Enduring Grace: Living Portraits of Seven Women Mystics
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Enduring Grace Living Portraits of Seven Women Mystics Carol Lee Flinders Dedicated to my teacher Sri Eknath Easwaran & To my parents, Jeanne Lee Ramage and Gilbert H. Ramage Contents Acknowledgments v Preface vii Introduction 1 Saint Clare of Assisi 15 Mechthild of Magdeburg 43 Julian of Norwich 77 Saint Catherine of Siena 103 Saint Catherine of Genoa 129 Saint Teresa of Avila 155 Saint Thérèse of Lisieux 191 Conclusion 221 Notes 229 Select Bibliography 239 Index 244 About the Author Cover Copyright About the Publisher Acknowledgments o Christine Easwaran, for her warm encouragement from the very outset, T my deepest thanks. Also to my agent and friend Candice Fuhrman for initiating me into the subtleties of proposal writing, and to her daughter Carrie Jacobsen for her graceful editorial work on the proposal itself. And of course thanks to Candice for finding me a home at HarperCollins. My editors have been superb: Tom Grady, Caroline Pincus, Priscilla Stuckey all improved the manuscript substantially, bringing astute critical faculties to the task but kindliness, too, and tact. Enduring Grace really began in the Sunday-morning sessions of retreats given by the Blue Mountain Center of Meditation in northern California, where for about five years I gave talks regularly on the mystics included in this book. To all of the participants in those retreats, I owe a great deal, for they gave me ample opportunity to develop my ideas and raised penetrating questions as well. The members of my spiritual family at BMCM have helped me through this project more than they’ll ever know: especially JoAnne Black, and also Laurel Robertson, Helen Cornwall, Sarah Dole, Julia MacDonald, Gale Zimmerman, Sumner West, Melissa Larson, Sandra Delay, and Sultana Harvey. Several friends read and responded to early drafts—Madeline Gershwin, Janet Niemi, Spring Gillard—thank you! Undertaking a project like this, you never really know—and it’s probably best that you don’t—how much time it will take and how much of you. For bearing the brunt of my absorption with good cheer and full support, my greatest thanks go to my husband, Tim, and my son, Ramesh. v vi / Carol Lee Flinders Wouldn’t it show great ignorance, my daughters, if someone when asked who he was didn’t know, and didn’t know his father or mother or from what country he came? Well now, if this would be so extremely stupid, we are incomparably more so when we do not strive to know who we are, but limit ourselves to considering only roughly these bodies. Because we have heard and because faith tells us so, we know we have souls. But we seldom consider the precious things that can be found in this soul, or who dwells within it, or its high value. —Teresa of Avila, Interior Castle 1.1.2 Preface It seems to me that our three basic needs, for food and security and love, are so mixed and mingled and entwined that we cannot straightly think of one without the others. So it happens that when I write of hunger, I am really writing about love and the hunger for it, and warmth and the love of it, and the hunger for it…and then the warmth and richness and fine reality of hunger satisfied…and it is all one. …There is food in the bowl, and more often than not, because of what honesty I have, there is nourishment in the heart, to feed the wilder, more insistent hungers…. There is communion of more than our bodies when bread is broken and wine drunk. And that is my answer, when people ask me: Why do you write about hunger, and not wars or love? —M. F. K. Fisher, The Gastronomical Me1 That prayer has great power which a person makes with all his might. It makes a sour heart sweet, A sad heart merry, A poor heart rich, A foolish heart wise, A timid heart brave, A sick heart well, A blind heart full of sight, A cold heart ardent. It draws down the great God into the little heart, It drives the hungry soul up into the fullness of God. It brings together two lovers, God and the soul, In a wondrous place where they speak much of love. —Mechthild of Magdeburg, The Flowing Light of the Divine Godhead (5.13) RIENDS who know me mostly as a food writer and one of the authors of F Laurel’s Kitchen were surprised by this book about women mystics: many wondered out loud what the connection was between these two realms and how I happened to pass from the one to the other. The lines I have quoted above—from a celebrated contemporary food writer vii viii / Carol Lee Flinders in the first instance, and a revered medieval mystic in the second—are meant to suggest that my two worlds are not as remote from each other as they might seem. Whatever interest we have in food, the late and much loved Mrs. Fisher reminds us, arises out of the simple fact that we are hungry—hungry, albeit, for all kinds of things. Mechthild, too, recognizes how hungry we are, and for how many forms of nourishment, but she traces that hunger to the soul itself, and insists that nothing short of “the fullness of God” can satisfy it. That is the short answer. I like to offer it because it hints at the rich possibil- ities of dialogue between women—no matter what their historical context—who know something of “the wilder, more insistent hungers.” But demonstrating that those two worlds are not mutually exclusive doesn’t explain how one might actually travel from the one to the other, and I think that is what friends and readers of Laurel’s Kitchen want to know. Here, then, is the longer answer, a backward look, brief as I can manage, at how this project came to be—spe- cifically, at the personal concerns and questions that shaped it, for these lives can be approached, and have been, from a great many perspectives, and the one I have adopted is admittedly idiosyncratic. In the first place, I am not a Roman Catholic. I didn’t grow up acquainted with any of these women as saints. None of them hovered in the background of my childhood, either as inspiring role models or as figures who might have interceded with the higher powers on my behalf. Not that I disliked the idea, because some form of intercession would have been in order. But at the rural Presbyterian church where my parents dropped me off on Sunday mornings, I got the idea that you were expected to lay your case directly before your maker—in person, or not at all. They were absent, too—both Catherines, Teresa, all of them—throughout my growing-up years. At Stanford, in fact, in the early sixties, feminine voices and perspectives of any kind were a rarity. Not until late in the spring of my senior year was there even a hint of the great opening-out that was to come: this was when some of us organized a faculty-student conference on the topic “The Role of Women.” Amazing now that it could have been stated as clumsily as that—“the role,” indeed! But there it is; we didn’t know any better, men or women. About the same time, and as predictive of things to come, another group of us took advantage of a new university policy that permitted stu- Enduring Grace / ix dents to initiate courses and set up an informal seminar on Eastern mysticism. A sympathetic faculty member gave us a reading list and then left us to our own devices. It was the last quarter of our senior year, so our own devices weren’t worth a whole lot, but we all felt gloriously Cutting Edge, and the readings were well selected; I still have the books. In June of 1965 I graduated from Stanford and shot like a homing pigeon to Berkeley, first to a job on the campus, and within a year or so to graduate school in the comparative literature department. I loved the atmosphere, loved the sunsets over the bay and the fog that moved tenderly in over the hills at night. I’d never felt as completely at home anywhere as I felt in Berkeley. When I drive in of a morning to teach there now, the feeling still sweeps over me. Since much of Berkeley’s powerful draw for me was its political climate, I gravitated as a matter of course toward the antiwar activities that were taking place on and off the campus. It didn’t work, though. Try as I would, I just could not catch hold—not at the rallies, not at the planning meetings, not at the teach-ins. It was as if some kind of centrifugal force kept spinning me out and away. Years later, looking back, I think I understand what was wrong. The women’s movement was indeed beginning to stir, and the questions it was raising had real personal urgency for me. The men involved in the antiwar movement were not insensitive to what was going on with their women friends. They were willing to agree, in principle, anyway, that we were at the meetings to do more than just make coffee. Some could even go further and advocate equal gender representation on steering committees. But this didn’t begin to answer the real need. What was missing—and we women still could not articulate it much better than the men—was a genuinely feminine perspective on the issues themselves.