NUN AND THE CLOISTER.

Sister Joan stood by the window, looked out at the cloister. Empty. No one there. A few leaves flittered over the grass of the cloister garth. A few birds flew from the mulberry tree.  The sun out in a blue sky. A few scattered white clouds. She sighed. Interior silence is a hard thing, Sister Paul had said. Exterior silence is easy by comparison. A blessing to some. But interior silence. There is the hard place. Many fall here. Even an Ave cannot be said without some associated thought creeping in some psychologists have said. Allow God space, allow Him room to move within you and speak. Yes, allow space, Sister Joan mused, running a finger along the windowpane, allow space for Him and not the voices of the dead, the voice of her mother crying out of her room riddled with cancer, the face pale as snow, the voice pinched and high. I am here, Mother, she would reply, but her mother never heard. Too late. Dead now. Does God allow that? The pain, the agony? Shares in his suffering some have said. A fellow sufferer in that huge crucifixion. Poor mother. Never one much for faith. Cursed at the end. The four letter words filling the air. Interior silence, said Sister Paul, needs constant attention. Always on the alert. Never give the Devil room. Fill with God and His voice. Sister Joan moved from the window. Walked the room. Her hands clutched beneath her habit.Keep out the voices of the dead and doomed. Her father's bellow. That voice of seduction. Remembering its feel in her ears as a child. Associations even in the Pater Noster. Our father. Yes, father. Sins upon sins. Never said a word. Kept secret. Ours he said, the secret. She wondered if her sister Grace suffered such. She ought to have spoken out, Grace said nothing. Had she suffered as she had at his hands? Never said. Maybe another secret. Sister Joan left the room and walked the passage to the stairs. Her finger felt along the white walls as she walked. Smoothness. White of white. Purity. Lost that. God allows such. Mercy. And the nights her father came. Say nothing of this, he would whisper. Grace said nothing either. Sisters in shame? Who knows? God. The stairs are clean and cold. Stone on stone. Down into the cloister. Chill here. The cloister garth with its mulberry tree, grass, and flowers. Birdsong. Grace she had seen once in London when going to a conference with Sister Paul. She was in a car with some man. Drunk as usual she supposed. Sex, drugs and booze her sister had said. She had laughed. Years ago that. Sister Paul had stood erect staring, saying nothing. Judge not, that you be not. The cloister garth was peaceful. Sister Joan moved there. Walked the grass before the office of None and afternoon tea. Allow God room, Sister Paul had said, allow Him space. A monologue with God. Prayer some call it. Sometimes He says nothing or so it seemed. Silence. Utterly silent. Forgive them for they know not. The birdsong cheers. The leaves like lost souls. The sky a fine blue. The clouds like balls of snow. Interior silence, said Sister Paul, hard thing. Silence now. Allow space. Allow God to enter. Forgive me, Grace, for my silence, my fellow sufferer, my sister in abuse and flesh. The flowers are out. Their perfume overwhelms. Enter my God.