Ordinary Mystic: Practicing the Presence

By Curran Galway

Bridget McGuire fell in love with God when she was thirty-five years old. Drowning in a sea of diapers and lost in her routine life as mother and wife, she felt invisible until that day in 1980 when she was on a retreat in the Santa Cruz Mountains of California. Caught up in an unexpected encounter with God, Bridgets life was turned upside down forever.

Her journey of transformation wasnt easy. The tragedies she endureda brutal divorce, betrayal, forbidden love, and the agony of deathchallenged her to continue to reach deep inside and hold on to the dignity of her own divinity. Her story is about the struggle to live the extraordinary in her ordinary life.

Forty-nine percent of the people in the United States have had mystical experiences but were afraid to talk about them. Ordinary Mystic is one of the first novels to offer readers permission to recognize and honor the mystical experience and feel comfortable sharing their stories.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: Apr 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781504349536

Curran Galway

Curran Galway lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. She has a degree in English and Education with a Master of Divinity degree in Transformational Spirituality from Seattle University. Ms. Galway has been a spiritual teacher and transformation coach for fifteen years. She is an inspirational speaker, leading retreats and facilitating workshops focused on awakening to the true self and practicing the presence.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

I fell in love with God when I was thirty-five years old. Lost in my ordinary existence as mother and wife, I had been invisible until that day in1980 when I went on a retreat in the Santa Cruz Mountains of California.

I can still smell the damp, green forest and see the lush ferns that lined the pathway, the massive redwoods standing like soldiers guarding the entrance of Mercy Center.

My name is Bridget McGuire. I am an ordinary mystic, ready to tell my story to awaken other mystics. The journey of transformation isn’t easy. The tragedies I have endured in my life challenged me to continue to reach deep inside and hold on to the dignity of my own divinity.

My story is about the struggle to integrate the extraordinary into the ordinary life. I have always felt the nearness of God in the process. This Presence continues to be as close as my own breath.

CHAPTER 1

I n January of 1980, I was at the wheel of my Jeep Wagoneer focusing on negotiating the treacherous twists and turns of the dirt road that led to Mercy Retreat Center in the Santa Cruz Mountains of Califo rnia.

The damp, green forest looked like another world. Lush ferns crowded the pathway. Massive redwoods formed a canopy under the pale evening sky, their branches swayed with the cool breeze, welcoming me into the enchanted forest. The stress in my back and shoulders began to release as I listened to the peaceful songs of the robins, sparrows, and chickadees.

The shortest nun I have ever seen greeted me at the front door. A large, silver crucifix dangled at the end of the rosary beads that hung from the rope around the waist of her brown robe. She looked like a dwarf from the woods, but her smile was warm, and her face had the glow of an angel. She picked up my bag and showed me to my room: a tiny chamber with a single bed, a sink, a small desk, and a rocking chair. It would make a person feel claustrophobic if not for the panoramic view of the forest. I pulled back the curtains to invite the forest in, and the room seemed bigger.

This was my third visit to Mercy Center while my husband watched our three children. I was desperately seeking meaning for my life, and needed to get away to make a decision about a divorce. These weekends taught me that there was a lot I could live without. No TV, no phone, and no kids demanding my attention, was heavenly. Listening to the quiet took some getting used to. At first I was restless, but after a few retreats, I began to look forward to the silence. In the stillness, I could hear the voice of my soul.

The distant sound of a bell reminded me and my empty stomach to head to the dining hall. I pulled my red hair into a pony tail and headed for the door. The door to my room opened out onto a long porch lined with doors to other rooms like mine. The building layout resembled a two-story motel. I followed the porch to the end, meeting other women en route to the dining room. It was very dark as we walked a gravel path toward the lights ahead, smelling the sweet aroma of oregano and tomato sauce.

It seemed I was the only woman who came alone. Others arrived in groups, but I relished the freedom of solitude. The women chatted and laughed as they walked along together, knowing this would be their last chance before surrendering to the Franciscan rule of eating meals in silence.

The dining hall was large enough to accommodate 200 people, with tall ceilings, and 30 round tables that each seated six. A picture of the Madonna and Child towered over the stone mantle. Gregorian chant filled the room with angelic sounds. Franciscan nuns stood at attention, stiff as soldiers by the kitchen door, waiting to serve from steaming pots of lasagna.

I took a seat at the table by the windows. The forest was black now, but I knew it would be amazing in the morning. Looking around the crowded tables, I wondered if other women were as delighted as I was to have someone else cook the meal. All eyes in the room moved to Mother Clare, the Mother Superior, as she stood to welcome us and recite the blessing.

She was short and stocky, a wisp of grey hair peeked out from under the wimple of her habit. Her face was round with many wrinkles. She looked stern, with pursed lips, and did not smile as she greeted us, then said, Bless us, oh Lord, for these Thy gifts which we are about to receive from Thy bounty through Jesus Christ, our Lord. Amen.

Without table talk, it doesn’t take long to eat. Feeling completely nourished after dinner, I walked the path back to my room, looking forward to reading the book I had brought on the life of St. Francis of Assisi. He had always been my favorite saint because of his human compassion. Francis’s mystical connection to God fascinated me. He had a deep spiritual union with the Source of all life. I dreamed of being like Francis. In my spare moments at home, which amounted to an hour and a half when the kids took naps, I read everything I could on the mystics. Catholic tradition is filled with their stories. Teresa of Avila, John of the Cross, Catherine of Sienna wrote and preached about their intimate relationship with God. I was also interested in the Jewish, Buddhist, and Islamic mystics.

I reached my room and plopped down on my bed feeling exhausted. It was time to stop racing around for others and start taking care of myself. The unending chores of laundry, cooking, changing diapers, and keeping a clean house for a family of five claimed my energy. My well had been empty for years.

Opening my book by G.K. Chesterton, I began reading about how unhappy Francis was at his father’s house. Constantly at odds with a tyrannical father, he longed for freedom. This was something I could identify with.

I recalled the day I came home from College for Sunday dinner with my family. I was twenty-one. There were so many things I had learned about children in the College of Education. As the oldest of eight, I wanted to share my knowledge. During coffee and dessert, I brought up the topic of the importance of positive reinforcement, hoping that my father might change the way he related to my younger brothers and sisters.

Children learn what they live, I told the family. It is important for them to grow up in an environment where feelings and opinions are valued.

Children should be seen and not heard, my father retorted. He had been drinking Irish whiskey all evening. My mother brought him a cup of coffee. He loaded it with sugar and cream, then sneered at me as he picked up his cup. Are you suggesting there’s something wrong with this family?

This was a loaded question. My father loved to argue. He had been baiting me all evening, trying to catch me in one of his traps so I would have to fight with him. This time I decided to stand for my own beliefs no matter what.

I just think there are better ways to do things, I said. Then I felt the burn of hot coffee hit my face. I looked up in shock to see my father holding his empty cup, looking like he had been awarded an Olympic medal. I was furious. I searched the eyes of my seven siblings to come to my defense, but no one bothered. Even my mother sat looking away.

How dare you! I screamed at my father as I wiped my face with a napkin. I don’t have to take this abuse any longer, I’m an adult now.

Don’t talk back to me, Bridget, you insolent daughter. I’m the captain of this ship, and my word is law. No room for dissent while I’m at the helm.

What about my ideas? You sent me to college to learn how to think, but you won’t allow me the freedom to express myself.

Well if that’s what they’re teaching, they won’t be receiving any more donations from me this year.

Maybe you need to go back to school for some refresher courses on how to treat people.

Then I saw that familiar look, the fire of hell in his eyes, and I knew he would try to control me with his belt again. He unhooked it, pulled it off, and lurched forward. Leaving his chair fall to the floor, he grabbed my shoulders. Mother started screaming, the younger children began to cry. My heart pounded as I gripped my chair to keep from falling. I knew I had to act fast to protect myself.

Within seconds, I reached down and took off one of my high-heeled shoes. Taking aim for his face, I smashed the heel in my father’s eye.

The abuse stops here! I yelled.

He leaped back in pain, blood spurting from the corner of his eyes, and trickling down his cheek. By the time he grabbed a napkin to wipe his face, I was headed for the door. He raced after me, but it was too late. I was free. He never laid another hand on me. That day I made up my mind that I would search for a way to rise above my wounded past.

It was hard for me to think of God as a compassionate father, when the only father I had was punitive, like the harsh, judgmental, unforgiving God in the Old Testament. I wondered if St. Francis had felt this way.

I continued to read. After returning from the Crusades, Francis came down with a fever. His mother nursed him back to health, but he was never the same. While he was recuperating, Francis had an encounter with God that changed his life. He fell deeply in love with the Divine Presence at the center of all creation, and enjoyed the embrace of a loving Father. Out in the fruitful fields of Assisi, Italy, he was filled with joy and opened to the sacredness of life.

When Francis was fully recovered, he went to work in his father’s textile business. The poverty of the workers who dyed the cloth, and the hazardous conditions they toiled in, weighed heavily on Francis’s heart. For him, the blindness of social class had disappeared, and he looked upon all people as equals. It was hard for him to understand the extravagance and the greed of his father and other wealthy merchants, when their laborers were so poor. This world seemed terribly out of balance. Francis began to change things by throwing his father’s expensive textiles out of the shop windows to the beggars in the streets. Thinking his son had gone mad, the father tried to beat some sense into Francis, then he took him to be reprimanded by the local bishop. At this time Francis made an important decision that would affect the rest of his life.

My room had grown cold. I pulled the hand-made quilt from the end of my bed and spread it over myself as I continued reading. Francis stripped himself naked before the judgmental eyes of the townspeople and the bishop, and walked away from the power hungry establishment, represented by his family, to become a free man in the eyes of God.

Having let go of everything, Francis was now ready to devote himself totally to the Divine Father. He spent many months in the silence of a cave, where he prayed and meditated as he listened to the voice of God. He soon received a vision telling him to restore the Catholic Church. This became his destiny. He was initiated into a deeper relationship when he received the gift of stigmata, a physical sharing in the passion and wounds of Jesus.

Closing the book, I realized how much I admired Francis, but I was also a little afraid of him. Like other mystics I had read about, he had special powers. Because of the mystical connection, it was clear to me that the same energy moving through Jesus moved through him. I desired that kind of relationship with God so much! But I would never want to be a religious freak.

I pulled the rubber band from my red hair and let it fall to my shoulders. Did I really think I could have that kind of connection with God? Bridget Eileen McGuire, the girl with green eyes, freckles, and a fiery Irish temper? Am I the woman my father said would do more harm in the world than good? I’m ordinary, a nobody. Does my life really matter? I’m still struggling with basic questions of survival; should I get a divorce?

I stepped out onto the porch outside my room for some fresh air. With my quilt wrapped around me, I leaned on the railing and gazed at the myriad diamonds in the sky. The stars were so much brighter in the mountains, I marveled at the vastness of the universe. Looking up at the heavens always made me feel small. How could anyone reject the idea of a creator behind the miracles of life? The night sky was ablaze with the handiwork of God, and I felt the tug of deeper questions about my life. Who am I? Where am I going? Do I have the right to be happy? My heart ached for new answers to the same old questions.

Shivering, I pulled the quilt tightly around my shoulders. The air was damp. The lights in the other rooms along the porch were out. The women must have turned in early. Who could blame them? There wasn’t much to do here, but eat, sleep, and pray.

After dinner, Mother Clare had informed us that the new Retreat Master, Father Christian Mann, would be speaking in the morning on the lives of the mystics. I heard a few of the women whispering on the way to their quarters about how handsome he was. I hadn’t met him, but I looked forward to his lecture. Maybe he could show me how to connect to God.

The sheets felt cold on my skin when I finally climbed into bed, and I remembered that the nuns turn off the heat at night. I snuggled into the feather pillow, curled up in the warm quilt, and wiggled my toes to keep my circulation going. As I lay there, I thought about Francis. Did he ever want reconciliation with his father? I still longed to have a relationship with mine, but I had given up hope that it would ever happen.

Rain began falling on the roof. I listened to the gentle tapping for a while, feeling very alone in the world, until the rhythmic sound finally lured me to sleep.

CHAPTER 2

V ery early Saturday morning, I sat at a table in the dining room with five other silent women having a cup of coffee and a bowl of warm oatmeal, trying to wake up. Mother Clare greeted us. I had always wished to have the name Clare. It means light . I do like the name Bridget, which is Gaelic and means strength , but Clare is my favorite name. St. Clare played an important role in the life of St. Francis. I’m sure she was in love with him, but their relationship was strictly platonic. She founded her own religious order of nuns, the Poor Clares. St. Clare inspire d me.

Mother Clare announced that Father Christian Mann was to deliver several talks, one in the morning, one after lunch, and another in the evening. The rest of the time we would be free to walk the grounds, pray in the chapel, or read. She introduced him as a Scripture scholar and Dean of Religious Studies at Steubenville, a Franciscan University in Ohio. The way she went on about him was disgusting, you’d think he was the Pope. She told us that he had chosen a theme for the retreat, A Deeper Connection to God. Perfect, I thought. I knew I was in the right place.

Mother Clare said the Grace after meals, she led us into the adjacent assembly room. It was very plain, pictures of saints on the white walls, chairs neatly lined up, and large windows that let in another view of the luscious, green forest. The trees were covered with tiny beads of sparkling water from the night’s rain, Mother Nature’s jewels.

Father Christian Mann entered the room. This was no ordinary priest—not like the kind I knew. This man was very attractive. His soft, brown hair scooped over his forehead then swept back over deep, brown bedroom eyes. He had a nicely cropped beard and a robust chest, the kind a woman could get lost in. He appeared to be in his early fifties. I was quite taken with him. In fact, I’m ashamed to say, from the first moment I saw him, I felt a strong attraction, as if I had known him before. Of course, that was not okay for a good Catholic girl who had been brought up by the nuns and told to keep her eyes above a guy’s neck. Anything from there down was taboo.

I still remember how his words captivated the entire room of women. There was a twinkle in his eye as he spoke.

Good morning lovely ladies, I trust you slept well. All of you look exceptionally beautiful today. He smiled again, and this time from ear to ear displaying a sensuous overbite of white teeth. I have just returned from the hill town of Assisi, in Perugia, Italy, and I must tell you how fascinated I was by this enchanting city. The roundness, the firmness of the flesh-colored cobblestones, the way the pastoral landscape spreads out like the silk gown of a regal woman as it clings to the rolling hills. He flashed another sexy smile.

I sipped red wine and sampled the sumptuous Italian dishes at a café in the town square, and felt the softness of the warm, summer afternoon breezes in my hair. The luscious smell of fresh-baked bread was everywhere, and I delighted in scooping up the remaining sauces on my plate with a crusty chunk of bread.

He smiled and scanned the faces of the women in the room.

Assisi is the mystical city where St. Francis and St. Clare grew up over 800 years ago. It is the place where they experienced the love song from an abundant God expressed in the fields, the flowers, in every creature, and in the endearing relationship they had together.

I visited the white-stoned Basilica de Francesco where St. Francis was buried. I walked outside the Porta Nova to the church of San Damiano. Francis spent time in this church at retreats with his friars, and Clare founded her order of the Poor Clares on this site. Eventually, the two lived apart, but continued to grow closer to God, and closer to each other through letters.

The room was absolutely still. A spell had been cast, and I wasn’t the only one passionately affected by his words. I looked around and saw women soften as they slumped back into their chairs, whispering sighs of contentment. No wonder people called Father Christian the man with the Golden Tongue. I expected fire and brimstone—not the voice of a troubadour! Were the other ladies entertaining fantasies? After all, those of us who burned our brassieres in the sixties were entitled to sexual fantasies in the eighties.

I’m not sure the nuns would agree. I could imagine them echoing their disgust, like they did when I performed in the high school talent show. I had organized a group of my friends to lip-sync the Beatles’ hit song, I Want To Hold Your Hand. We rolled up uniform skirts, pinned up our hair, and combed down bangs over our eyebrows. We called ourselves The Lady Bugs. I was so excited as we strutted across the stage, guitars in hand. One girl began to play the record at full volume, and we gave it our best shot. The audience loved us, but the act was interrupted when Sister Sebastian pulled the plug and ushered us off the stage. She told us we were engaging in sinful behavior and setting a bad example for the other students.

I spent the rest of that morning with thirty other women, hanging on every word that came out of the mouth of this fascinating priest. He bewitched all of us with his charismatic charm as he continued to speak of Francis and Clare and their mystical relationship with God.

The Divine Lover, he said. Is inviting us in every moment to enter into the eternal now, the sweet dwelling place of the most high. Everything in creation moves to the rhythm of the Sacred Love Song, which requires nothing less than the complete surrender to the Source of Life. We need to return again and again to God’s presence, to fall freely into the everlasting arms of the Beloved. That is the only requirement for the mystical journey.

He spoke eloquently, like a poet, and his words seemed to impregnate my soul.

Francis and Clare could have been lovers, he continued. But they chose to give themselves to God. This is the meaning of unconditional love, the pure love of essence, the Divine Embrace. Their bodies, temples of the Holy Spirit, were dedicated to God that they might enter into the Divine Union. Most of the mystics write of their experience with the Beloved as though it was a relationship between two lovers. St. Teresa of Avila speaks of the ecstasy that drew her into the Divine Presence where she is spiritually ravaged beyond human expectation, swooning with pleasure. This experience was captured by the artist, Bernini, in the 1600s. While words cannot do justice to describe such a heavenly moment, mystics have attempted to share it in human terms as an awakening into the deeper mystery. Giving yourself to the Sacred Mystery is similar to giving yourself to a sexual partner. You lose yourself to become totally united with the other.

I started to snicker. How the hell would a celibate priest know anything about sex? I raised my hand to speak. He acknowledged me. I stood up.

What about the sexual afterglow, Father? Can we expect one as a bride of Christ?

His eyes penetrated mine with a look of confidence. Yes Miss …?

Bridget, Bridget McGuire, uh, I mean O’Malley. I sat down quickly feeling the cold stares of the women around me.

Yes, Bridget, he smiled, according to the mystics, there is an afterglow, an ecstasy often lasting for days.

So … did he have a mystical experience, or just good sex?

I wandered around the grounds before lunch, reflecting on all that I had taken in. The gardens were lovely, an outdoor labyrinth of plants and color. As I walked the spiraling path of the labyrinth, I began to realize my deep longing for the mystical experience of which Father spoke. Was I too worldly, too ordinary for God to want a relationship with me? I didn’t know how to relate to a man, so how could I ever relate to God? I felt a little guilty about my question to Father. It came from my sassy side, a trait inherited from my Irish grandmother. Now there was a strong woman, and she had emerald green eyes like mine. She also had a soft heart.

All this thinking made me hungry. I followed the smell of homemade soup, maybe black bean, and joined the other women in the dining room, keeping the rule of silence. At this meal, I really felt deprived by not being allowed to talk. I was excited about the morning session, and wanted to discuss it. My eyes met those of the women at my table who were spooning hearty soup into their mouths. How quickly they looked down or away from my gaze! What was that about? Come on, didn’t I ask the same question that they were burning to ask? Maybe not. From the looks of them, they were probably rich, happily married, and had their toes done regularly. The Church of the eighties was full of wealthy women living the life of leisure. Conventionality never worked for me, not organic enough. Educated by Jesuits for sixteen years, I was too smart for that life style.

I wanted to take my lunch out to the patio where I could commune with the trees—at least they would be supportive. Instead, I finished up quickly and headed out for my room. I thought about Francis and Clare as I lay down on my bed. What a couple! If only they could have connected on all levels, then they might have procreated their spirituality into generations of families. Mystical parents, now there’s a concept to ponder.

Later, I rushed over to the assembly hall early for the second session. As the first one to arrive, I had the pick of any seat in the room. I sat down in the first row where I would be right in front of Father. Other women took their seats, and silently waited for the grand entrance. I imagined that for lunch Father had been served a steak with a glass of wine in a special room; only the best for the clergy, and always set apart.

I remember catching a glimpse of the priests’ dining room at my high school. Filing past the door on my way to class, I saw the nuns ready to serve a visiting priest. They stood at attention in the doorway, like soldiers waiting for his command. Meanwhile, surrounded by silver serving dishes, the priest stuffed his face with gourmet food. They told us the world was starving. Something was wrong with this picture.

Father’s face was radiant as he entered the assembly hall. I’m sure it was due to the wine, which often dilates the blood vessels in the nose and face. This time, he stood behind a podium and brought notes to refer to. Perhaps he was trying to raise the bar.

I trust you ladies had a good lunch? He began.

Soup is good, I thought, but not as tasty as steak.

This afternoon, I want to begin with a quote from a famous theologian, Karl Rahner. He played an important role in the Second Vatican Council. Rahner said, ‘In the future, Christians will have to be mystics, or they will be nothing at all.’ So … this man had a vision for Christians to go deeper, to become more mature, whole. Well, let’s face it, Christianity is not about putting scripture on the handles of toothbrushes anymore. We must do something new. What does this vision look like? You know, many years ago Alchemy was practiced. This was a medieval philosophy. The goal was to turn a variety of base metals into gold. Christian mystics of the past understood this transformation in a spiritual sense. Living in the crucible, they were on the journey of becoming transformed into the gold of spiritual wholeness.

Wow! I tried to wrap my brain around these new concepts. The last fifteen years had been a crucible for me, yet I didn’t feel the gold. The Catholic Church I grew up in taught that life was about suffering. We were to accept this concept, pick up our crosses, and suffer through this life as we waited to receive our eternal reward in the next. Catholics worshipped the Passion of Jesus, the one who experienced brokenness and the pain of our sins, to save us from them. Was this the only reason why Jesus came? His suffering took place within the course of a couple of days, yet he spent three years on earth speaking about the Father of Life working in him. Would Jesus want us to focus on our wretchedness like the mystics of the past? Connecting to God through suffering that was at the center of their spiritual journey. Is that all we can expect?

Session two ended, and I had some free time before dinner, so I decided to walk down to the creek to listen to the water. The sound of running water was like music to my ears, a soothing experience. I think it’s an unconscious memory from the womb. The fog had cleared, the sun peeped in and out of a few clouds. I sat on the bank of the creek watching the glimmer of sunlight dancer across the surface of the water. I could smell the green moss on the rocks. Where am I going? I pondered. I’m a Capricorn, always needing a cause to give my life meaning. Raising children was important, but I still needed something more. I felt like I was on the brink of taking off, like a kite once it begins to rise on the breeze, given plenty of string. I knew my loveless marriage was over. I had been carrying the legal papers around with me for some time. Michael wouldn’t file. It was up to me. Could I really split the family up?

After dinner, we were told to meet Father in the chapel. He was to teach us about Contemplative Prayer. I filed into a pew behind the other women. A cathedral ceiling rose over the pews. Looking up, I saw above the altar an enormous stained glass window with vibrant colors radiating out from the image of a white dove. It was breathtaking. Candles flickered on stands under the window, casting an ethereal glow around the room.

I wanted to meet in the chapel tonight, because it is a peaceful setting. The Christian Mystics had a spiritual practice that helped them to cope with the ups and downs in their daily lives. I think it is important for you to learn their form of deep prayer, a resting in the Mystery, so that you can do this in your own lives. Let’s start tonight.

He cleared his throat. There are many forms of spiritual practice, and I believe adapting some form is mandatory for the inner journey. So, I want all of you to close your eyes and take a deep breath, very deep, all the way down to your abdomen. Now let it out slowly, and repeat, aware of your breath. You can choose to focus on your favorite Scripture verse, repeat the name of Jesus or Spirit as a mantra, while you breathe in and out, or just let go, and feel yourself resting in the mystery of the Divine Embrace. St. Augustine, a doctor of the Church, said: ‘Our hearts are restless until we rest in God.’ If you have trouble getting started, think of an elevator, you get on at the top floor and feel yourself dropping down to the bottom floor. Do whatever allows you to center. The Christian Mystics called this Centering Prayer, or Contemplative Prayer, the prayer of being still. Try to practice this for ten minutes a day, and work up to twenty or more.

I tried to close my eyes, but my lids were too stiff. I couldn’t keep them down. I felt like I had during those nights in college when I had taken too many No-Doz tablets. I looked around. The other ladies didn’t seem to be having any trouble, but I couldn’t stop thinking. Thoughts raced through my head like a speeding bullet. I soon realized that Father was watching me. He leaned over the pew and looked into my wide-eyed gaze.

Bridget, he whispered, Relax, you won’t be tested on this.

I was mortified. By now, everyone in the room knew I was the only one with a problem. I flashed a faint smile and looked down at my feet.

You’re not the first person to have trouble with this practice.He said. It took the mystics years to reach a place where they could escape their thoughts. He chuckled as he walked to the front of the chapel.

His comments failed to console me. I needed to get this right, and I vowed to keep trying until I figured it out. Maybe I was too tense. Michael used to say that all the time when we were attempting to have sex. He never understood what it was like chasing children around all day, or the incredible amount of tightness that built up in me.

Tears trickled down my face as I left the chapel. I avoided the gaze of the others and ran out into the fresh air, hoping to lose myself in the black hole of darkness. My heart ached. This wasn’t the first time I didn’t fit in. It seemed as if I was always on the outside looking in. I carried so much baggage from my dysfunctional family of origin, my school days with the nuns, a failed marriage; all wounds of a life without love.

As I walked by the kitchen, a German Shepherd dog stood up to greet me. He licked my hand, and seemed like he wanted me to pet him. At least he likes me, I thought. I reached out to him the way I knew St. Francis would, and then sat down on the driveway to play with him.

When I got up to walk back to my room, he followed me. He began to growl. Terrified that he would attack me, I started to run. He chased me all the way to my door. I arrived just in time to get inside and secure the lock. Adrenalin rushed through my body like a flash flood in an empty canyon. Why would a dog turn on me like that? Did he sense my fear? I sat down on the bed. My hands were shaking. The dog stayed outside the door, growling for what seemed an eternity. He kept scratching as if he wanted to get in. I put on my night gown and pulled my robe around me for comfort. Obviously, the dog was spooked about something.

I removed the cross I was wearing from around my neck. It was a wedding gift from Michael. The thing weighed a ton, like a mill stone around my neck. It was attached to a silver choker. I placed it on the rack next to my towel so I wouldn’t forget it in the morning. Within moments, the choker started shaking, and the cross oscillated back and forth. This phenomenon startled me. I wondered if the room was haunted. Looking around, I checked to see if any windows were open that would cause the cross to move, and found none. My teeth chattered as I dove for my bed. Clutching the bed sheets tightly, I pulled the covers over my head, and began to say the name of Jesus over and over.

The room was very cold. I sensed the presence of incredible darkness. I wasn’t sure if this was the experience of an evil spirit, or if all of my dark fears from within were being projected outward. The dog snarled outside my door. Did he know something? The cross kept swaying on the towel rack.

God, make this go away, I cried, feeling like a vulnerable child. There was a huge knot in my stomach. It seemed like all the terrors of my life were rising up to greet me. I was frozen in my bed.

Never good enough, I could hear my father’s voice saying, No man wants a strong-willed woman to dominate his life. I was afraid of my ambition, and the failure to fit myself into the expectations of others, but most of all, I was afraid of myself. Why go within? Nothing down there to center on, I thought. My parents had abandoned me emotionally. I constantly doubted my self-worth, and I longed to be loved. Terrified of being alone, I wondered how I could survive without a husband. I had stepped into the role of wife right out of college, and never had a chance to experience life on my own.

My body began to shake as I peeked out from under the covers to see if the cross was still moving. It was. God save me from these demons! I continued my mantra into the wee hours of the night, Oh Lord, have mercy, hear my cry. I felt empty, stripped of the props life offers. Darkness surrounded me, and I was afraid of being swallowed up in it. Feeling separated from God, and a stranger to myself, I felt the hopelessness of the dark night of the soul, something the mystics speak of as an existential journey into the dark side and abyss of the self.

I must have fallen asleep sitting up in my bed. When I awoke, my bent knees ached, and I was worried about the dog. A few pale beams of light reached into the room from my window. The cross was still, and there were no sounds from the dog. I threw on my clothes, opened the door, and bolted out of my prison room. Morning fog draped over the trees like a mysterious veil. Up ahead, I saw a sign for the ocean trail. It was called that by the nuns because at the peak of the climb, there was a view of the Pacific Ocean. I loved the vantage point of a higher perspective. When you are down in the pit, there’s nothing like a panoramic vista to lift the spirits.

I stepped out onto the trail. The sun was rising into a bank of gray clouds. I knew I needed to make this ascent. Like the goat in my astrological sign, a Capricorn is equipped for challenging journeys: sure footed, confident, and determined; the qualities of survival. So, why didn’t I feel these now?

The trail twisted in switchback after switchback, taking me to a new level and viewpoint at every turn. At first, the Redwoods towered above me. I could barely see the sky. Soon, I gazed into the mighty limbs at the center of the trees. Along the way, I thought of Francis and Clare. I longed to give my ambition to God as they had, and to surrender my strong will. Jesus did the work of the Father. This was also my desire, but I was so unworthy.

Fear gripped me. Demons charged forward into my consciousness like soldiers heading into battle. Was I really a good for nothing child like my father said?

I recalled a Christmas Eve when I was eight. After everyone had gone to bed, I snuck downstairs to the living room hoping to feel the Christmas magic. The dazzling lights of the tree were still on, and I stretched out my hand trying to touch the shimmering angel at the top. I lost my footing and tumbled into the tree. It went over with a crash. Then came the heavy footsteps of my father barreling down the stairs. His eyes bulged with anger. Grabbing me by my hair, he turned me over his knee, took down my pajama pants, and thrashed my bottom with his large, bare hands. You’re a good for nothing child! He roared. I was humiliated by the bruises he left on me. This wasn’t the first time. Feeling ashamed, I kept them hidden.

I rounded another bend. Nestled in the upper branches of the trees, I could see empty