NunSense

I keep thinking about something my mother said a long time ago, one of those aphorisms that somehow stays with you. She said you should never come to God when you are on your knees, but instead come when you are in a state of grace. I've been contemplating this idea a great deal of late. This idea of coming to God, not begging for redemption, solace, or reprieve, but instead coming in a moment of exultation, is an idea that, despite my better efforts, has resonated with me. Not so long ago, when I was suffocating under the weight of my depression, disappointment, and sadness, it was impossible for me to call upon God to help me, to save me from myself and the negativity that was my armor. I couldn't have felt less in touch with my faith, my God, the foundation of my religious upbringing during this time. Not once, when the only constant seemed to be tears, did I think of going to church. Again, I could hear my mother's idea about one's relationship with God during these interminable days. And so I stayed away from church, from prayer, from meditation--let's face it, this is not the ideal form for someone who finds it so difficult to quiet her mind. I just shut that part of myself up, wrapping it up neatly, or not so neatly. Instead, I dealt with my life head on, relying on no one other than just facing all of the sadness, disappointment, guilt, and anger. Oh, so much anger. I also found I could barely write, managing one barely 200 word essay, which, thankfully, won a prize and did get published. I hadn't gone through such a dark forest of sadness, not since my adolescence when I read and reread Sylvia Plath.

For many years, after leaving,or some would say fleeing, the expectations of my parent's home, I struggled with what God meant to me--much like anyone experiencing this same existential question of one's existence and their faith. And yet, I was the child that had been convinced I had the "calling," and was meant to be a nun. Yes, in the 10th grade, no less. My parents, being used to the eccentricities of their child and their lives, didn't balk or become outraged by my newly realized goal. Instead, they promised I could enter the convent, with their blessing, if I felt the same way after a year, just one year, of university life. Yes, this devotion to a life of celibacy, servitude, and devotion didn't last very long. But my fascination with, curiosity, and respect for those who have devoted their lives to something greater than their material desires, is something that I have held closely to me. And like most of us, I ventured far from my Catholic upbringing, testing meditations--that 8 hour seminar was one of the worst experiences of my life--, yoga practices, and even chanting. All of these ventures felt foreign, none of it resonating within me.

For a time, I toyed with the idea of joining the Episcopal Church. It felt the most akin to Catholicism--Catholic Light--, but without the guilt and confessional. During this experimentation, we went and joined an Episcopal church, which didn't really become our religious home. But what I did get from my brief sojourn there was the discovery of an absolutely sublime, Benedictine monastery in Santa Barbara. My first trip there for a women's retreat was like the baby in the bath water. I took to it, yes, is an understatement. This spectacular property atop this mountain, overlooking all of Santa Barbara and the Pacific Ocean, was the place that offered refuge for me from the daily struggles of trying to make sense of a life that seemed to be a tug of war, where I was constantly on the losing end. Going there for a personal retreat became a yearly event. I communed with the Brothers, all incredibly learned men, all of their stories a testament to a life lived within the confines of one's faith, devotion, but also the struggles of being human. Underneath those robes, they were, usually, dressed in casual shorts, sandals, and t-shirts. Men, when in their own residences, sat around reading, watching Basketball games, and having a cocktail at the end of a long day of devotion. Or so, that is what I always imagined occurred in their private residences. You can imagine me, the nosy one, dying to go behind those closed doors, just to sneak a look.

Over the years, I developed a bond with one Brother in particular. He and I shared moments of utter honesty, laughter, and a common respect for why we were there, him as a Monk, me as a wannabe. It was always my intention to go this year, but the year got away from me as usual. I received news that Brother Alan, my friend, had passed away. Perhaps it is knowing that I wouldn't see him lumber into the chapel on his cane, which has kept me away. And now, I leave LA without having had an opportunity to go to this very special place, my refuge, one last time to bid it farewell.

I struggle with the insistent pull of a life ordered by prayer and devotion--all such a far cry from a life where all of your worth is measured by where we live, what we drive, and what we wear. I guess that is why I have always sought out, even driving up the 101 Freeway, to get to this place that is so removed from the inconsequential things that we are consumed by and with. I am grateful to have a few friends, who do not consider themselves secular, but who do practice their faith whether by attending church, temple, or mosque. They are, like all of us, struggling with what it means to lead a faithful life. And since religion, faith, or belief in God are all off limits as far as polite conversation is concerned, we practice our faith quietly. Revealing that I attend church is as uncomfortable as revealing that you don't wash your hands after going to the bathroom. And definitely, displaying any connection to religion or God was a big no-no at graduate school, where every one of us seemed to be philosophical Marxists, French De constructionists, Post-Colonialists. In fact, to admit one was a Humanist was somehow admitting you were less intellectually rigorous as the others.

My mother, whose eccentricities can be charming and disturbing, is so right about this idea about God, who would receive you whether you were in crisis or a state of grace. But rather, it is this idea that we, or rather I, should always remember what it means to be grateful for all that I have, which is hard to see with any clarity when we are under constant siege about what we should have. And so, I go to church now to express my profound gratitude for all of it: my health, my husband, my son, my parents, my intellect, my friends, my sense of humor, my goofiness, my sensitivity, my craziness, my neuroses, all of it. Whenever I go back to church after an absence, I am always moved to tears when the choir sings. I don't know why this is. But I also always tear up whenever I hear "The Star Spangled Banner," being sung at sporting events. So, in these remaining days, I try to maintain my state of grace as I attend lunches, coffees, dinners with friends, all of them wishing us well on this new beginning of our lives.