I suspect no one wants to be cook. But also, it’s a lovely way of recouping one’s energy, spiritual and physical. Brother Raphael has died at Gethsemani. He went into the hospital for surgery that was successful, but heart and lung complications followed and now he is in God’s heart. He was very generous, and helped the Sisters’ houses a lot. A long life of goodness, taken by God so gently and quickly. We and everyone else in sight are being asked to pray for the wife of a Marine in Iraq. She has Stage Four cancer, with a little boy of five, having had a recent miscarriage. We have encountered some engineering problems with the sculpture of Christ and the Children which is destined for the Bishop Moreno Pastoral Center downtown. It needs a good deal of support—drilling and screws and so forth, so we have to either do it ourselves or find a friend to install it. After the books… Two of our sisters are at New Mellerey for the Junior Directors’ workshop, whose visiting professor is Sandra Schneiders. She will center her talks on commitment. Meanwhile on the home front, we are reciting the Office until our wanderers are back. And doing “Bake-cut” days are Altar Breads. That means alternate days of baking and cutting instead of combining the two as usual. For some reason, the heat is not oppressive. The “some reason” has to do with increased insulation, and some air conditioning, both brought about by the renovation. The combination of creamy white walls and a lovely shade of blue carpeting has done wonders for the renovated rooms. Chiara said that “the library is coming alive.” Funny how different the books look now in their new home. 21 May 2007 We have a quite remarkable agave in the front yard. The tip of its stalk has avoided collision with the porch roof by veering slightly outwards. And still it grows. Agaves are those slender stalks with a kind of candelabra on top that you see in photos of the West. They throw up one stalk from a clump of fleshy, spear-like leaves, and once it has blossomed, the plant dies back. This giant is really going places fast. I’ve seen one woodpecker. The best place for birds is out the sorting room window at AB. Quail are the most fun, but one never knows. The house is a mess. We have moved all our books from the former library, to which we had moved books from several other rooms at the beginning of the renovation. Obliging friends and businesses from which we begged have provided cartons. They are now full and resting happily or otherwise in the cloister or haphazardly in the new library. Our friends the contractor’s squad has disconnected the shelving from the former library and are reassembling it in its new location. Once they accomplish that, we will be reassembling the library. Of course the number one books are in back of the piles of cartons, and the very number one books are on the bottom. But we will manage. Weather has begun to get summer. Summer means hot. But yesterday—Sunday—was exquisite. We had a fine consultation with Sr. Kathleen Kalinowski, a Benedictine from St Scholastica’s, the women’s monastery near St John’s in Minnesota. She is a whiz at finance, and advised us on investment with enormous skill and patience. The National Religious Retirement Office provided the grant for this and is an enormous help in these areas. Sister, who had come in the original evaluation from NRRO, was pleased with what we have done with the house and with the generosity of our benefactors and the grants we have received. Sr Rita is due for a couple of financial workshops. We are so grateful for the generosity that has helped in the project, as well as for the privilege of being able to contribute through the work of our hands in our own industry. I look around the renovations and can hardly believe the simple beauty and utility of the improvements. The senior wing and the library (a renovated dorm) give us white walls and blue carpeting and space in which to move and be. The new art and maintenance wing is fully activated and producing wonders. Esther has just completed a “Christ and the children” for the bishop. The diocese has established an excellent facility for the protection of children, adolescents and adults from sexual abuse. This beautiful sculpture will be used in a place of worship in connection with the on-going protection and health-bringing efforts of the diocese. Clare’s contribution to the silent auction in honor of the bishop and Fr Carscallen was a breath-taking Icon of Tenderness. She is continuing her Mother of God of Santa Rita Abbey, in which the monastery is cradled in the arms of the Mother. Saturday, the little squad that attends Sunday Mass on Saturday evening at St Therese’ church in Patagonia (the rest of the sisters go to Sunday Mass at the firehouse in Sonoita) was privileged to attend a Confirmation. We were especially pleased because our Terri’s two granddaughters were among those receiving the Sacrament. Originally, since our church had only eight confirmands, they were to have been melded into the group at Sacred Heart in Nogales, but Bishop Kikanis sent the Vicar General with authorization to confirm our little band in our own church. This was a very wise pastoral decision, since our congregation is tiny and in need of support. It was so important to have this consideration from its bishop. Terri’s family was there. We know Kelsey and Rayanna, and now we could meet their father and two little brothers. Christopher had been a spelling champ, and Danny had just been baptized at the Easter vigil. The girls’ father is the friend and savior of that darling little Border Collie mentioned in a previous episode of the journal. She still goes to work with him every day and they are inseparable companions. Our friends the Quirogas were sponsoring Corky’s nephew for the Sacrament, our Bernie sponsored Kelsey, and Terri was at Rayanna’s side. I was crying, it was so moving. All the confirmands were Hispanic, and the fine singing was in Spanish. So we await the next episode in our on-going adventure of Cistercian life in the West.
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