GLIMPSES of how Canada worked: a writer's memoir.

40. How rich life can be! And difficult, too.

copyright © 2015 WandaS All rights reserved

THE SECOND VATICAN COUNCIL DECIDED THAT from 1966 Roman Catholic "Religious" -- all clerics and all members of religious orders -- could use their birth names if they wished, and wear civilian clothes instead of "habits". A few other restrictions were also removed. Mother St. Mary Assumpta, whom I'd known since 1960, chose to be called Sister Mary MacCormack part way through her term as president of Marianopolis College. It happened just as I began taking over about half the work of her assistant, Gloria Pierre.

The new names led to a lot of confusion, but only for a few months. There were, however, subtle results that probably no one foresaw.

I still have two large acryclic-on-paper paintings I bought from the artist, assistant professor of art Sister St. Gilbert-Marie,  CND. She signed them before she earned an MFA from Columbia and became much better known as Sister Cecile Marois. No one could have predicted that sort of effect.

The permission to wear civilian clothes had what I considered a serious negative impact at Marianopolis: It changed the culture of the lunchroom. My history with nuns was almost lifelong. For decades I took certain elements of it very much for granted; I associated the presence of nuns with learning.

When I was four, in 1941, Mom took me to a daycare run by Polish-speaking Felician Sisters in a fabulous "gingerbread house". (Search Edward Leadlay House.) It was near a factory in Toronto's Garment District where Mom sewed shirts. Her hours of work were longer than the daycare's so the sisters kept me after other children left. They amused me, fed me snacks, often repeated some of the learning in my days, such as colouring inside the lines, or printing an alphabet.

I spent my grade and high school years in a convent school run by the Sisters of St. Joseph. They taught me piano, cursive writing, the fine points of difference between European and North American table etiquette. They polished my English with elocution lessons. They also enforced discipline and applied punishments such as having to write "I will not..." or some other confession 50 or 100 times on a blackboard (more practice in cursive writing.)

Later I registered with St. Joseph's College at the University of Toronto, where some of the same nuns taught me more English, and French too.

Over time I've interacted with at least eight orders of nuns. The swishing sounds of their different habits (most often black, always floor-length), the jangle of rosaries, the white celluloid frames in different styles around their faces, provided constant backgrounds as I grew up, always learning from them.

When sisters came to the staff lunchroom at Marianopolis instead of eating in their cafeteria, it was because they had a topic in mind that they wanted to exchange with lay staff. We all came away with new insights into philosophy, history, modern art, New Math -- food for the brain, almost like formal lunch-time seminars in university.

After Vatican II allowed sisters to dress as they pleased, those from wealthy families were gifted with new clothes for Christmas or birthdays. At least one with a twin sibling regularly acquired her hand-me-downs. Some began shopping on nearby Sherbrooke St. and Sainte-Catherine, at least bringing back details of the latest styles.

But a tiny professor of English, Sr. Elsie Byrne, had no family in Canada, no income beyond a small spending allowance from the Congregation. (Salaries were paid by the Ministry of Education directly to the college.) Summer and winter, Sr. Byrne cheerfully kept on wearing black habits, but shortened by her hands to dress length.

The absolute equality of nuns' "uniforms" was gone forever.

At the same time, topics in the lunchroom changed: Sisters came for information about where to buy shoes, what make-up was best, where they should have their hair done, their manicures. When she took off her veil the art teacher, Sr. Marois, had pale brown straight hair. After she lived in New York City earning the degree of Master of Fine Arts at Columbia, she dyed it red and had permanents.

Aside from all that, I worked at Marianopolis long enough to appreciate fully how religious life benefits souls. While I scattered energy into my various roles -- wife, writer, motorist, shopper, cook, hostess, volunteer -- nuns focused on essentials. They had fixed schedules among friends for life, regularly prayed and sang together, knew they would care for each other until their earthly lives ended. Until then they learned what a novitiate required and then did what they were best suited to do, teaching one or more subjects with all the time and supports they needed.

It takes a few years for a novice to discern her soul's key strength with the help of older superiors and spiritual directors who have travelled the same paths. Weaknesses and imperfections such as pride and impatience are identified and lessened as much as possible, while strengths are supported and fostered by the entire community.

It dawned on me that the serenity I took for granted in nuns during my years of formal education and then work among them, was a product of their personal sense of peace, with themselves and the world. They knew exactly who they were and were completely supported in expressing that reality. I envied them more than a little!

(I'll never comprehend how the devil managed to corrupt the vows of obedience taken by religious staff of orphanages and residential schools in Canada and other countries, especially how it achieves the absolute evil of child abuse. If you don't believe evil exists and works constantly to corrupt humans, read C.S. Lewis's Screwtape Letters.) 

The nurturing way the CNDs treated Sheila after she decided to leave them proves the process -- when her soul discerned that she didn't belong there any more, the Congregation accepted it as God's will and helped her begin a life "in the world". On the other hand, Sr. Marois' artistic skills were supported to the extent of a Masters program in fine arts at Columbia University, and others were supported through PhD programs at whatever post-graduate schools they chose.

As 1966 drew to a close, I moved more and more slowly because of my irritable spine. The Christmas holidays meant a couple of weeks between professional projects so I bought fabrics for three summer dresses to sew with a McCall's pattern. Expo year would mean having lots of work, and visitors from out of town.

In the first week of December Charlie's Aunt Emily, one of our favourite people, died 200 km away in Kingston. Winter had already arrived with generous amounts of snow. Our drive to the funeral would have to begin at midnight because of Charlie's shifts. We would be on good highways in both Quebec and Ontario, but a major weather system was moving up the East Coast of the U.S. I went downtown to a car rental company to reserve a vehicle bigger and heavier, safer, than our compact Valiant.

We didn't have a table large enough to cut fabrics, so I had done that on the bare floor of our dining-room-to-be. That strained my lower back. I went for groceries, wearing a cloth coat that wasn't windproof, and a bitter wind chilled the sore muscles. On the day of our planned departure for Kingston I had shooting pains such as I'd never experienced. All I could do was make sandwiches for Charlie to take, and off he went alone into a record-setting blizzard.

The next day Telly, a neighbour who had been a nurse, called our physician. They agreed I had sciatica in both legs, and she brought me the medication he ordered by phone at a nearby pharmacy. When I called Mom to cry a bit, she decided to come as soon as she could get away from her work for an agency for temporary office workers.

A couple of days before Christmas I was phoned and offered a full-time dream job by Mike Pengelly, who knew of my work with Montreal Panorama de Montreal . Would I like to become the editor of publications for the International Air Transport Association in mid-January? I said Yes, oh my, Yes! But of course I had to explain my condition. I promised to give Mike my final answer right after Christmas.

Both neighbour and doctor had assured me I wouldn't be able to walk outdoors for at least five weeks. They turned out to be right. I had to refuse Mike's offer.

Mom's presence was a comfort, of course, but it didn't help my mood to know that I had messed up the holidays for Charlie and her and Dad. I began Expo year feeling depressed as never before.

CHAPTER 40 of GLIMPSES -- 30