I can hear the sisters singing.
I hear them reading short passages of scripture, an organist using chords as cues.
They have been singing off and on since Lauds. Words cannot be distinguished.
There is only the sound of voices rising and falling together, not always harmoniously.
It is a beautifully common singing, imperfect, faltering, missing notes.
Which makes it more beautiful.
Antiphon:
Oremos, sin esperar nada, ya que la maleza espera para el agua.
Let us pray, expecting nothing, as the weed waits for water.
An elderly sister, small and solid as a juniper, sings a strong and comforting alto.
Another older sister is hidden from view near, but outside, the chancel.
Her voice, ragged with sickness, dementia, perhaps simply ancient age, confuses the order of the prayers. She speaks loudly in fragments. One after another, during office or Mass, I see a sister quietly leave her pew, taking moments to comfort her.
Who can predict what age will bring us?
Oremos, sin esperar nada, ya que la maleza espera para el agua.
Let us pray, expecting nothing, as the weed waits for water.
Yesterday I attended mass (I thought for Clare) and heard all about Father Domingo de Guzmán.
He is described as fair and intelligent, a handsome man with large eyes, good hair, and beautiful hands.
He died at 51 from overwork. Laid upon the ground, he waited for death, as did Francis, with joy.
Dominic, founder of the Order that gave refuge to Clare and her first nuns.
His is the same order responsible for the horrors that were the Albigensian Crusade, the Inquisition.
Domini canis.
This is a beast with two heads.
Oremos, sin esperar nada, ya que la maleza espera para el agua.
Let us pray, expecting nothing, as the weed waits for water.
One of the sisters drives me to the bank as part of her errands. Sister Juniper, as I now call her, the old sturdy nun from chapel, accompanies us. She is as sharp and quick witted as I had guessed.
No English! I am terrified. But slowly I understand bits and pieces. Common sense is my ally.
Talking is at a minimum: they are, after all, Poor Clares.
Cierra la puerta con fuerza. Inténtalo de nuevo. ¡Bueno!
Be strong. There are so many doors opening and closing!
Oremos, sin esperar nada, ya que la maleza espera para el agua.
Let us pray, expecting nothing, as the weed waits for water.
The bells ring again and again. Noon. They are a little different today.
There is a stuttering end, and an uncertain thrice rung finale.
I cannot hear the buzzing of flies or the cooing of doves for the duration.
Every day begins without thinking. Every noon cannot recall another.
If you are here, you cannot be anywhere else.
Oremos, sin esperar nada, ya que la maleza espera para el agua.
Let us pray, expecting nothing, as the weed waits for water.
I hear them reading short passages of scripture, an organist using chords as cues.
They have been singing off and on since Lauds. Words cannot be distinguished.
There is only the sound of voices rising and falling together, not always harmoniously.
It is a beautifully common singing, imperfect, faltering, missing notes.
Which makes it more beautiful.
Antiphon:
Oremos, sin esperar nada, ya que la maleza espera para el agua.
Let us pray, expecting nothing, as the weed waits for water.
An elderly sister, small and solid as a juniper, sings a strong and comforting alto.
Another older sister is hidden from view near, but outside, the chancel.
Her voice, ragged with sickness, dementia, perhaps simply ancient age, confuses the order of the prayers. She speaks loudly in fragments. One after another, during office or Mass, I see a sister quietly leave her pew, taking moments to comfort her.
Who can predict what age will bring us?
Oremos, sin esperar nada, ya que la maleza espera para el agua.
Let us pray, expecting nothing, as the weed waits for water.
Yesterday I attended mass (I thought for Clare) and heard all about Father Domingo de Guzmán.
He is described as fair and intelligent, a handsome man with large eyes, good hair, and beautiful hands.
He died at 51 from overwork. Laid upon the ground, he waited for death, as did Francis, with joy.
Dominic, founder of the Order that gave refuge to Clare and her first nuns.
His is the same order responsible for the horrors that were the Albigensian Crusade, the Inquisition.
Domini canis.
This is a beast with two heads.
Oremos, sin esperar nada, ya que la maleza espera para el agua.
Let us pray, expecting nothing, as the weed waits for water.
One of the sisters drives me to the bank as part of her errands. Sister Juniper, as I now call her, the old sturdy nun from chapel, accompanies us. She is as sharp and quick witted as I had guessed.
No English! I am terrified. But slowly I understand bits and pieces. Common sense is my ally.
Talking is at a minimum: they are, after all, Poor Clares.
Cierra la puerta con fuerza. Inténtalo de nuevo. ¡Bueno!
Be strong. There are so many doors opening and closing!
Oremos, sin esperar nada, ya que la maleza espera para el agua.
Let us pray, expecting nothing, as the weed waits for water.
The bells ring again and again. Noon. They are a little different today.
There is a stuttering end, and an uncertain thrice rung finale.
I cannot hear the buzzing of flies or the cooing of doves for the duration.
Every day begins without thinking. Every noon cannot recall another.
If you are here, you cannot be anywhere else.
Oremos, sin esperar nada, ya que la maleza espera para el agua.
Let us pray, expecting nothing, as the weed waits for water.
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