An anchoress meets with a seeker
When I was about 12 years old, I lived in the Carmel Valley in Northern California, very near Big Sur, a gorgeous part of the country with magnificent high rocky bluffs overlooking the Pacific Ocean, and giant redwoods and other ancient trees growing amidst the boulders. It made my heart ache just to be amidst the beauty of it. My mother, a sadistic, deranged woman who was chronically ill with multiple sclerosis that occasionally paralyzed her, had moved us to the valley so that we could be near Big Sur, but, like all our moves, it would not last long and we would be pushed on to another place, just ahead of the creditors.
In the meantime, however, I grabbed at the beauty, holding it to my heart and cherishing it. Every day, when the weather permitted, I would hop onto my little Schwinn Bicycle with the banana seat and the tall handlebars, and work my legs like mad to get myself into the town of Carmel. Mostly, I enjoyed the Catholic Mission. I was drawn to it strongly, drawn to a different sort of beauty that I sensed it contained.
Mission San Carlos Borromeo
Carmel, California
Forced to live a life always on the move and having to adjust to new surroundings, new friends, new teachers, new homes, at least once a year, I found peace in a place that represented tradition, and the contiguous history of faith. It had stood there since 1771, and I yearned for a version of the stability of the place and its people.
The kindly man behind the counter at the gift shop felt sorry for me, I am sure. My clothes were old, tattered and unwashed. My hair was choppy and sloppy, the work of my mother who was jealous of its beautiful color, thickness and waves. She regularly forced me to sit still while she pushed the dull, old kitchen shears into it, until it was a crazy nonsensical shape, with cowlicks springing here and there. She would not allow me to grow it long.
Never having any money to spend, I could only gaze wistfully at the books, the sparkly rosaries, and all the captivating symbols of a faith I knew nothing about but which drew me mysteriously to itself. I had been promised an allowance many times by my absent, wealthy father, but never once received it, despite my earning it with "A's" in school. He was too busy buying airplanes and women. Thus, I never had a dime to spend at the gift shop.
Angels in the bedroom
Surely, I was a pathetic sight, always alone. My mother was interested only in men. My younger sister, my mother's pet and her sounding board between husbands, despised me, encouraged by my mother's insane desire that I be treated like the black sheep. I am sure that the solitary nature of my life radiated from me loudly, being so contrary to the condition of most children. The fact that I continually appeared by myself at the mission's gift store surely spoke volumes to the nice man behind the counter.
The Lord, when he created me, in his ultimate wisdom and mercy, gave me a temperament most introverted and studious, perfectly suited to a life lived with Him alone. Occasionally, I was lonely, but it was an ordinary loneliness that did not clash with my customary inclinations. I found joy in silence.
Cross and paintings above the couch
Often, the nice man behind the counter would give me little gifts, mostly book markers, inexpensive little medals of St. Therese of Lisieux, and pamphlets. It was to one of these pamphlets that I turned when my mother moved us to Monterey, far away from my beloved Carmel Mission. I could no longer ride there on my bicycle.
The pamphlet was produced by the Carmelite nuns from their monastery in Carmel and discussed vocations to the contemplative religious life. The descriptions of a silent life lived for God alone, in the company of other women, just captivated me. I began a correspondence with the nuns, but my mother, who hated Catholics, quickly put an end to it, telling me that because she had been divorced, I would not be welcome in the convent. She must have written them, telling them not to correspond with me any more, as I never heard from them again, but I remember them fondly, more than 50 years later.
Prayer corner in the living room
I left home when I turned 17, escaping the torments of a crazy mother who had turned to Jehovah's Witnesses and began to tell me I was going to go to hell...basically because I would not become a Jehovah's Witness. My sister had quickly fallen into line, but I wanted no part of that crazy religion.
I DID yearn for some religion, though, something by which to guide my life. At 17, I joined a different crazy religion, Scientology, and ended up on their flagship that traversed the waters between the Island of Madeira and Basque country in the North of Spain. L. Ron Hubbard was a bizarre man whose penchant for assigning young teenage girls with very tight uniforms to be his personal "messengers" gave me the creeps. One of them always seemed to be on hand to light his cigarettes. I couldn't get off the ship fast enough and was assigned as a department head at their newly formed "Celebrity Center," which, at that time, was located in an awful part of Los Angeles, on the East side, on 8th Street, I believe. It ended badly.
In my mid-20's, I tried Nicherin Shoshu Buddhism for about 5 minutes, dismissing it as a very thin, propitiatory religion.
In my late 30's, I discovered the Vedanta Society. I had decided I needed to learn how to meditate, and their name in the phone book sounded East Indian, and I guessed, rightly, that they were "into" meditation. This began a decades-long affiliation with them in which I learned an awful lot. In the end, I learned that I was meant to be a Catholic, but in the meantime I had been exposed to a contemplative monastic tradition that spoke to my deep desire for relationship with the Lord in a mystical union.
I left the convent when I was 38 and immediately signed up for an RCIA class at a large Catholic Church near where I was working at a law firm. Having read hundreds of books of the saints and doctors of the church, I was surprised at the games and gimmicky "lessons" that passed for Christian education.
When the nun in charge of the classes got wind that I had been divorced, she hauled me into her office and told me it would be years before they would agree to baptize me because I would have to have an annulment of my marriage beforehand. This was and is completely wrong. If I had been living with someone in a second marriage, there could have been an actual problem, but this woman was just off the beam. I was too green to know what to do about it because, although I knew the FAITH fairly well, I wasn't acquainted with parish life, lines of communication or canon law. I felt fairly sure she was wrong, but I didn't know what to do about it. This would not be the last time that a Catholic tried to frustrate my efforts to grow close to the faith.
Finally, I gave up and went to the Episcopalians for baptism, but it was an unsatisfying experience because it wasn't what I wanted. I wanted to be baptized as a Catholic. As much as the "high church" Episcopal Cathedral across the street looked the part, I could sense that something crucial was missing. It had all the "bells and smells" and the lights were on, but no one was home. I struggled for years with the Episcopalians. Their "priest" was a woman who was obviously either homosexual or just terribly unfeminine. She was cold and caustic and she made me terribly nervous. I tried other Episcopal churches, but there was something odd about them. I couldn't put my finger on it, but something was just off.
In terms of career, romance and finances, my life was wretched and exhausting. I worked very hard to support myself for more than 30 years, but it was a constant struggle for survival because of numerous inherited illnesses and rare conditions that grew worse over time and multiplied, so that, by the time I was about 48, I was completely disabled and was no longer able to work at all.
Study desk in the living room
Becoming disabled, although it further complicated my life and put me under tremendous stress, had a happy aspect: It was the opportunity to spend more time in prayer and to build a life completely centered on God, with no distractions, or so I thought. That was in 2003.
At the time, I had wandered back into the Hindu fold and had become a "swami," though that is not the right title for a female version of a Hindu renunciate or teacher. I think "swamini" may have been correct, but I am not sure.
Icons of our Blessed Mother in the bedroom
One morning, I was having breakfast at the diner across the street with an Ursaline nun, who turned out to be my 11th cousin. When I told her the story of my having tried to become Catholic, she was disgusted by the shabby treatment I had received by that nun in the RCIA class, so many years prior. Sister Sheila confirmed what I had long suspected, that the other nun had been completely wrong. Later, I would learn that education in the faith is very poor and that even those whose job it was to know it are often ill equipped to share it with anyone. This theme would be repeated continually in my Catholic journey, though I did not realize it at the time.
While talking with Sheila, I felt a hitch in my throat, and an old yearning that had smoldered for years began to blaze again. The attraction to the Catholic monastic life of prayer pushed itself to the forefront of my awareness. All of the information I had about the faith, however, I had received through books about the saints and doctors of the church that I had read in the Hindu convent in my 30's. I had no experience of parish life and I did not realize that the silence, the reverence for the faith, the mystical heart of the faith, was nowhere evident in the parishes. I had decided to become Catholic based upon the faith alone, with no reference to how it is lived in the world, and it is turning out to be a sad lesson.
After attending mass at various churches in town, I fell in love with the Byzantine Catholic tradition, which is practiced in only one church in this city. This Eastern Rite is fairly sparse in America, so New Mexico is lucky to have even one Byzantine parish.
One of my minor vocations in life has been as a professional genealogist, and I discovered that I am descended from and otherwise related to more than two dozen saints, the closest of these being a Ukrainian 30th great grandmother, Saint Anna of Novgorod, an Orthodox saint. My research was confirmed by my DNA, part of which comes from that area. The Byzantine Church I was attending has its roots in that same area of the world and, although it is Catholic, not orthodox, its liturgy is the same.
Saint Anna of Novgorod
my 30th great grandmother
I am convinced that, surely the saints in heaven are praying for their ancestors and other kin as a matter of course. Perhaps this is one reason why I continued to love the church and attempt to enter it, even though most of the people I met seemed to want to keep me out. I am not saying that I have been personally snubbed. The impression I have received over many years is that Catholics, for the most part, are not friendly or inclusive.
Some will behave in a friendly way toward you for two hours on Sunday, but you do not exist once you walk out that door. I do have a couple of Catholic friends, and we truly care about one another, but thinking about my favorite Bible quote, "they shall know you by how you love one another," is an occasion for sadness. You do not love people in whom you have no interest except when you happen to run into them at church.
After Sheila offered to tutor me and be my sponsor for confirmation in the church, I approached the priest at the Byzantine Church and asked if he would agree to this arrangement, since I was unable to attend the regular adult faith formation meetings, due to my disabilities. He gave permission and told me to coordinate with the deacon.
When I approached the deacon, he was dismissive and brushed me off without stopping what he was doing or even looking me in the eye. He said, "I don't have time for that. I'm too busy," and, basically, emphatically "no." I was dumbstruck.
Sheila was likewise upset by this, but called around to some people that she knew. Eventually, an ex-nun working at a parish near my house agreed to let Sheila take me through whatever material I may have missed, and I would be accepted into the church on Pentacost, along with a man who was seeking entry. The woman asked me a question I did not understand at the time, but which haunts me now. "Why would you want to become Catholic at this point in time?" She seemed genuinely puzzled, which puzzled me!
My mind was still in the world of the saints, the mystics, the doctors of The Church. I was immersed in the faith, but not parish life or the internal battles between faithful Catholics and those who wish to dispense with indispensable doctrine. I didn't know much about the pedophile scandals, nor the homosexual cabal that has nearly taken over the Vatican. Mostly, I was unaware for the great number of Catholics who are not faithful and do not actually practice the faith, but instead complain about its precepts, its "rules" and its Pope.
"Why would you want to become Catholic at this point in time?" It haunts me now.
The reason this question haunts me is that it reveals the lack of faith of the person asking the question. If one is convinced of the Truth of Jesus Christ, that He is our Lord and that He established the Catholic Church and imparted to the Apostles certain powers and authority, something real and substantial, then it matters not the condition of the people running the institution at any point in time. This is not to say that one shouldn't deal with it. One has to deal with it because Satan is always trying to get into The Church and ruin it. Yes, the evil must be removed from our midst, but whatsoever evil attacks us from within or without, it has no bearing on the Truth of Jesus as the savior, The Truth of the Holy Catholic Church being His Church, and the incredible Truth of the real presence of The Holy Eucharist.
I thank God that He introduced me to Himself through the solid, unassailable faith of the saints, the mystics and the doctors of The Church before I ever attended a mass or attempted to join a parish. I have had to call upon my faith to help me endure the circus that our Church has become in its outward appearance.
I was accepted into The Church at Pentacost about 10 years ago, and I cried like a baby. FINALLY, I was home. Although tremendously grateful for the opportunity to conduct my studies in a non-standard manner, I could not continue to attend mass at the church that accepted me. First of all, the ramps that led down to the altar were so steep that I could barely make it back up to my seat in the pew. Secondly, that church had 3,000 members and my post traumatic stress disorder (thanks to my brutal childhood) couldn't tolerate the crowds. Thirdly, but most important, the place had no reverence, no serenity. It was constructed like a barn or a dinner theatre in the round. The altar was at the bottom of that steep ramp, in the middle of everything, with no relationship to East/West, facing God or facing the people. The music sounded, at times, like Broadway show tunes, and I expected tap dancers to come out and dance around the table. At other times, it sounded like a Mexican polka music. I was horrified.
I still maintained a vague hope that I could join a contemplative convent but, as my disabilities worsened, and I learned more of the general requirements of most convents, it became apparent that I was not suited to monastic life lived in common, due to my age, disabilities, debts and divorce, but I adjusted my dream to the reality of my situation and resolved to live a monastic life at home and to turn my apartment into a sacred space. To the extent that my limited finances have allowed me to do some part of this, I have followed through.
Prayer corner in the bedroom
Although the name of this blog is "Diary of an Accidental Hermit," my life condition is more accurately described as an anchoress, since I have spent 11 years anchored in an apartment in a city, rather than the isolated places of hermits. Frankly, I have used the term "hermit" as there is already a blogger who calls herself "The Anchoress" and her life is completely different than that of a true anchoress. She is married and lives with husband and family, and the fact that she calls herself "The Anchoress" is a mockery of an honorable way of life. This travesty is typical of our modern age in which many people wish to assign to themselves a certain status or pretense to a state of life without actually undergoing any of the sacrifices and hardships that are required.
An "anchoress," for those of you not familiar with the term, is a type of solitary who, in the middle ages, used to live in a small cell attached to a church. She could watch the mass through a small window that opened directly into the sanctuary, and would also receive the blessed host through that same small window. Each anchoress had her own particular situation and her own rule of life. Townspeople would seek the counsel of an anchoress that was believed to be of a particularly holy and wise condition. They would bring food and other necessaries for her, and she would impart her wisdom. St. Julian of Norwich is an example of one type of anchoress.
Saint Julian of Norwich at the Church of Saints Peter
and Mary in Norwich
c. 8 November 1342 - c. 1416
The other day I was listening to Mother Miriam on Immaculate Heart Radio. A Jewish woman who became an evangelical teacher and speaker and then wholeheartedly converted to the Holy Catholic Church, she has started her own order with a unique charism that is both contemplative and very active. She is a very holy woman. Her advice to her listeners was to retreat for some time, at least an hour or two, but preferably half a day, and just dream with the Lord. She said to ignore the barriers of money and whatever else stands in the way, and just dream about what you want to do with and for the Lord. I took her advice.
The thing that struck me most forcefully was the need for true community. Although I love my time with the Lord, I am not anchored to the church or to any group of faithful Catholics, outside of my two friends in town and several people on Facebook. Online "community" is not real community any more than a paper fish is anything like a real one just pulled from the lake.
There was a long time in Catholic history when anchoresses were more common, they lived in towns and cities that were entirely Catholic, and they were supported physically, emotionally, psychologically and, most important, spiritually, by a community that held common values and beliefs. They were not surrounded by atheists, new-agers, Hindus, and anti-Catholics, yet this is the situation in which I now find myself. I am vulnerable prey to Satan and his minions.
Just this week, a young neighbor who has been very nice to me previously and who knew quite well that I am Catholic, verbally assaulted me with horrible lies about The Church and Pope Benedict. According to her, she got her "facts" from a program on television.
Firstly, one would think that anyone with half a brain would not be so gauche as to attack another person's religion if they expected to remain friendly. Secondly, even though I reminded her that I am a well educated Catholic and I know far more about the topic than she, she insisted that the lies were real.
I realized that she, like most Americans these days, thinks that it is permissible to attack the Catholic Church, regardless if what one says is true or not. She WANTS to believe the lie. Many people are willing to freely show their contempt for Catholicism. This prejudice is encouraged by the culture that, supposedly, believes in freedom of religion. I have been verbally ambushed like this more than a dozen times at this apartment complex. I am surrounded by people like her, and I am vulnerable to attack at any time. I am well familiar with the social martyrdom of being snubbed because of one's religion, as well. I had quite a few friends before I became Catholic. They dropped me because of it.
We live in an age when the supportive Catholic atmosphere must be deliberately created. Isolated elderly and disabled ladies, as well as frail widows, are spread out in the city, surrounded, for the most part, by those who are hostile to the faith. Even one's own family cannot be relied upon to maintain the faith, since there is so much pressure to conform to a society that hates us.
Miniature shrine at my bedside
"Divide and conquer" is a familiar motto of the enemy, and we have to fight this tendency. My dream is the dream of the Catholic ashram, in the style of the Vedanta Society, where I lived during my years with the Hindus.
Marginalized groups often gather together, and the Vedantists were no exception. A wealthy patron gave them some land in the Hollywood Hills in the 1930's, and now there is a monastery, a convent, an apartment building, and many houses.
Swami Swahananda, my Vedanta (Hindu) teacher
at the Vedanta Society of Southern California
About 1987
I lived there for about 8 years, several of which were spent in the convent, and I never felt more secure and supported. It was a wonderful life. The temple and its meditation routine was open to everyone, monastic and devotee alike. The grounds were lovely, with masses of flowers and beautifully shaped shrubs. Once or twice a week there would be informal classes given either in the temple or the "green room" just outside of the book store.
It was a lovely place, redolent with incense and flowers, and a sacred hush inside the temple. It was a lovely religion. It was just the wrong religion, which I discovered while reading the Catholic mystics in the Hindu convent.
Sitting at the convent dinner table,
when I was a Hindu nun
My dream is for the creation of Catholic neighborhoods, where the church is the center of the community, but the parish church must be of a spotless character and completely faithful to the magisterium, or the community will fail. We have many unfaithful and some heretical priests, bishops and cardinals in these dark days. There is a homosexual cabal that nearly rules the Vatican. Entire diocese in America are polluted by unfaithful clergy living perverted and immoral lives. The pedophile priest scandal only scratched the surface of the depravity. Pope Benedict, when he was Cardinal Ratzinger, strongly stated that "we must get the filth out of the church."
In addition to the disobedient clergy, we have a Catholic laity that is uneducated in the faith and which ignores the guidance of the faith with regard to all the sexual sins in particular. Fornication, birth control and abortion are as common as dirt, and these sins open the gateway to Satan. Unfortunately, these people don't believe in Satan or Hell, a topic about which Jesus spoke more than any other.
Christ's descent into Hades
Obviously, when I speak of Catholic community, I am not thinking of these cultural Catholics or Catholics in name only, who are little more than poor Protestants in disguise, the wolves in sheep's clothing.
My dream is that those who yearn for perfect obedience to the faith gather together in neighborhoods, with The Church at the center. I long to be situated in a small house with a little yard for my service dog and my seeing eye dog, where my life of prayer can be conducted in a safe, holy, quiet place that also accommodates my disabilities.
I yearn for the reverential atmosphere that is due our King, instead of the happy clappy nonsense that passes for mass in many parishes.
I dream of having an excellent lending library of The Church doctors and fathers, mothers and saints, and a special room for prayer and meditation in my home.
I long to be surrounded by faithful Catholics as my neighbors and to be close to my faithful church. This, to me, is heaven on earth, and I encourage all Catholics to begin thinking in these terms, because it is time to circle the wagons and draw tightly together. The persecution is just beginning.
Our Lady of the Inexhaustible Cup - in the kitchen
I have shared the major features of my dream. Now let me share the blocks that stand in front of me:
Occasionally, a house will come up for rent in a modest but relatively safe neighborhood near a Byzantine Catholic Church that is close to where my supportive Catholic friends live, but I cannot afford the rents. I cannot afford to buy the houses that come up for sale. A lifetime of battling illness and working at jobs that gradually paid less and less over the years, has left me completely destitute, and struggling to live on an income that is the same amount as the income on which I was starving 30 years ago.
My primary mission in life is to pray for (1) the purification of the Catholic Church and its reunion with the Orthodox churches; (2) the eradication of Islam, the purpose of which, according to the Koran, is to subjugate Jews and Christians; and (3) the raising up of the poor throughout the world. My inability to take care of myself properly is a terrible distraction from that mission. Somehow, a miracle has to occur so that my dreams for myself, my mission, and the world may be realized.
Our Lady of Perpetual Help near the front door
In addition to praying, I am calling out to all of my faithful Catholic brothers and sisters for help in realizing this holy dream. I need housing, I need special foods, supplements, over-the-counter medicines, medical equipment and a host of other necessities. I do not have the resources for any of it.
The housing seems to be the most impossible situation at the moment. Government housing is all located in dangerous neighborhoods and consists of noisy apartments on large main streets, especially when it comes to single people for whom the subsidies are very limited. Single people do not qualify for houses, even small ones.
Currently, I live on the main street that cuts through the middle of town. It is part of the old Route 66 that traversed the United States prior to the freeway systems taking its place. Car horns, yelling people, barking dogs, broken mufflers, booming rap music, screaming people, and raunchy old motorcycles pepper the air that is already thick with rubber that the road rubs from the tires. Soon, these sounds will be supplemented by the noise and vibration of jackhammers and other tools as the median is removed from the middle of the road and a system of rail buses is installed down the length of the road. Getting into my apartment complex will be terribly restricted, as those traveling west will have to go to the end of the block, make a u-turn, and THEN travel back the other way to make a right into our driveway. This will be a permanent inconvenience, since one cannot make a left turn over the rails. NONE of this is conducive to a quiet life of prayer.
I have "made do" with a host of deprivations, pains and sufferings, accepting everything the Lord has brought me and offering it all to Him in reparation for my sins and the sins of the whole world. I STILL accept it while at the same time praying for a miracle that will get me closer to my good dream, a righteous dream, a holy dream that God can get behind! (I hope.)
Most of all, I seek Catholic community in which the First Commandment is recognized as the most important, that we will love God above all else. Ask yourself why you make certain choices. Do you move into a neighborhood because it has the best, most faithful Catholic Church in town, or do you move close to work for your convenience? Do you make friends first within the Catholic community so that you can be sure of having friends that share your love of God and your values, or do you choose those who are most entertaining or those who have the most money or the coolest clothes?
It used to be that Catholics were anxious to have people in the world who were dedicated to praying for them and for the woes of the world. The Church itself was more supportive of the mystics among us, more cognizant of the value of prayer in peaceful, reverent atomospheres. That certainly doesn't describe most parishes I've seen, where people dress like they are about to take a walk on the beach, the pastor's homilies never mention God, heaven or hell, and where people are holding hands or clapping and hooting like they're at some pop concert instead of offering respectful worship to the Lord of the universe! I want to help change this, but I can only do it through prayer. I am too banged up to do anything else. I hope you will join me in my efforts by praying with me for a change in these aspects of Catholic life as well.
Please read the sidebar about my medical needs, click the DONATION button to contribute funds, or click one of the Amazon.com links to contribute food, supplements and medicines. God bless you for your generosity.
If you are not able to assist me, please pray for the realization of my dream, as I do, and God will provide, according to his blessed holy will.
In addition, I ask you to consider getting behind this movement to create Catholic community that is real and concrete, instead of the imaginary "communities" that gather at church once a week for an hour. That is not community. That's just a break from the rest of your life.
Something to think about.
God bless us all!
Silver "Rose" Parnell
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