LAUDS 1917

A NUN AND HER THOUGHTS AND LIFE IN 1917.

Light from window in the refectory touched the eyes of the nun standing by the table. Memories touched. Opened like a box of tricks. Not knowing is the trouble, not knowing. Stood still. Hands clutched the white mug. Solidness and coldness. Whiteness of a sepulchre. Death-like. Plato came to mind, but was soon dismissed, sent packing. Gone now. Only room for God in the mind. The light opened a door. The door creaked. Years ago, a girl saw something. Was it I? Sister Teresa asked. However, knew it was. Shut the door. Shut the door. The light ought not to let in such memories. She pressed her thoughts back into the tight box of her brain. She lifted the mug to her lips and sipped. Warmness, sweetness, touch of home long ago. Closed her eyes. Tried to lift to prayer. My God where are you? The light sat on her eyelids. Waited for them to open. She squeezed tight shut. The eyes seemed almost liquid; tears lingered on the rims. The door tried to open. The girl saw. Close it out, she said. The light teased her. The eyes opened and welcomed. Light from light. And near by another nun lingered in the corner of her eye. Large as lard; black serge against the light of day. Murmured prayers. Touched hands. Not to touch, not to touch overmuch. Warm tea. Mug lowered. Mouth sour; lips opened to prayer, but none came. Where my God? She placed mug on the table. Hard table, wooden table, well scrubbed and clean. Plato tried to enter. Send him packing, him, and his philosophy. Bell rang from bell tower. All are still. Echoed bell. Shall all be said to be as death? Nearby nun moved, her serge swished and swashed. Others moved. She remained. She remained. What can be gained? The light from light. The God from God. Sister Teresa moved. Mug lifted and taken to the kitchen and washed. Each thing in its place, each place for its thing. Ring the bells. Ring the bells. The nuns are moved. The light is left. The prayers wait to be ignited. To be lifted up. She entered the cloister. Coldness lingered about her limbs. Her hands folded themselves beneath her cloth. Her feet placed their steps. The soft touch of shoe on stone. The bone against bone. The girl stood by the door and saw. Nuns surround her. The church door opened and all entered. Two by twos. Fingers touched from stoup to finger to finger and breast to breast. Holy cross made. Each to each their place they took in silence. All is silent. All but breath, mumbled prayers, coughed up lungs, clicking tongues. All is opened to the light of the church windows. Light from light, touch to touch. Not to touch. Touch not. Not overmuch. Settled in choir stall. Gathered thoughts held in check. Jude dead now.   Passchendaele claimed him. So Papa wrote. Ink black. Death where is thy victory? She sighed deep. Knew it was as had to be. Jude dead.His hands touched her once. At night, she can still feel the warmth in dreams. She lifted her eyes to the windows. What memory can fade? Jude was once, but now rose up like the Crucified to haunt her mind and heart. Papa said men are not to be trusted. Men are such creatures. What is man that you are mindful of him? Back in the box such thoughts. The Abbess knocked wood on wood. Broke from her thoughts, Sister Teresa bowed her head and neck like one to be executed. Off with her head. Off now with Jude’s head, or so was written. Papa writes so neat. Black on white. Death’s fingerprints on a deadman’s sheet. Sighed. Held breviary tight. Opened to the page. Eyes touched paper, seemingly so. Thoughts lingered. Prayers were said. Chants lifted to above their heads. Not to touch, not to touch. But only if such touch could heal a wound, she mused, turning the page, felt the paperiness beneath her finger. She sighed. Prayer seeped in and seeped out. The light from light dimmed in the church. The Crucified hung at the altar end. Silent and unspeaking. Forgive them, He might murmur, Sister Teresa mused darkly as she turned a page. She felt the undoneness of her Christ. She felt the bone tear from bone and flesh from flesh. She pushed her feet deep into her shoes against the cold. Her fingers stiffened. The page white and black. Death’s stinginess against life’s sweet pail. Sing, sing, and sing. However, do not touch. Do not touch, least not overmuch, Sister Rose had said. Gone now. Fled the walls for the World’s foul touch. Men are not to be trusted. Least not overmuch. Now and at the hour of their death. All death. Each death. Until death, they do part.

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Reviews

[just rose.]

I will have to read this again -- my favorite line "She felt the undoneness of her Christ." I need to think more on that. This is beautiful, and dark, and lonely, and comprises an incredible journey which is everyone's, but this journey is both limited and all-encompassing insofar as it is imbued with the social intricacy and frustrated intimacy of a cloistered life -- the connection is to One Who Is Not Present Yet Is. I am fascinated by the lives of nuns and in particular this moves me because of its connection to Passchendaele, in which I have a specific interest, and in the way in which that theme echoes the nun's sense of emptiness and longing. In the loss of Jude, I think of Wilfred Owen's lines, 'Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes/Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.' Just lovely. Very well done.

[Narnie]

This is very sad and poignant. The rhythm in the prose is perfect and there's almost a silence in the short sentences. An intriguing form.