Interversity.Org

I found some of my old journals, and read pieces of them. I think I have always been a warrior, a fighter for a cause, a seeker. And I have never been settled or at peace or totally content. Whatever I do, it isn't enough. I'll be glad when I am old enough to simply wear out and die and go see God. Too much evil around; too many demons to fight. The worse part is that the demons look good to people in power, or the demons don't even seem to be there at all to the ignorant. But, they are. They really are. Why is it that when I think I am free to be and to think as I do, then it is that I get struck down? The only place I am at home is inside my own head. Or, drawing. Drawing is a freeing up of my thinking in a very colorful way. It's always been this way. I can remember when I was a little kid, and I couldn't play in a sandbox because a hornet's nest was there. Well, I took care of that hornet's net. I kicked it. Good and hard too. Then they all came after me, furious at the disruption, and bit me all over. I ran like the wind blows and got into the house. So much for playing in that sandbox. I learned: never kick a hornets nest. They kick back. I went to Postulatum. I hated Sister Margaret and she most likely disliked me. I couldn't kick her; she was too old. I just prayed everyday that she would die. She didn't--not while I was there. I learned: some prayers just don't get answered. Period. Seminary was very different. It was another world, like a play, only you always wore your costume. I played at being a 'Little Sister' as the Habit Sisters called us. I learned a lot of things, like, how to wash everyone else's snotty hankerchieves in the attic as my 'duty', how to fall on a pile of pillows and make my duty partner laugh, how to take a bath and never look at myself, and how to clean toilets. I learned how to bound out of bed at 5 a.m., and kiss the floor and say my first prayers. I also learned to look under the bed and see how many other sisters were doing the same. I learned; I could play this game. All I had to do was follow. Following is easy. There was a book in the ancient library we had written by some guy named Tanquery. It was all flowery and stuff and hard to figure out. I remember years later when I had left the Community and saw a billboard with the word: TANQUERY and a picture of some sort of hard liquor, I thought: "wow! Tanquery definately has gone downhill since Seminary." I learned: there are many meaning for the same word. It's curious that I never missed TV or movies or anystuff like that in those first years of training. I did miss exercise, and running, and swimming. Mostly swimming. I loved the water. Then, years later, when I was out and got to see TV and read newspapers, none of it made sense to me. It seemed empty and inane. It didn't deal with issues I thought were important at all. I learned: you can't just 'fit in'. you have to have something to hook yourself to that is meaningful to you first. That was the greatest, the biggest, the longest search: trying to find a cause that meant something to me. Most things turned into 'chicken bones and butter' and went right through my fingers after a time. I think I have found it now. However, it is not easy to hang with it. Sometimes, I am scared, so scared, my knees flutter. But, I know I am doing the good thing now. It is just an awfully tough thing to stay hanging with.gh OF SOLDIERS RETURNING AND SISTERS WHO LEFT--I tried to tell Senator Reids' Congressional Aide, we are the same.  We never forget what we have gone through.  We are forever changed.  WE WILL NEVER BE LIKE THE OTHERS AROUND US WHEN WE CAME BACK--NEVER.   And no one but soldiers and Sisters understand, really.  33 years ago I left the Sisterhood, but I really never left.  I just stepped outside for a bit of fresh air, and i've been breathing it ever since. My husband says all the time: 'Stop Saving the World!'  And I can no more stop then I can stop breathing.  Little ways I do it in, but I cannot stop. I never forget my training, never.  I am always 'the Sister' to anyone, everyone, whomsoever needs me, or some thing I can do for them. I just have to do it.  I was trained.      It will be the same for the Soldiers who come back from Iraq--healthy or maimed--they will never, ever forget.  They will dream of it, weep over it, and never ever forget it.  Some will learn they like to kill and be ashamed of it.  Some will remember the faces of children and women they killed and be ashamed again.  Some will become serial killers.  Some will become the homeless, or the guys who cannot keep a job, or the guys who are abusive to wives, or just plain inexplicable angry guys who flare up from time to time.  They will never be as they were.      They are trained to be different.        It was okay as long as they were supported by their company, their group, their team.  Now, not so, home, alone.       I understand it.  I live it.  I am different.  I too know being home alone.      One other group suffers this syndrome--those released from prison.  But that is a whole other idea.  This group is immersed with others who are not trained to be that way, they just are.  They have no comraderie; they have protection. It is different.       On the other hand, those returning soldiers and former Sisters have a sense of comraderie with those who trained them.  They have a sense of purpose.  It's the memories, the dreams, the wish they had done better that never leaves. 8/13/05  gh