When I Grow up

I wanna be a monastic. I know, I'm 52, almost - if I haven't grown up by now, it's a bit late. But the trip was phenomenal.

Rural Pennsylvania is gorgeous - imagine the Sooke Hills, but covered with deciduous trees instead of conifers, and a bit less fog. The view from the places I stayed showed almost no human habitation, just hills (Elwood City is in the foothills of the Allegheny Mountains), meadow, and right outside my door, almost a hundred acres of forest, with babbling brooks leading down to what Gregory and Mark, the handymen, called the "crick". They have an exaggerated idea of "crik". That was a river, especially after a night's hard rain, when it swelled to almost twice its width.

I saw cardinals, mourning doves, a hawk, bluebirds (which was a real treat, since when I was growing up in Toronto they were just about extinct), and I think I saw, finally, a whipoorwill. I heard a timberdoodle which is another name for an American woodcock. This is a very strange bird, with big eyes, stubby wings, a round body and a long platypus type beak. It's mating 'dance' is to fly up in a huge spiral to a very high height, making a weird hooting sound as the air moves through its feathers. Then it plummets to the ground, lands and circles while making a mournful chirpy type of sound. Then back into the air, and repeat until it gets too dark, or wonder, of wonders, a female arrives to ensure happiness and bliss. Shelly, my next door neighbour while I was there, who rents a house from the monastery, and is a wonderful, kind and funny lady, introduced me to this guy.

I listened to this poor timberdoodle for three nights, and by the time I left, wanted to take an ad out for him - no females around, or none that found him irresistable enough to respond!

Deer spoor on my walk every morning, and everybody but me saw the darn things, but I wasn't so blessed - I swear they're hiding back in the bush, snickering at me. I have to go back just so I can see one.

Other than that, though, the trip was everything I'd hoped for and more. From the moment I arrived I felt as though I was being held in warm, loving arms, and that I was cherished and loved for simply being and breathing. The mothers were just that - motherly (even Sister Martha, who is young enough to be my daughter) and kind, gentle and patient. They really did exemplify what Christian love is supposed to be about. Not only that, but they were incredibly generous with their records and histories about Mother Alexandra, and I got just about everything I needed to write the book. The only thing left is if Mother's daughter Sandi will let me ask her questions about Mother's last trip to Romania in the fall of 1990.

I went down there with the intention of doing research for the book, but even when I left, I knew that it would affect me in more ways than I could anticipate, and that's what happened - I experienced God's presence almost uninterruptedly the whole time I was there, my calling was confirmed for me - I know I'm to be a mother, wife, and writer, but now I know with every atom of my being, not just my head; and I got my mother back. For those who know my mother and me - you know what that means. For those who don't, there is neither room, nor time, nor is it a subject for a blog. Suffice it to say that this is a blessing I really didn't expect, and am very grateful for!

When I grow up, I wanna be a monastic. I know it won't be anything like I experienced this trip, but to be in the presence of God like that - oh, yes, please!