November 1, 2010
Monday

In prayer, one must hold fast and never let go, because the one who gives up loses all. . . . If you are driven out of one door, go back in the other.
        — Saint Jane Frances de Chantal, 1572-1641
             French wife, mother, widow, educator, writer, and founder of the Order of the Visitation of Mary

Today is All Hallows’ Day, or All Saints’ Day, the day which follows All Hallows’ Eve, or Halloween. Most cultural historians agree that the holiday came about as an effort by early church leaders to Christianize the Celtic customs surrounding Samhain, a festival that marked the turning of the year to a darker time. These ancient people believed that the border between this world and the world the dead thinned at this time, and spirits could pass back and forth between realms.

In the Roman Catholic calendar, All Saints’ Day is observed as a holy day of obligation, when Catholics are supposed to attend Mass. Catholic schools are usually closed, and when I was a child, this meant that my sister and I could sit around after morning Mass and gorge ourselves on the contents of our Trick or Treat haul.

Growing up Catholic, I learned a lot about saints. My patron saint was Margaret Mary Alacoque, a 17th century French mystic and nun who practiced corporeal mortification (as a teenager she carved the name of Jesus into her chest), and received a vision of Jesus with his heart outside his body, symbolizing his intense love for Margaret Mary and for all mankind. By coincidence, my family belonged to Saint Margaret Mary parish. I was fascinated by the mural above the altar that depicted Margaret Mary at her prie dieux, her hands outstretched to the Lord, touching the rays of light that emanate from his heart.

We were encouraged to emulate the qualities of our patron saint. In the liturgical calendar, Margaret Mary is listed only as “virgin.” Well, I knew what a virgin was. I had many holy cards that showed Mary the Mother of God sitting at a spinning wheel while the Child Jesus played on the floor. It was obvious — a virgin makes sweaters, out of virgin wool. At seven, then, I announced that I was going to be a virgin. I suppose I envisioned a career as a contemplative hand knitter.

I do still knit.

Some Catholics feel a special spiritual connection to a particular saint. My sister was a devotee of Saint Therese of Lisieux. I had a strong interest in Joan of Arc, an adventurous young woman who led men into battle on horseback (and who also may have been batshit crazy). In fourth or fifth grade I read a children’s biography of her, certainly sanitized and romanticized. The cover showed her in full armor, astride a horse, her right hand raising a sword.

As my spirituality changed, and as I learned more about the creation of some spurious saints (local deities stripped of their “pagan” associations and given fanciful stories that illustrated their piety), or flat-out fabricated saints, I left behind any real devotion to them, although the poet in me still responds to the mythmaking and symbolism that the lore of the saints offers. I have written about two saints I am particularly fond of. St. Lucy, who endured martyrdom after having her eyes plucked out rather than surrender the incorruptible treasure of her virginity. She is sometimes pictured holding something like a jewelry box. I thought that’s where she kept the incorruptible treasure — expensive wool or gold-tipped knitting needles, maybe. And Saint Margaret of Cortona, of course, patron saint of overeaters, reformed prostitutes, and unwed mothers. I named the 1950s-era Home for Unwed Mothers in the story I worked on last week “Cortona House.”

When I was in high school, I confided my aspirations as a writer to one of my teachers. She recommended that I adopt Saint Francis de Sales, the patron saint of writers, as a spiritual mentor, or, if I wanted a woman as a model, his friend, Saint Jane Frances de Chantal.

I remembered that today as I turned to the next manuscript in my plan to revise four stories this month in Vermont. It’s a piece that I have said repeatedly is “my best story.” I began writing it in 2001, had it in shape for Bread Loaf in 2004, didn’t look at it again until 2008, and then only briefly. Two years later, I look at it and wonder what made me think it was so good. I am a better writer now, a different writer. I sighed this afternoon about the futility of this work, this mysterious alchemy of talent and persistence that even in the best of circumstances sometimes fails to produce an enduring or worthwhile text.

Saint Jane is right. The one who gives up loses all. Tomorrow, I go back in another door with this story.

Love it? Hate it? Just want to say hi?
margaretdeangelis [at] gmail [dot] com (replace the bracketed parts with @ and a period) OR
Follow me on Twitter: http://twitter.com/silkentent