Nun

One cannot be a catholic girl and not have at least a phase of wanting to be a nun. Usually after watching Bells of St. Mary's or In This House of Bede. I am no exception. The loss of the lovely habit, romantic, from an earlier age, rather left me bereft. I considered a cloistered, and habit'ed order, escape from the complexities of the day, a simple life. I intuited that it would provide me little relief.

I took to pleading with Mary about what was going on with my body, what was going on? How could I cope with all the mess, all the emotions, all the implications? I was terrified of pregnancy long before I'd ever so much as kissed a boy. I planned for a hysterectomy from the age of eleven, as soon as I was old enough to get it done. Little did I know I would have no decent insurance until I was over thirty. By then, I had come to terms with menstruation. Mary, the Virgin Mother oF God had nothing to say to me. The various virgin martyrs had nothing useful for me. Nor did the repentant adulteresses or prostitutes. I just wanted sex with a couple of men, to know what it felt like, what it might mean to me. And the BVM was just a statue, the snake under her foot, not crawling sinuously up her thigh.

My rejection of religion had much to do with my revelations about sex. It wasn't so bad, it often wasn't so good. But when it was, I touched the infinite more certainly than any excruciating boredom inside the walls of a church. That came later, though. Transcendent intimacy I only found long after the gods had faded from my view. I left regimented faith because it had nothing to say to a sensuous and moderate woman, save to marry and have children. I had other hopes.