I’ve borrowed several books about the religious life from the library here (in Christchurch, New Zealand, where I am on a working holiday and writing retreat for three months). Those I love know my fascination with convents and monasteries; others might read more into my research. Well, more will be revealed in time.

Is there a memoir about being a nun in which the author remains a nun? The books I’ve read have all been (apart from Isabel Losada’s New Habits) from the POV of those who have decided that the monastic life is not for them. For Catherine Coldstream, she walks away but her beliefs and the ways of the Carmelite order at which she spent many years, remain, by her own admission, very much a part of her life. Her time at the monastery is obviously something she values and appears to miss and even yearn for still.

Coldstream speaks of being ‘enamoured’ of the monastery and there are references to Jesus being the ‘spouse’ of women who have taken religious vows, as well as other metaphors that underline the marital-like relationship between nuns and Jesus. Christians should be familiar with this allusion and even when I was still a practising Roman Catholic (I am now an atheist), I felt uncomfortable by love for god being referred to with a kind of breathless fervour reminiscent of sexual arousal. The idea that anyone might be swept away by love for and from god in the same passionate way that one is moved by sexual passion is unsettling and seems inappropriate, for obvious reasons. Is there no other way to describe a deep spiritual connection? Or do humans just have such a limited vocabulary (and sphere of reference) that we are unable to describe this connection in terms that are non-sexual/sensual?

Many years ago, while in Rome, my then mother-in-law and I stepped into a small church on a street corner — Santa Maria della Vittoria — where *that* Bernini sculpture of St. Teresa of Avila is installed. There she is, enraptured, an angel piercing her with divine love, her expression unmistakably orgasmic. I was embarrassed to look at it in the presence of my oh-so-proper MIL. The sculpture is, after all, called The Ecstasy of Saint Teresa.

There is talk, in ‘Cloistered’, about the nuns’ cells (bedrooms) being ‘bridal chambers, the hidden place apart where you meet most lovingly with your spouse’ but hardly any discussion of the vow of chastity, one the three that nuns take, the other two being poverty and obedience. I find this strange — that communion with god is described in such intimate terms, yet discourse on actual physical intimacy, that nuns are supposed to eschew, is ignored. Coldstream does say that it is the vow that the community talks about the least and that any discussion is fraught with awkwardness. I guess this is not surprising. Even in secular life, most people are not that comfortable talking about sex.

What is most surprising about Coldstream’s account of the order of which she was a member is the pettiness and bullying, the personality clashes and power struggles. Perhaps I am naïve to expect nuns to rise above base human emotions. They are, after all, only human and goodness knows I have read enough Convent and other kinds of religion-themed literature to know that those who claim to be religious and god-fearing are not necessarily kind and loving people. However, the way the nuns conduct themselves at this Carmelite community is still deeply disappointing, especially when it involves, as it does, physical violence. This incident is still something that I cannot understand. It doesn’t make sense, and Coldstream doesn’t make any attempt to explore what and why it happened. Indeed, it is not referred to within the community. The aggressor (the Reverend Mother!) apologises in an astoundingly offhand manner about having beaten Coldstream (she punches and even kicks her for fainting and feeling unwell following a tetanus shot) and Coldstream answers ‘It’s all right.’ The matter is never brought up again. Unbelievable.

This sheds considerable light on life in the monastery, *this* monastery — everything to do with being human and an individual is unimportant and to be avoided and dismissed. Coldstream’s main fault, so she believes, is being too different from the rest of the nuns. Being different is disruptive and best ignored.  

I could relate to Coldstream’s bewilderment when the other nuns were being unsupportive and unsympathetic, but I did also find her somewhat petulant and self-righteous when recounting all the ways she feels that she had been wronged. I am guilty of judging Coldstream. In many ways she has had a privileged life. It was emotionally challenging but there is no denying that she got to do things that many of us can only dream of. She also had an emotionally distant mother and a father whom she adored and whom she lost when she was only twenty-four. Is it any wonder she went running into the arms of a holy order devoted to the Holy Mother, pledging her life and soul to a god addressed as the Almighty Father? Enough pop psychology! The chief reason for my interest in this book (and others like it) is to learn about the inner workings of the cloistered life and Coldstream provides a detailed account of this, both in practical and spiritual terms. It is both glorious and horrifying. Above all it is human, with all the messy ugliness that humans bring to all aspects of life, albeit with flashes of kindness and generosity.

I have long been curious to how I would fair as a nun — which Roman Catholic youth has not fantasised about taking religious vows, especially if they have had positive experiences with religious authority figures? The attraction, for me, has been to the promise of community, order, ritual, discipline and a calm and peaceful existence, nothing to do with belief in god. I do not believe in a higher power, a supreme being, but I like the act of praying — it’s the repetitive nature of uttering beautiful words and phrases that I love. No, I am in no danger of joining a cult, although I can’t promise that I won’t start one.