Love in the Time of Cloistering

It's such a tragedy that I did not, indeed, become a Catholic nun when I had the chance.

It's long, but I have to quote the whole thing, written by Mani S. Irani (Meher Baba's sister) from her book, God Brother:

As I have said before, I was educated in the Convent of Jesus and Mary at Poona. Mehera, too, had attended the school before me. We were taught by the nuns, as well as by the regular teachers.
         I loved the nuns, the habits they wore, and their gracious ways. They were always busy with their work and their prayers, and I marvelled at the time and care they devoted to the lilies in their garden. Whenever one of the nuns carried a long sheaf of pure white lilies into the church of the Convent, I would feel touched. "She's offering it to Jesus," I'd say to myself, "just like Mehera would offer it to Baba."
         Apart from giving piano lessons and moral lessons, the nuns also taught excellent needlework. However, what I'll never forget is the fudge the nuns used to make for school fairs — it was heavenly!
         Two nuns I remember with special tenderness. One was the jolly Irish nun who was our Mother Superior when I was admitted into the school. The other was the very kind, soft-spoken Sister Matilde who taught us French. Although we did not learn much of French grammar from her, she gave us a true knowledge and love of France. I was to remember and thank her for this when we visited France with Baba in 1937. Whatever we saw there, I felt I had seen it before — through the eyes of gentle Soeur Matilde.
         I had always wanted to be a nun — a nun for Baba, just like Mehera, Naja, and the other women who had given up everything to be with Baba, serving Him in total obedience and strictest discipline.
         One morning during recess, one of my school friends was being catty and asked, "Mani Irani, do you know why the nuns are so good to you?"
         "No," I said, "Why?"
         "Because you're going to become a Catholic nun."
         "But I'm not going to become a Catholic nun," I replied.
         "No? Then what kind of nun are you going to become?"
         I don't know what made me say, "I'm going to become a real nun!"
         Years later, after joining Baba as a "real nun," I realised the truth of what I had uttered as a little girl. There was indeed no nunnery like ours, so cloistered and strict, and yet so alive and buoyant with the joy of God's personal presence and love. Yes, being Baba's nun was being a real nun in the deepest and truest sense of the word.

I have not been so worthy, in this lifetime, to live in the presence of God in the human form. It has been such a heartfelt yearning . . . such a deep and sorrowful plea, from the fathomless depths of a breaking heart . . . and yet, unrequited and seemingly denied forever. Such little patience, I know. I feel the admonishment from within, minute by minute. One lifetime??? He incredulously gasps. You can't exist for one lifetime without Me???

He's the one who sees me, though, when nobody else is watching. He's the one who sees me throw myself on the floor, daily almost, wailing helplessly with the torment of my longing for His presence. Should I tell you this? Is it fair to Him?? Does my love for Him diminish somehow, now that you know how pitiful I am because of it? So much of it is unhidden, now, that I don't see how it matters. So much of it is blared across the internet and logged into the notes of psychiatrists and law enforcers. I am a long, howling, wail that cannot be quelled . . . even in the silence of my writing.

If I had escaped to a convent at seventeen or so, I could have lived this life absolutely privately. I could have walled myself up behind some thick, blond brick . . . and I would have come out once in a while to run the library at the school, or possibly teach some poetry (when I was able to get up off the floor.) Or maybe I would have been patting down babies at an orphanage, and doing fliers to raise support for Catholic Charities on my off time. But, nobody would have questioned me, daily, for kneeling in front of the altar with tears running down my face, or spending unusual amounts of time polishing the pews in time for Mass. The parishioners might have instructed their children to speak softly around me . . . but they would have at least given me a little wiggle room for my "oddness." Here in the suburbs, with exes everywhere, and a poor, bewildered pre-teen daughter, I am so far from "normal" that it is ridiculous . . . and I do not even have the propriety of a good black and white habit to help me gain a little respect.

And here, again, today, I find myself on the verge of a new world all over again. Derek and I have finally bitten the bullet. Our relationship has been struggling . . . despite how much we truthfully love each other, deeply and beautifully in a real and unending way. He's my beloved, in so many ways, but in the world — in this world — we are not capable of holding together a romantic relationship. In the classic Seinfeld style, we have been able to honestly say to each other, with laughter through the tears, "It's not you . . . it's me!" and mean it.

But, it means that Sister Babsy is on the loose again . . . and I have been so much trouble when that has happened in the past. I must be honest about it. I love Jesus so much that I hunt for Him everywhere . . . and truthfully, I usually find something that reminds me of Him in every person I meet. Derek was the kicker, in so many ways. He's a man who survived a 125-foot jump from the top of a gorge — as a college student at Cornell — in the tragic response to the loss of a relationship with a woman he loved. Not only did he survive, but within months of the fall, he was back at Cornell, and finished his degree within the same year of his original graduation date. To look at him fully dressed, you would never know. His smile is bright, his eyes are clear, his skin is peachy (truly, honey, it so is!) he's funny and brilliant and beautiful and kind and sweet . . . ahh. Such a guy, you have never met in your life!!!

But, it doesn't take too much to see and understand the scars he has carried from this chapter in his life. There's a long, deep one, running right down his torso. And, the heart is a funny thing. He loves me, but he can't tolerate the "noise" I bring into his life . . . with my drama and pathos, emotion and obscure spiritual mumbo-jumbo (lol!!) — it's too much for a man who has suffered as much as he has. He wants a quiet life . . . and try as I might, I have never been able to stay behind the blond, brick walls.

But, Derek is a crucified man, truthfully, and how can a woman like me resist the temptation??? lol!!! I am tempted, continuously, by the guys with good suicide stories!!!! It's the greatest joke God has ever played on me. When other women are out looking for the car, the house, the wallet, or the body — I'm out looking for the ones with the deepest scars . . . who are living and willing to tell about it. And, really, you can find people like this everywhere!!! Even a woman like me, who struggles at times to live up to some "marketing ideal" of female beauty, has no trouble finding crucified men to date. Without a thick, brick wall and a posse of large women dressed like penguins to protect me . . . the mojo that this produces is quite dangerous. They may be crucified, but they usually aren't committed to celibacy the way Jesus was. Potent stuff for a woman who would be committing some serious blasphemy if she just started wearing a habit around for no official reason.

All I can say is . . . good luck to everyone involved in the new game. I will try to avoid complications that will unhinge relationships . . . or drag unsuspecting drug addicts and mental hospital patients into problematic situations with me. If everybody just stays cheerful around me, the men should be safe.

Blessed be!!!!! (and don't forget those Hail Marys everyone!!)