A Cache of Letters Reveals Faulty Memory

The Mount College Chapel

These past two weeks have been busy with me going hither and yon for health and recreation. Thus, I didn’t post last Thursday and this week I haven’t visited any of your blogs. I hope to do a “blog marathon” this weekend and catch up.

Now to today’s posting.

         The past two weeks revealed to me that my memory is sometimes—maybe often—faulty. In the last few postings, I’ve given you certain seasons and years when I corresponded with the convent and with Rome. But I’ve discovered that time frame was inaccurate.

Here’s how the discovery was made: While sorting the contents of my safety deposit box, I discovered letters from the papal prelate and Mother Mary Austin concerning my being released from my vows. That’s when I learned that I’d given you an incorrect time frame. The letters also revealed just how kind both the prelate and the prioress were and how much they wanted nothing but surety and peace of mind for me.

In this posting and perhaps one or two more, I’d like to share that cache of letters with you. I don’t have the ones I wrote because those are probably in the Mount archives, but you will see from the concerns expressed by Mother Mary Austin and the prelate that I was indeed confused and torn by the decision I was making.

The interior of the Mount College Chapel.

The first sharing I'll do from that cache is not a letter but a document called “Permission for Exclaustration,” which simply means “permission to leave the convent.”

Sister M. Innocence (Dolores) Ready, O.S.B., of Mount St. Scholastica, Atchison, Kansas, by letter of December 5, 1966, has, for a just cause, requested permission to live outside the religious community for a year.

By reason of the authority granted to Major Superiors by the Hold See through #4 of the Decree to Lay Religious Institutes, I am, with the consent of my Council, granting you permission to be absent from the Religious House for not more than a year.

You will be expected to put off the religious habit when you leave, and when you have established yourself in some location will notify the Ordinary of the place of your state as an excloistered religious and will be subject to him in obedience.

Although an adequate sum is given by the Community to cover your immediate needs, you will be expected to seek suitable employment and thus to maintain yourself throughout the year.

May God be pleased to show you His will and to grant you peace.

Approved by the Council of Mount St. Scholastica, Atchison, Kansas, this 20^th day of December, 1966.

Mother Mary Austin, the prioress, signed the document on the 20th. Three days later I went to her office to read and sign it. Below her name came the following:

 “On this date, December 23, 1966, I accept the permission for exclaustration for one year as indicated above.”

As I signed the document, two nuns witnessed my signature.

In my posting of October 30, I indicated that I saw—for the first time—the “Ordinary,” that is, the Cincinnati bishop, nearly a year and a half later—in 1968. But it’s clear from this letter that I was supposed to notify him of my presence in the Ohio diocese when I moved to Dayton in January 1967. I didn’t do so.

Did I forget? Was I just being obstreperous? I don’t know. I can’t remember. But it’s interesting to me that I began my year’s leave with disobedience. Why? Because of the five vows I made in the convent it was the vow of obedience that caused me to stumble again and again. I was not always able to bend my will to the vision of a superior.

Next week I’ll share another letter or two or three with you.

Peace.

The Showdown at the O.K. Corral

A panoramic view of Cincinnati.

Last Thursday’s posting related how in the fall of 1967, nearly a year after I moved to Dayton on a leave of absence from the convent, I sent a letter to Rome asking to be released from my final—solemn—vows. The Roman prelate refused my request because of its vacillation. Then, in the spring of 1968, the archbishop of Cincinnati set up a meeting for the following Saturday morning.

A friend picked me up in his Volkswagen beetle. George had studied for the priesthood, but had left before ordination. So he and I shared a mutual interest in the religious life as well as the arts. Our conversation never lagged as he drove the fifty miles from Dayton to the larger city.  

The cathedral of St. Peter in Chains in downtown Cincinnati.

After entering the downtown area of Cincinnati and passing the cathedral, which occupied the corner of 8^th and Plum, we came to the chancery. George waited in the car as I went inside. Upon entering the bishop’s office, I kissed his ring and then, at his request, sat on the sofa while he stood in front of his desk. I do not remember the exact words exchanged between us. Thus, the dialogue that follows gives you only the gist of our conversation.

To begin he asked, “How did you get here today? By bus?”

“A friend brought me.”

“Male or female.”

“Male.”

“You’re dating?”

“I have but I’m not dating now.”

“What about your vow of chastity?”

That startled me. This will be hard to believe, but in the fifteen months I’d been out of the convent on a leave of absence I hadn’t once thought about my vows and about the fact that I hadn’t been released from them. Even when I wrote the letter asking to be released from my vows it didn’t occur to me that I was supposed to be living them. And yet that’s what a leave of absence was: I was away from the convent, but I hadn’t left my vows behind.

I spent a moment berating myself: How could I have been so dense? But then my common sense took hold and I said, “How can I decide if I want to return to the convent if I don’t date and enjoy a normal life outside?”

“You don’t need to date to lead a normal life. Stop dating until you’ve been released from your vows.”

He continued his interrogation. “Do you have a job?”

“I worked for Pflaum Publishing for a year and now I’m teaching religion at Julianne Academy.” (Julianne was a Catholic high school for girls in Dayton.)

“So why haven’t we received your paychecks all this time?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your paychecks should be sent here to the chancery.”

“Why?” I asked. “I need money for clothes. Rent. Utilities. Transportation around Dayton. All kinds of things.”

“I remind you again—you are under vows. You made a vow of poverty. Have Julianne send your paychecks here and we will give you a stipend to live on.”

Something within me rebelled. Abruptly I rose from the sofa and moved a step closer. “No. I’m saving for grad school. I will not ask Julianne to send you my checks.”

“You will. You’ve broken your vows of chastity and poverty already. And now you’re refusing to follow my orders. This is a serious breach of your vow of obedience.”

I simply stared at him. What he said was true: I’d forgotten I was still under vows. Yet I’d done nothing wrong. In many ways I was still living both the vows of chastity and poverty because deep down I had long ago, even before entering the convent, found contentment in living simply. Once again, however, the vow of obedience was proving difficult. 

Cassock worn by Roman Catholic bishops.

When I didn’t respond to his command, the bishop pointed his right index finger at the floor in front of where he stood and said, “Kneel. I want you to recommit to your vows. Your checks will come here. You will do no more dating or driving in cars with men. You will obey my dictates. And you will come back here every month and report to me.”

I didn’t move. I could feel myself crossing the Rubicon.

“Kneel!” he said, his voice rising.

I picked up my purse and walked toward the door.

“Come back here and kneel down,” he commanded.

I turned toward him and said, “I’m never coming here again. And if you have trouble with that then get in touch with the prelate for Benedictine convents in Rome and denounce me. Maybe then I’ll be released from my vows.”

With those parting words, I left the chancery. George drove me back to my apartment in Dayton. I cried; he sympathized. I never again heard from the bishop. But it took two more years to finalize my decision. That’s next week’s post.

A 1966 Volkswagen Beetle.

Photographs from Wikipedia.

The Need to Be Resolute

Dayton, Ohio

In January 1967 I moved to Dayton. Two and a half years later—in August 1969—I left Ohio to attend graduate school at the University of Minnesota. During those thirty-two months, I mostly enjoyed life: I made many new friends and was “adopted” by a young couple who had two children with whom I played lightheartedly.

I also dated, learned how to manage money, took a literature course at the University of Dayton, explored my emotional immaturity with an astute psychiatrist, flew home to visit my parents, lived through the death of my mother, worked at Pflaum Publishing Company, taught at two schools, attended concerts and musicals, became a frequent visitor at the local library, shopped for clothes, reveled in movies, and moved several times.

My life seemed full and rich. However, there was also the difficulty of becoming fully released from my final vows.

Last week I explained why I’d taken only a year’s leave of absence from the convent. During that time, I hoped to discover why the religious life overwhelmed me emotionally and why I found the vow of obedience so oppressive.

To my way of thinking, I’d been a total failure as a nun. All those other women with whom I’d lived for eight and a half years were able to remain faithful to their vows. They seemed content with their lives. What was wrong with me?

And yet, deep down in my psyche was the thought—one I didn’t want to embrace then or even now—that something was amiss in the convent. That it failed to help people like myself, who’d entered immature, to grow emotionally and spiritually. And yet. And yet. All those other nuns seemed fine. So I was the ugly duckling.

Throughout 1967, I became aware that I’d felt stifled in the convent. That I was unwilling—deep down—to suppress my need to be independent and to follow my own will as to what was good for me.

In early autumn of that year, the prioress contacted me, asking what I’d decided: Did I want to return or be released from my vows?

I wrote to say I wanted to stay “in the world.” She then explained that I needed to write a letter asking for permission to be released from final vows. She would forward the letter to the Roman prelate who oversaw this process at the Vatican.

Writing that letter proved difficult. I was still confused. I felt hamstrung when living the monastic life. Yet, the idea of monasticism continued to appeal deeply to my romantic and idealistic nature. The letter I wrote revealed a conflicted person.

The prelate’s reply came via the prioress. Concerned, he thought I needed more surety in my life before walking steadfastly away from monasticism. And so I was given another year’s leave of absence to think through what I really wanted to do. During that year I was to report to the archbishop of the Cincinnati archdiocese, which took in the western and southwest corner of Ohio and included both the Cincinnati and the Dayton metropolitan area. 

My independent streak rebelled. “I don’t need to see the archbishop. I just need to write a more resolute letter next October,” I thought, putting off the Cincinnati visit. Then, in the spring of 1968, I received notification from the archbishop’s office: I was to report there on the following Saturday morning.

That meeting, my friends, did not go well.

Peace.

Dayton panorama from Wikipedia.

Seesawing in the Convent

St. Peter’s Basilica in the Vatican

When last I posted a story from my life in Dayton back in the late ‘60s, I shared with you several perceptive comments that Dr. C., a psychiatrist, said to me as he discerned the patterns of my life. During that time I also tried to officially leave the convent.

When I’d asked to leave in early December of 1966, the Mother Superior thought that my taking a leave of absence rather than being released from my vows would be best for me. I can’t remember exactly how she proposed this, but she must have been thinking that I often acted impulsively and that I’d changed my mind more than once about leaving.

In June of 1965, after teaching high school students in Baileyville, Kansas, for a year, I’d arrived home at the Mount and immediately asked to leave the convent. The Prioress called and asked my mom to come and persuade me otherwise. Mom came, talked about how she’d stayed married to Dad despite his drinking, and said, “Dolores, when you put your hand to the plow, you never look back.” I stayed.

But a year later, in June of 1966, after teaching another nine months in Baileyville, I’d once again entered the Prioress’ office, knelt down, and asked to leave. My second request startled her even more than the first. After all, only a handful of professed nuns had left the convent in its previous one hundred years and so my persistence was historically atypical.

Vatican Two, an ecumenical council of the Roman Catholic Church, had taken place in Rome between October 1962 and December 1965. Pope John XXIII had encouraged the prelates to open up the Church to renewal. I knew little about the council, nor what this renewal implied. Nor did I know any professed nuns who’d left the convent. To leave after making final vows just wasn’t done at that time.

But I had become so desperate that leaving seemed my only recourse. I can’t remember how or when that drastic option—actually leaving the convent—occurred to me. I can’t stress enough how in December 1966 that was a radical idea. A year later leaving became more widespread.

I attribute my decision to that deep down survival instinct in me. It was leave or endure a breakdown. At the time, nuns who suffered from extreme mental illness were sent to a hospital in Council Bluffs, Iowa. My fear was that I’d be sent there and would spend the rest of my life sitting by a window, facing the sun’s warmth, totally incoherent.

The Prioress suggested that I take part in the convent’s June retreat and then make my decision. I did this, and sure enough, because at heart I love the idea of monasticism, I went into her office afterward and said, in my usual dramatic and grandiose way, “I’m staying. And if I ever again ask to leave, remind me of this. I’m committed to staying.”

St. John’s Abbey Church at Saint John’s University in Collegeville

Within a day or two, I traveled to Collegeville, Minnesota, where I had been pursuing for two previous summers a graduate degree in Benedictine Spirituality. When I returned to the Mount in August 1969, I began teaching religion and English literature in the Mount Academy attached to the convent.

But summer school had only bandaged the woundedness of my spirit. Once again, it began to fester. Once again I seemed to shatter into shards of myself. And so late one evening in early December 1966 I walked down the shadowed halls, entered the Prioress’ office, and asked to leave.

Next week I’ll explain a leave of absence and how that worked out in the two and a half years I lived in Dayton. Peace.

Postscript: This past Monday I completed the first rough draft of my convent memoir. I’m putting it aside for several weeks. Then I’ll read it to discover exactly what I’ve written. Editing and polishing will follow, through probably two or so more drafts, until I have a final manuscript. I’m feeling a real sense of accomplishment.

Photographs from Wikipedia. 

Be Gracious to Yourself

There’s not much more to say about Dr. C. except that at our last session he gave me life-saving advice. I was leaving Dayton to attend graduate school at the University of Minnesota, and he knew my penchant for seeking perfection so as to win approval. He also, I think, knew what graduate school would demand of me.

And so he said, “Dee, do you understand the term psychic energy?”

“No. I’ve never heard it before.”

“It means the energy that comes from your spirit. A Catholic would say ‘from your soul.’”

“Okay.”

“Psychic energy is the deep-down source of your response to life. It’s the force that keeps you going.”

“Like drawing water from the well when you need it?”

“Yes. Something like that.”

I looked at him, not knowing where he was going with this new information.

“Dee, let’s say that we have this much psychic energy for each decade of our lives.” He spread his arms far apart.

“We use up our psychic energy throughout the decade. Then we start another decade and use that psychic energy. Sometimes we have some left over from one decade for another.”

“Okay.”

“The thing is, Dee, I believe you not only used up all your psychic energy for your twenties when you were in the convent, but that you’ve already used up all your psychic energy for your thirties. You’re only thirty-three now and you’ve used up everything for this decade. You’ve asked too much of yourself.”

“What do you mean?

“I mean you don’t have any psychic energy in reserve for the rest of your thirties. And you have several years to go. You’re living on the edge of your own resources. You not only have no psychic energy for the thirties, you have no reserves from the twenties.”

“So what do I do?”
         “Be gracious to yourself.”

I didn’t truly understand the import of what he was trying to tell me, but as the years passed I realized what being gracious to myself meant. I needed to cut myself some slack. To be kinder to myself. Less demanding.

Those realizations spanned years. During the years between 1969 and 1975 I became increasingly suicidal. Then, in 1975—when I was thirty-nine—I began to see a St. Paul psychiatrist and finally talked about hallucinating and suicide. She prescribed an anti-psychotic mood enhancer. That medication changed my life dramatically.

Thirty years later—when I was seventy years old—Meniere’s entered my life. It was then that I truly learned what “being gracious” to myself meant.

In her comment on my posting last Thursday, Friko noted that I seem to have lived with a lifelong loneliness and neediness. I think her assessment is accurate. But because of the help I’ve received during this journey and because I’ve worked hard to grow emotionally, I now cherish my friends but I also know—deep down in the marrow of my bones—that my acceptance of myself is more important than winning anyone else’s approval. This has led to contentment, pressed down and overflowing.

Postscript: Would you like me to continue with those early days in Dayton after I left the convent? Or would you like me to continue to post stories about other psychiatrists and counselors I saw—in New Hampshire and Minnesota?

At some point in the next months and years, I’ll cover all of this. But perhaps you’d prefer that I stick with a single subject—like re-entering the world after the convent or like the counseling that helped me on my life’s journey. Please let me know your druthers. Peace.

Well photo from Wikipedia.

Circles. Centers. Circumferences.

Last week, I mentioned that Dr. C—the Dayton psychiatrist—had said four startling things. One was that I was the angriest client he’d ever had. In today’s post I’ll share the other three.

Number 1

At one point, I was describing my feelings about two friends. He said, “Dee, I’m no judge of spiritual maturity. What I do know is that you’re physically and intellectually mature. But emotionally you stopped growing at about thirteen.”

I was thirty-one at the time.

I asked how he could tell and he explained that the jealousy I expressed about my friends welcoming others into their circle sounded like a young teenager. I felt threatened when they befriended anyone else, as if they didn’t have enough love to expend beyond me. Also of course was my great fear of being abandoned.

Two years later, when I left Dayton, Dr. C kindly said, “Dee, you’re twenty-one now.” As he looked at me, his lips twitching with suppressed laughter, I grinned like the teenager he’d once thought me and felt a warm surge of gratitude to the man who’d helped me amass eight whole years of emotional maturity.

Number 2

A second thing he said also had to do with emotional maturity.  “Clearly I’m not enough for my friends,” I said. “They keep meeting new people. What if they like them better than me?”

He placed two sheets of paper on his desk and drew a set of circles on one—circles surrounded by other circles with their circumferences touching or overlapping a little. Each had a center point.

“These,” he said, “are healthy relationships. We are all the center of our own existence. But our lives touch other lives and sometimes we share a great deal. That’s the overlapping.”

I nodded.

Then he drew a second set of circles, much like the first. But the circumference of one circle overlapped many others and passed through several center points.

“Now here,” he said, “is how you want to relate. You want to be the center of other people’s existence. You feel secure only when you think that you are at the center of their being. You want them to be thinking of you all the time. Making decisions with you in mind. That’s emotionally immature. It’s why you have to perform when you’re in a group of people. To feel secure, you need to be the center of attention.”

Even though I acknowledged the truth of this insight, it saddened me. I took home the two sheets of paper on which he’d produced the visuals and pinned them on a corkboard. Daily, they reminded me of an emotional pattern I wanted to change.

Number 3

One final comment refashioned my idea of what to do with my life. One afternoon, I announced buoyantly, “I’m going to join the Peace Corps!”

“Why?”

Why? Wasn’t it evident? I quickly listed the reasons: I’d had a good life—a home, food, education, love. I’d been a teacher. I could go to another country and teach. I could share with others the gifts I’d been given.

He sat silent for a few moments. Then, “Dee, you just gave nearly ten years of your life to service. You practiced poverty. You taught. You gave to others.”

“That was then; this is now.”

“Look, Dee, you’ve gone through your twenties without having the normal things young people have. You haven’t bought a house. You don't have a car. No savings. The truth is you're about ten years behind other women your age. You need to stay right here in the States and catch up.”

“But people in other countries need help. I’ve been given so much. I want to share it.”

“Why don’t you give some other people a chance to share for once? Why do you need to do it all?”

I didn’t join the Peace Corps, but I did begin to understand that my need to be loved revealed itself in many subtle ways.

You know, I just remembered another gem of wisdom Dr. C shared with me. Next week, I’ll write about it.

Angry? Me?

The Seven Deadly Sins and the Four Last Things

by Hieronymus Bosch

with anger at bottom of circle.

(From Wikipedia)

Last week, I shared with you what an exceptional listener the second Dayton psychiatrist was. I also wrote about my feelings toward my mother. I plan on writing more about that, but for today, let’s stay with Dr. C. I remember four things he said that startled me and yet continue to help me. Here’s number one.

         Sometime in the fall of 1967, after I’d talked about how  I’d responded with a silent treatment when someone criticized me, Dr. C said, “Dee, you’re the angriest woman I’ve ever had as a client.”

Angry? Me? I never shouted. I never even raised my voice. I never told anyone what I felt when something had been said that hurt my feelings. And I'd been very rational, very reasonable when talking about my mom and dad. Surely these were traits of a peace-loving person. Maybe a saint.

I mention saint because upon entering the convent, I set out to become one. Throughout life, I’d sought love so no one would ever again desert me. If others saw me as a saint, they’d surely love me. Who could resist loving a saint? Who’d abandon a saint?

I protested. “I’m not angry. I don’t yell.”

“You are angry. You’ve suppressed it for years.”

“Suppressed it?”

“Pushed it down inside yourself. When we suppress anger, we dam it up.”

“You think I’ve done that?”

“Yes.”

“What do I do that’s so angry? I don’t hit people or say unkind things.”

“It’s more passive than that, Dee. You walk away from confrontation. You avoid people who’ve displeased you or criticized you. You hold it in, afraid of losing others’ respect and love. It’s passive, but it’s still anger.”

“No one's ever said I was angry.”

“You’re a great suppressor, Dee. You’ve dammed your anger all your life. But ultimately, it’s going to swamp you if you don’t learn to channel it.”

“Anger’s one of the seven deadly sins.”

“Yes,” he agreed, “anger can be deadly. But it’s all in the way we express and use our anger.”

“I don't get it.”

“Think about it. There’s a righteous anger about injustice. But even that needs to be channeled.”

“I don’t understand this ‘channeling.’ I’ve been taught that feeling and expressing anger is wrong.”

“Emotions aren’t right or wrong, Dee. They just are. We get into right and wrong when we talk about the way we express them. Whether we do it hurtfully. And when we suppress as you have, we end up hurting ourselves pretty deeply. I see before me a time bomb.”

“You’re saying I’m so angry I could explode?”

“Yes. One day you won’t be able to suppress the anger any longer. You’ll either explode at someone or your health will suffer. You need to deal with this.”

“What do I do?”

“It’s what we can do.” I must have looked confused, for he continued. “Together we’ll find ways for you to channel your anger. To express it in a way that won’t hurt someone else or yourself.”

So we began. I came to understand that feeling anger wasn’t wrong and wasn’t hurtful. That expressing it in an unhealthy way by word or deed was.

He helped me realize that letting people know what I was feeling was a more honest way to live.

It took years for me to learn how to channel anger and how to be honest with others when something they said or did hurt my feelings or seemed out of line or invaded my boundaries.

Years.

And the truth is that my journey toward embracing peace within and without continues. Peace.

2009

Visiting with a friend with whom I've always tried to be honest. 

Two years before beginning this blog. 

The Second Psychiatrist in Dayton

As you know, I had three sessions with the first Dayton psychiatrist. Really only two because I began the third session by telling him that his Catholic bias was destructive. Then I walked out. 

        I do not remember whether someone recommended the second psychiatrist—Dr. C.—whom I saw from May 1967 to July 1969 or whether his was a random name I found in the yellow pages.

         However the name came to me, it proved fortunate because he helped me take the first tentative steps into adulthood. You may wonder what I mean by that. I hope to begin an explanation with this posting.

         This second psychiatrist was a large man. Broad of chest. Tall. Groomed. He never wore casual clothes. Always a suit and tie. His hair always neatly combed. His face clean-shaven.

         When I first entered his office and he rose to greet me, I thought he looked sturdy. Assured. Stable. As time has passed, I realized he looked like a CEO of a vast empire. An executive who’d been financially and professionally successful.

         I do not know how much money or fame he amassed, but he surely had his share of wisdom. In our two years of twice monthly sessions—I couldn't afford weekly—I found him straightforward. Perceptive. Discerning. He listened in a way that made me feel as if he’d roamed the world and found me its most interesting inhabitant. Never glancing at his watch. Never yawning. Never fidgeting.
          In that room, for those fifty minutes, he patiently helped me sift the patterns of my life and decide which I wanted to retain and which I was ready to relinquish.

         What he didn’t do was react to my being an ex-nun. That I’d been in the convent was simply one fact about me. That fact didn’t define the entirety of me. I was more that just one definition. As the poet Walt Whitman said back in the nineteenth century, “I am large, I contain multitudes.”

Walt Whitman

         Dr. C helped me realize that and realize also that these “multitudes” jarred up against one another. Contradicted one another. Tormented me. Pained me. I needed to find the source of that pain, forgive it, and perhaps even be grateful for some gift it had given me. I needed, as Joseph Campbell has so famously said, "To find my bliss." 

         That was the task on which we collaberated. Of course, in those two years, I didn’t accomplish that. In fact, nearly fifty years have slipped away as I've examined those multitudes and come to peace with most of them.
          Nearly fifty sometimes difficult years have arced my life as one by one I've embraced those fears. As you've seen in this on-line memoir, I've come at length to embrace the whole of my life. Fifty years. Half a century.
          But with Dr. C's help, in Dayton's summer heat and winter cold, the journey began.

        A few years later, I realized that I'd never told him about the three personalities I hallucinated. Nor did I tell him about my adult neighbor molesting me for three months when I was ten. I’ve asked myself why I didn’t talk about those two things. I don’t think I purposely held them back.

         What happened, I think now, is that I was intent on one thing: blaming my parents for my insecurities and for my needing to please everyone because if I didn’t they’d cast me aside like flotsam.

My dad on a fishing trip with friends in the early 1930s.

         And yet, that was another thing I never told him—that my parents had moved to Parsons, Kansas, when I five and that my grandmother told me they’d deserted me. That they’d never come back for me.

         The truth is that I had blocked that episode in my life, just as I had blocked the molestation. Remembrance came only later. And perhaps there is a further truth—that I was too ashamed of hallucinating and being molested and seemingly 

abandoned. I don't know if that's true, but it may be so.

         What I blamed them for and what I talked about with Dr. C. was Dad’s drinking, his violence when he drank whiskey, and Mom’s unwillingness to leave him, despite all my begging. I faulted my mother for enabling my dad. She’d chosen him over her children.

Mom and I feeding the heifers on Grandma O'Mara's farm.

         Please understand—I was young. Callow. I’d never truly considered her life. Her needs. Fears. Regrets. Expectations. Dreams. I’d never tried to understand her. Only later did I begin to step into her shoes and view her perspective from the depths of her having lived through the Depression, of her having been raised a devout Roman Catholic, of her undeniable love for my father.
          Only later did I appreciate how much she loved me.

         At thirty-one I didn’t realize that. I placed more blame on my mother than my father. I think now that I truly believed she had betrayed my brother and me.

         I was young. Is that excuse or explanation? Perhaps both.

A Move Accompanied by Music

In late May 1967, the four friends whom I’d met at the Loretto Guild suggested that we find a house to rent. One of them worked at the University of Dayton and knew that during the summer months the University rented the houses in which students had lived during the school months. At the end of May we moved into the house pictured in last Thursday’s posting. We stayed there for three months. During that time I dated a little. By the end of the summer that had ended.

         In August one friend began to study the classified ads in the Dayton Daily News. She found a three-bedroom apartment at a “swingin’ singles” complex that boasted a swimming pool with a concrete surround furnished with deck chairs, tables with umbrellas, and hootenanny music.

         For that swingin’ singles’ pool I bought a two-piece swimsuit. It consisted of a top that was like the modern-day sports bras and a pair of shorts that came four or five inches down my thighs. The suit was modest, its pattern a smattering of tiny pink, blue, and yellow flowers with green leaves on a white background. It suited someone like myself who was still uncomfortable with having much flesh on display. The memory of seven yards of black serge lingered and my body missed the anonymity of the habit it had worn.

         Many days in September and October, after taking the electric trolley bus home from work, I’d don that swimming suit. Opening the door to the pool area, which a tall wooden fence enclosed on three sides, I’d first dip my toes to test the water's coldness then sit on the edge of the pool, making circles in the sun drenched water. Next, I’d enter the shallow end and sit in the water. But I didn’t know how to swim, so after a few minutes, I’d emerge from the pool and settle into a lounge chair, positioned in the shadows beneath the overhanging railed balconies of the second floor.

         There I’d read while humming the songs the local DJs were playing on the radios. When not engrossed in a novel, I’d raise my head and watch the bronzed men and nubile young women flirting with one another in the pool and dancing on the concrete area surrounding it.

         The local radio stations played records by many folk artists, Joan Baez, Pete Seeger, Glenn Yarborough, and Simon and Garfunkel among them. It was a time rich in music.

         One of those songs—written by Seeger in the 1950s and sung by Joan Baez in the mid-'60s—helped get me involved in the Vietnam War protest.

         Another, sung by Glenn Yarborough, appealed to the men around the pool but spoke to me also. I embraced the independence advocated in the song—the searching for what’s next in life. It became sort of an anthem of freedom for me.

        

         A third song, written and sung by Simon and Garfunkel, forced me to truly look at the world in which I lived. It helped me recognize the alienation around me and the desperate need to find meaning. It helped me understand that I wasn’t the only person lost and confused.         

         The music of 1967 and the following ten years or so is embedded in my psyche. Those songs of protest, young love, human need—of taking to the road and being open to change—helped form the woman I was to become. Just as the goodness of my mother and the prayer and dedication of the convent nuns had formed me.

         Slowly I was finding a life, but I needed help because mostly my mind was muddled. I still disliked myself intensely. So next week I hope to share with you what the second Dayton psychiatrist said to me. It was peace I was seeking and with him I found mostly questions to ask myself for a lifetime.

Photographs of the Dawning of Self

Last evening I riffled through a box of old photographs that date back to the early twentieth century. There were great-grandparents, Grandma Ready and O’Mara, Mom and Dad, my brother and his family, friends, as well as myself. Among those photographs I found some from early 1967 that show me during the first few months after I left the convent as well as one from the month before I left and a couple from a year later. Today, I’d like to share these with you.

         Here’s Sister Innocence in November 1966—a month and a half before I left the convent. I was teaching high school students in the Mount Academy and this is one of the Asian students. I had weighed 118 pounds from the time I was in grade school. But during those final months of 1966, I lost about 15 pounds and was the thinnest I’d been since fifth grade.

         Wearing the clothes of my pregnant sister-in-law, I left the convent on Christmas Eve, 1966. The following two photographs show me two days later at a party she and my brother gave for the family. In the one below I’m standing next to my cousin-in-law. I’m not sure what article of clothing I’m holding.

         In this second photograph I think I’m examining a half-slip my brother and his wife gave me as a Christmas gift. As I’ve said in earlier postings about this time, I did a lot of acting for a few weeks. Acting surprised. Acting happy. Acting interested. Longing always to be home with my mom and dad in their house where I didn’t need to act.

         In Dayton, where I got my first post-convent joy, I first lived at the Loretto Guild where I met four women who befriended me. In the early spring of 1967, the five of us moved to a house near Dayton University. My sister-in-law was due any day and so would soon be needing her spring and summer wardrobe.

         With the encouragement of my new friends, I bought myself dresses and shoes to wear to work. They were excited for me and wanted to take photographs showing “Sister Innocence” in her new finery. Below are pictures of me in one dress after another. These were taken outside the two-story home we’d rented. It was on a residential street where many students lived.

         On my face you see smiles that are real. I was no longer acting. I’d settled into life beyond the convent. Friends enriched my life. I enjoyed my work as an editor at Pflaum Publishing. I was going to movies, concerts, plays, dances. I had a library card. I traveled successfully on the city buses. I knew where to shop. I was being invited to the homes of co-workers to meet their families, play with their children, and enjoy tasty home-cooked meals. 

         I was taking a class on the novels of Charles Dickens and George Eliot at the University and writing papers that were garnering good grades. This was proof, I thought, that my mind was working well and that I hadn’t lost my ability to craft sentences. In a word, I was happy.

         That summer I traveled home to visit my family. This is a photo of me at Lake Jacoma in Blue Springs, Missouri. My family and I did some fishing there and then sat on the grass to enjoy a picnic with some of Mom’s famous potato salad. I note in looking at all these photographs that none of them show me in shorts. It took many years before I bared my legs by wearing pants that came above my knees.

         Finally, here is a winter 1967 photograph of me at my brother’s home in Independence. My hair is different; my smile is different; my whole demeanor has changed. This is what time and good friends and loving family can do for someone who has been deep into the abyss of depression and has—by some great grace—decided to live.

         Last night, while viewing these photographs that show in their own way a resurrection, I thought of Robin Williams. My heart aches for his pain and for the forlorn darkness of mind and heart and spirit in which he must have been living. May he now know the truth of himself and know, too, the meaning and worth of his life and the joy he brought to so many of us. May he know that he was and is a gift from and to the Universe. Peace.