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Books Sleepless nights in the cloister
LYING AWAKE By
Mark Salzman Alfred A. Knopf, 192 pages, $22
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By JUDITH BROMBERG
The deeper I got into Mark Salzmans latest novel, Lying
Awake, the more I was reminded of a wonderful poem by Rennie McQuillen,
Sister Marie Angelica Plays Badminton, that I like to give to my
students. In the poem, Sr. Marie Angelica, who has been known to have
visions, is shown by way of a game on the lawn to be in some kind of
crisis of faith or vocation symbolized by the volleys of the game piece. This
particular contest is being played out in the evening: Today because of
lengthy vespers they are late, and early bats are darting like
black shuttlecocks.
Sister John of the Cross of Salzmans novel, a contemplative
Carmelite living in and sometimes lying awake in her cloister in
the heart of present-day Los Angeles, has also been known to have visions.
Lying Awake is Sister Johns story, but it is also
Sister Miriams and Mother Mary Josephs as well. It is a peek
through the grille at all eight of her contemporaries living life as discalced
Carmelites. Their call is to a life of prayer, joining contemplatives
everywhere whose vocation was to pray on behalf of those either unwilling or
unable to pray for themselves.
Sister John had recently begun to be published. Her books on the
spiritual life made it seem accessible to ordinary mortals, even the
discouraged searchers. But those writings came with a price tag for Sister John
-- massive, blinding, mind-altering headaches. One of them, triggered by a
spell of vertigo, was a darkness so pure it glistened, then out of that
darkness, nova. ... More luminous than the sun. ... In this radiance she could
see forever, and everywhere she looked, she saw Gods love.
At first Sister John was able to keep her visions a secret from
her community. The fact was, she was glad for them. After 13 years as a nun,
she had begun to suffer a spiritual drought. Her heart felt squeezed dry.
God thirsted, but she had nothing to offer. So the headaches and the
visions that came with them were welcome guests. First diagnosed as migraines,
her doctor advised her to surrender to them: Youre a contemplative;
think of it as a spiritual exercise. But when Sister Johns behavior
modified, her superior became concerned, and the new diagnosis was epilepsy,
the type sometimes referred to as holy madness. Sister John also
learned that hypergraphia, excessive writing, was a common symptom and that
major artists functioned with the same form of epilepsy -- Dostoyevsky was one,
Vincent van Gogh may have been another, Proust and even Teresa of Avila,
founder of the order. But it was highly curable; full recovery and return to
normal life was the prognosis.
The novel is underwritten, if anything, and reads much faster than
its 192 pages would suggest. But one thing Salzman does not stint on is
imagery. Having established that Carmel is located within busy Los Angeles, he
proceeds to describe its lushness and to name varieties of trees, plants,
flowers and creatures, both winged and footed, that share the nuns
garden. He succeeds in capturing the exterior richness and serenity. The
turmoil and tension are within its human denizens.
Ultimately Sister John must decide for or against the surgery. She
asks her confessor, Should I automatically assume that my mystical
experiences have been false, or should I stand behind what my heart tells me?
Is God asking me to let go of concerns for my health, or is he asking me to let
go of my desire for his presence?
In a poignant scene she goes to the chapel in the middle of the
night, prepared for the struggle of her life, where she is joined
first by Mother Mary Joseph, then all the sisters.
Here, the books parallel to McQuillens poem is not to
be missed:
It vaults straight up, a feathered cry that hovers in
the heart of heaven, hovers and plummets to the gut of the racket she
sights it in, the perfect bird, the shuttlecock Marie Angelica keeps in
play, will not let fall despite the darkness gathering.
Sister John rose, bowed to them as a signal that her vigil
was over and left the chapel with a prayer of thanks and one for
forgiveness, her life, from this moment, irrevocably altered.
Judith Bromberg teaches literature and composition and is a
regular reviewer for NCR. Her e-mail address is
jabromberg@sprintmail.com
National Catholic Reporter, March 23,
2001
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