The Time I Almost Became A Nun
Some Rural Musings & Artwork
Some Context
Everyone knows at least one variation of the quote, “I write to discover what I know.” This version in particular was penned by one of my favourite American novelists, Flannery O’Connor. I had her phrase in mind after spending some time at a convent earlier this summer. As expected, only with time can I look back and fully understand how transformative that experience was for me.
I was nervously debating whether or not to publish this reflection at all, given its extremely personal nature. I ultimately decided that it’s important to dispel the narrative that young people have lost touch with religion and to reveal what was going through my mind as I sought direction after a particularly challenging school year.
What I was doing wasn’t new. Back in the day, it was actually quite common for young men and women to be educated at religious institutions and then dutifully undertake religious service projects, sometimes even years long. Certain contemporary knighthoods still offer such opportunities to thousands of annual volunteers today. Hopefully, this piece reveals that such an experience is not outdated, but rather quite tangible and deeply rewarding.
The Purpose of this Adventure
I started writing this from a small village, where the WiFi may have been down, but spirits were high. I was surrounded by the most heartwarming community of highly educated women who had all parted ways with their professional and familial aspirations in favor of a more pious path. Together we chuckled at nun puns, accepted gifts of gravel from sweet toddlers fascinated by the world around them, strolled cautiously checking for boar tracks in the nearby fields, battled weeds and aching backs in the vast gardens, and delighted in simple meals of cheeses, soups, and pastries.
The school these sisters ran, one of the best in the country, was full of polite students a bit younger than me. They always greeted me with a cheerful “Good morning, ma’am!,” and though it was very welcoming, I couldn’t get used to being called “ma’am.” I tried to hide my American-ness, but the language barrier, my Washington, D.C. baseball cap, and my lack of grey garb made it clear I was new.
Ironically, as I took a rickety bus there from the nearest big city, I saw posters advertising the biggest tech conference in the region. Many familiar names were listed as keynote speakers. A year ago, I would have already been energetically emailing the organizers asking if I could get a last minute ticket and tweeting about organizing coffee chats with founders. This year, though, I had no fear of missing out. I stayed on the bus and turned off my phone.
So why was I here, in this oasis of yellow and lilac hues? I left college, a place where too many people put off really thinking, in search of a space to deeply think . . . and not think for a while. A moment to “gnothi seauton”, if you will.
Life at the Convent
On my very first day, I arrived to news that one of the elderly sisters had passed away. I hurried to join the funeral procession, where I soon found out I was the only layperson.
We walked along a busy road with the nuns singing heartfelt hymns as semi trucks roared past. Eventually, the industrial world faded into a landscape of fields, then forests. By the time we reached the cemetery, where each grave was blanketed in flowers and the priest was saying “Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return,” I was weeping. Oddly enough, I was the only one who seemed distraught. I felt out of place in the jeans and tousled hoodie I had worn for the two days it took me to reach the convent. The nuns, on the other hand, were quiet, peaceful, and put together. They thanked me for coming, but I, choking up, felt as if I should have been thanking them. Though I never met the one for whom I mourned, what I learned about the type of person she was had left a lasting impact on me.
I took the next few days to rest and reflect. I didn’t exactly take a vow of silence, but the nuns left me to clear my mind in a house at the edge of the grounds; there was a bedroom with a built-in door to the garden, a study with a bookcase of marvelous photo albums and travel diaries by missionaries, a small chapel adorned with the Stations of the Cross and a single stained glass window, a living room, a bathroom, and a kitchen.
The linens — I will never forget them — smelled of such a familiar scent from my childhood. It was so comforting, and though I was all alone, I wasn’t lonely. I had a little notebook which kept me company. In it, I sketched the view of the forests and tried to replicate some beautiful religious paintings from the Baroque era. (Some of my favourite paintings are captured below in an appendix). I also read about and noted down aspects of Catholicism, from Mass structure to Biblical figures to how leadership responded to major historical turning points, all of which had always intrigued me, but which I had never studied. This search for understanding was incredibly rewarding and so much finally made sense. I hoped others in my life would also take the time to fill in the gaps of their religious knowledge, rather than just attend gatherings because tradition or culture said so.
Eventually, I moved out of the house and closer to the nuns’ own quarters to make room for the next person to use the “hermitage.” Believe it or not, the house was booked months in advance with other people similarly weary of contemporary complacency and convention. Of such pilgrims, I am proud to hold the record for travelling the second furthest to reach the convent.
From then on, I reported each morning to a different nun for a new task. They were all shocked I wanted to be there helping them and asked a million questions about my life in America, with some even recognizing New Haven for its Knights of Columbus headquarters. As I worked in the gardens, the elder nuns hobbled around me whispering and smiling amongst themselves. I think through their age-given wisdom they knew something about myself that I yet did not.
Some other cherished memories from my day to day adventures included reading about Prussian and Jordanian sacral architecture by candlelight, sneaking ice cream to the nuns on late hospital shifts (each nun had a job at the convent), taking long walks into the sunset followed by village dogs and cats, and biking along the lake and through the old town square. So many coincidences happened around this time that I just knew I was right where I was meant to be.
For instance, I was so pleasantly surprised to learn that the local children’s choir, whose 30th anniversary we were celebrating, had its musical origins with Pope John Paul II at Castel Gandolfo, the very place which inspired my convent adventure. When I visited Lazio a while back, I loved it so much that I vowed to undertake a “gardening internship” in the summer, studying and tending to the natural beauty and tranquility God granted us on Earth. And so I did!
Over time, I grew close with one nun in particular, and we met each night for a few hours to discuss our lives and my questions about theology, especially regarding free will and destiny. I asked the sister a million questions: what career should I pursue that would make me feel fulfilled without forcing me into unsustainable lifestyles, whether or not I should give up certain things that previously gave me purpose, how I could truly do good for people who needed it most, and so on. This led us to speak, at length, about how pain will come along with self-discovery. She left me with the story of a boy asking a sculptor what he was doing with a block of marble. The sculptor replied that there was an angel trapped in it and he had to free him. Seeing the boy confused, the sculptor told him to come back the next day, and when he did so, he saw a little bit of progress. When he came back the day after that and the next, he saw the story unfolding: with each careful chip, the artist, a metaphor for God, came closer to developing his masterpiece, us. How profoundly beautiful and true it was!
She also reminded me that perhaps there is freedom in not praying for a specific outcome, whether related to my biggest dreams or biggest fears, but rather praying that the outcome is as God intends. Being at so many crossroads in college and pondering where to go and what to do after it ends, I knew I would be reaching for this thought often.
At the same time, I knew it would be so difficult to give up that constant need to have control over a situation. To be prepared for every outcome, especially the worst. Hearing my naive wishes that someone step in and just help me overthink less, the sister helped me understand that one person can’t just change someone, even if they see they’re struggling. Sometimes the answer lies in just helping them feel loved, until they themselves have the strength and belief that they can initiate (and maintain) a positive change in themselves. For context, she told me stories of her time in Brazil, patiently working with the families of marijuana and alcohol addicts for years and years. In fact, some of what she told me applied to students with whom I’ve worked with before. There was one young girl in particular who I wanted to help, from buying her shampoo to taking her on walks for just us girls to hang out, after she was left to raise her younger siblings. But this alone would not be enough to really guide her parents see they needed to get themselves together and be there for their kids. The sisters promised they would look out for the family, even though I so desperately wanted to intervene. We had a silent understanding that for now it was enough for me to intervene within myself and focus on the mindset and routines I was trying to cultivate. I especially liked their advice about taking care of yourself and not trying to do too much at once (as was my habit, being the curious person I am). What is meant to be, whether an idea, opportunity, or task, will come back and will be available, even if you can’t finish it or understand it and must postpone it for after you get a good night’s rest.
Beyond letting me understand the world of nuns, the convent also allowed me to observe others from a new angle — to really see life. I sat in the back of their church on multiple occasions humbled by the prayers and intentions I heard. So many ill children. So many couples praying for their relationships to last. Some prayed right after getting married. Others prayed right after a big fight. One that hit me hard was when a 30-year-old man in tattered jeans and sneakers clung to a rosary while on his knees in front of the relics of the saint who was buried at the convent. I have no idea who he was or what was going on in his life. I think of him often, hoping he heals or finds whatever or whoever he is looking for.
I also thought of someone who once told me they prayed for me with their father. I didn’t know how to show the true depth of my gratitude in the moment they told me, but I never, ever forgot that. It meant so much. I had prayed for that person, too. Now having lost touch with them, I prayed that whatever new joys or burdens they faced, they continued to turn to God, as I, too, had learned to do.
One day, my beloved grandfather passed away while I was still at the convent. I was going to travel to visit him the very next day, clinging to the hands that raised me, telling him of all I learned and experienced at college and at the convent.
I didn’t make it.
I won’t get into how I processed my grief, but in a way, I knew he passed knowing I was finally so, so happy in a place I was meant to be in. Ninety nuns and his little girl prayed for him that night. I can’t think of a more beautiful ending to his story.
The next day, I woke up before dawn to take the bus for two hours back to the nearest big city and then the train for four hours, and once there, figure out more trains, buses, and cars to head onwards to my family’s hometown. As my first bus circled villages, picking up kids to go to school, the driver played Shakira over the loudspeaker. The music absolutely didn’t fit the mood, but then again, it’s hard to completely run away from globalization.
On the train, busy people typed away on their computers. I gazed out the window for almost the entire journey, appreciating how this train, weaving through the golden fields, must look from above. I imagined I was a filmmaker, pondering how I would capture the scene. I wanted to invoke a similar feeling as the wispy cool cinematography of Cold War, an Oscar-nominated 2018 historical drama that I was rather fond of. A few people peeked over at my computer as I put together a few clips I had filmed from my time at the convent. It looked . . . not bad. I loved it. By the time I got to my family’s hometown a day later, I had assembled a short documentary in memory of my grandfather.
Parting Thoughts
Back in NYC a few weeks later, I was told by my parents that I seemed different. My eyes hadn’t lost their spark, but there was something more delicate about my demeanor. I felt it, too. I lived each day with renewed sincerity.
Only a soul who agrees with God’s will, who seeks for happiness in God’s will, in bright regions, is able to experience that holy serenity, that sunny God’s happiness, regardless of everything.
— Saint Urszula Ledóchowska
I started visiting various churches, in awe of the sheer scale of religion. At one sanctuary, I sat through three Masses in three different languages just listening and observing. At another, I attended an early morning weekday Mass near the beach. There were over 40 people there — all retired. I was the youngest one. I didn’t doubt that they came every day.
Another time, I was at a Portuguese Mass in Washington Square Park. I knew enough very, very basic Portuguese to enter the church and find out how everything worked, but clearly enough Portuguese to be given the Portuguese, rather than English, version of the Mass readings. I giggled to myself, thinking perhaps I was too adventurous. It ended up being a good move though, helping me focus even more intently on what the priest was doing and how people responded, as so many generations had done before us by following that same order of the Mass.
The atmosphere in the church was completely different from the Polish churches I was used to. Couples clung to each other, families brought their dogs, and a young man in rockstar-esque skinny jeans sang for us. I spoke with a priest who was on his way to Sudan and a nun who just came back from Colombia. A man from Porto fervently invited me to visit Portugal again.
I also went to St. Patrick’s Cathedral, undoubtedly one of the city’s largest and most famous churches. Each time I was there I encountered the same priest proclaiming the same message of how to prepare yourself to receive Communion, perhaps evidence of our generation’s habit to postpone thorough introspection in favour of developing new online personas. I always sat near the front in a mix of tourists and young Manhattanites. Near me one time were two young women loudly discussing moving to London to work in finance in companies and roles I myself had previously considered. In a way, I felt it was fate that we were sitting next to each other. It was the perfect juxtaposition of my thinking before and after my time at the convent: before, my future took precedence over my present, but now, I wished they would cease their conversation and just focus on what was in front of them . . .
All things considered, I am incredibly grateful that the nuns answered my WhatsApp message earlier this year. It must have amused them greatly to have an American college student contact them out of the blue asking to take care of their gardens, but they decided to take a chance on me. I am sure I will visit them again one day, but until then, I will cherish these memories. As the days go by and I return to college, I sincerely hope to bring the same sunshine that they shared with me, to others.
Art & Architecture Appendix
Here are some pieces that are made by well-known historic painters, as well as lesser-known ones that stood out to me because of a specific detail noted below. I noticed beautiful differences between Italian, Flemish, and German painters who captured these religious scenes, but cannot choose a favourite, though I can say that the Baroque period is one that never ceases to captivate me.
In order of appearance:
- Scrovegni Chapel in Padua, pearl of Proto-Renaissance, painted by Giotto di Bondone in the 14th century
- Giotto’s The Entombment of Mary
- The Death of the Virgin by 15th century German artist Hans Holbein the Elder (notice the scene within the cloud)
- The Immaculate Conception by 17th century Spanish painter Diego Velázquez
- The Penitent Magdalen by Georges de La Tour
- Caravaggio’s 17th century Death of the Virgin (notice the delicate halo/aureola around Mary)
- The Immaculate Conception from 17th century Flemish master painter Peter Paul Rubens (notice what Mary is stepping on)
- 16th century Virgin and Child by Flemish artist Quentin Massys (notice how your attention is drawn to the hair with additional scenery in the background)
