The Ear of the Heart: An Actress' Journey From Hollywood to Holy Vows (45 page)

First Vows are not necessarily private—family members and friends can be invited to the short ceremony—but often they are witnessed by only the Community. No one outside the Community came to my First Vows, not even Mom. This had far less to do with her deep-seated feelings than with the fact that she had not been in good health for some months and had recently been hospitalized in Los Angeles. I knew this from Don Robinson, who remained in touch with her, visiting the hospital every day. She had been experiencing headaches that incapacitated her. Her condition had been recognized variously as a pinched nerve, a sacroiliac problem and whiplash but never definitely diagnosed. At one point she was told the pain was all in her head and that she should see a psychiatrist
.

—I thought she did have some medical problem that was not merely alcohol again. I remember telling Mom that pain is real and we each must come to grips with its mysterious capacity to penetrate our lives. Sometimes the best way to fight pain is to agree to live with it. That sounds absurd, but pain is not useless
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One also receives the Kiss of Peace at First Vows, a tradition that is observed by the Community on special occasions and at every Mass. I’ve always found comfort in this simple, lovely ritual. I was approached by each woman in the Community, one by one, and received her Kiss of Peace on my cheek. Usually “Peace be with you” are the only words that accompany the kiss. But, as one of the senior mothers kissed my cheek, she whispered in my ear, “Why don’t you leave?” The words sent shivers through me. She might as well have slapped my face. She was the last person I would have expected to do this; she was someone I had offered to help, the one for whom I had accepted the name of Judith
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That night in my cell, her remark triggered the habitual tears. But on this night the tears, instead of lulling me to sleep, gave way to a calm that had been absent since the night of my entrance. When I entered, I had no concept of what monastic life meant. I felt alone. Now I felt as if I were beginning a long-distance run, and I was bouyed by the knowledge that I had other long-distance runners alongside me
.

I reached for my journal and began writing
:

If the price of loving Him is the pain of having to look for Him, then the price of finding Him is the pain of having to share His loneliness in the Garden of Gethsemane. Loneliness is the worst suffering, and if we can endure this in faith, we have as won our way to Him
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Twenty-Seven

I thought my life would change markedly after vows, but at first it remained much the same. I sensed a slight cracking in the wall between the professed and the novitiate—the smiles got broader and the nods a bit more frequent—but the boundaries remained
.

The only immediate change was a move into another cell, which was prompted by my noisy nemesis, the tree frog. Father Mike had offered to climb the tree and capture the frog, but I was afraid he would kill himself. A move seemed safer
.

Since my entrance, many colleagues had written, asking me to reconsider my decision and return to my career. I understood, for I knew that without the perspective of prayer and meditation it was surely impossible for them to become reconciled to the idea of me as a nun. I often wished I could have expressed to those friends that I hadn’t left Hollywood behind. I came in with the desire to return—but not in a way they would understand
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Maybe my making First Vows put the cap on any expectation that I would leave religious life. But, whatever the reason, people from my past began visiting
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In 1967 my brother Martin began what would become semiannual visits. When I entered religious life, our relationship continued through letters, and Martin’s salutations would reflect the changes in my status, beginning after my entrance with the simple “Dear Sister”. When I was clothed and received my religious name, he wrote, “Dear Sister Sister”. After my Final Vows he would write, “Dear Mother Sister”
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His letters allowed me to follow his impressive journey through academia, culminating with a PhD in American studies from George Washington University. Among many achievements, Dr. Gordon—my kid brother—established the historical research center of the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency, taught US history at the Smithsonian and Johns Hopkins University and continues to teach at the University of Maryland
.

In addition to teaching classes and authoring several books, Martin has found time to share his expertise with my Community in a number of seminars conducted with his wife, Diane, who also has a PhD
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—I am also very proud that Martin’s daughter is my namesake
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Don Robinson began making annual visits. Thinking back, Don said, “I remember at first it was an odd way to see her, behind the grille, but the grille was different then—it had double bars, which created a separation—and the parlor had the most uncomfortable stools. But, all in all, I felt quite close to her—I mean not cut off.

“During that first visit, she asked if I would meet Mother Placid. I still wasn’t favorably disposed to her, but I said okay. Though I had accepted Dolores’ choice, I was still not at peace with it, and we got off to a bad start. I’ll never forget her first remark. She said, ‘You think I’m Dolores’ Svengali.’

“I replied, ‘You might say that’, and there was a kind of standoff. Through the years, however, I grew to like her. I began to feel at peace after several visits. I realized that Dolores went to Regina Laudis, not somewhere else, for a particular reason. Yes, she gave her life to God, but she gave her life to God to become a
Benedictine
. It was the Rule. If the Rule were to change, she wouldn’t accept that.”

My true mentor in Hollywood, Paul Nathan, came several times over the next few years. He supported my decision but never failed to tell me that he always felt a pang of regret that he hadn’t packed me away in his bag and brought me back with him. Lois Nettleton actually took part in our Community life. She worked in the dairy, with the animals, on her hands and knees in the garden—whatever needed doing
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I received a letter from Stephen Boyd, who was scheduled to be in New York and asked if he could come to the monastery. I looked forward to seeing him. His trip east coincided with our Lenten retreat, when we do not have guests, but Reverend Mother granted special permission for him to come and even to stay overnight in Saint Joseph’s
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It was not a comfortable reunion. It was obvious that Stephen had a difficult time dealing with the grille. He later admitted it was like seeing me in prison. He told me that he had become interested in Scientology; remembering his distaste for organized religion, I cautioned him to think twice before getting too involved
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He left the parlor quite abruptly, but instead of going to his quarters in the guesthouse, he drove right back to New York. He did not visit again, but we continued to correspond; his letters increasingly concerned his immersion in his study of Scientology. The last letter I received from Stephen came shortly before my Consecration in 1970. He announced his plans to become an active member of the organization and said that his life and mine could never find a crossing point, which saddened me. Stephen died of a heart attack in 1977
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On the feast of the Assumption of Mary in 1966, a shy, petite Japanese woman presented herself at our door. Nobuko Kobayashi looked like a girl, but she was, in fact, twenty years old. She had seen some of my films in Tokyo and was moved to write for permission to visit
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The visit, which lasted a month, was the first of several Nobuko would make over the next few years, each one bringing her closer to the Community and, through her artwork in the studio, creating a lasting bond with Sister Judith. In her journal entry on the day of Nobuko’s departure, Sister Judith reveals a transformation that is as significant as it is touching.

Today is one of the most momentous days in my life. It is the day on which I knew myself for the first time as a mother. Nobuko called me Mother. I could not help but see a reflection of myself and Mother Placid. It’s a new role.

In the months after my vows, a peace existed between Mom and me. It seemed at that time to be a new level of bonding. She visited again in November of 1966. She was in pretty good spirits if somewhat lethargic, which was unusual for her. She outlined her medical problems and gave me a rundown on the doctors she had been seeing but, on the whole, presented an enthusiastic outlook health-wise. She seemed determined to make amends for what she termed her “audacity” to have opposed my decision. “Now that you’re really in here, Novice First Class, I realize it was pure selfishness on my part”, she said. “I was wrong. This is right for you
.”

But, in early 1967, out of the blue I got a call from one of her doctors in LA. He told me that if I continued to stay in the monastery Mom would probably die. He emphasized that I was responsible for whatever might happen. I was appalled. This man was putting her life on my back. I told him he had no right to do that. I was mad as all get-out. I truly didn’t believe that anything was going to happen to her
.

—Is it possible that he made this call at Harriett’s request?

   
Yes, possible. Why
?

Around this time, Harriett called one night—after midnight—asking me to come over, said she needed someone to talk to. It was obvious when she opened the door that she had been drinking. We sat and talked—rather, I listened while she talked and continued to drink. She was very depressed and self-pitying and kept repeating, “It’s my fault. It’s all my fault.” I sat with her until she was tired enough to sleep. Just before I left, she apologized and said her words just seemed to fall from her mouth “like coins from a slot machine”, adding as she closed the door, “put in by despairing people”.

Mom died on May 8, 1967. She was only forty-six years old. We had spoken on the Saturday before her death. It was a hard conversation. I could tell she was drinking heavily. She was in a dark, selfish, mean-spirited place. We both were angry. I hung up on her. It was the first time I ever did that, but I had never been so hopeless
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I was truly sorry but was sure she would call back, as she usually did after a spat. When she didn’t call on Sunday, I sensed we were in deep trouble. On Monday evening during Vespers, I was acolyte, singing the versicle at the lectern, when I heard the phone ringing faintly in the nearby entry hall. I knew instantly it was about Mom
.

The call was from the Los Angeles Police Department. Mom had been found dead in her apartment. I got in touch with Granny, who said she would leave immediately for LA. She said she would pay my way, too, but Reverend Mother suggested I not go. Granny agreed to be my eyes. She would handle everything for me
.

Granny was incensed to learn that the coroner’s report listed the cause of death as suicide. She did not believe that. She had gone through everything in Mom’s apartment, including the medicine cabinet, where she found a just-filled prescription of sleeping medication. There was only one pill missing. To the day of her death, Granny never accepted that judgment
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Emilio Mazza, Mom’s companion, made all the arrangements for the funeral. Later Emilio sent me a small box of Mom’s stuff. There was little that held value for me, only a handkerchief reeking of her cologne, her scent, and suddenly she was in the room. I grieved for Mom for a long time. It was more difficult to integrate her death than Daddy’s. How much did that have to do with guilt—the maybe, maybe, maybe if I hadn’t hung up on her, this wouldn’t have happened? I don’t know
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Every evening after Vespers, I sought refuge by walking from the chapel to the Hermitage, a small structure in Saint Telchilde’s field used for quiet time alone. I was surprised when Mother David joined me one evening and walked with me
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I had been aware of Mother David from the time of my visits to Regina Laudis. She was the nun who had asked me to leave the enclosure on the very same path we were walking now. I knew from the beginning of my time within the monastery that Mother David was a tremendous centering force in the Community even though she was not a major authority then. She did not have to be an official for her authority to be felt. Certain persons convey that authority just entering a room; it flows from the sense of majesty they create. I remember being aware of that back in New York when Cornelia Otis Skinner came into a room
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But once inside the monastery, I had virtually no contact with Mother David. There was such a division then, and she had been faithful to her formation. She had, upon passing me in the hallways, smiled and nodded support, and I had received a card from her after Daddy’s death that read: “You are not alone in this.” But I didn’t really know her
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