a young girl, and, when he was passing by me, Jesus saw that I was ripe for love.
In his understanding of the peril I was in from the world and the flesh, he threw his cloak about me, washed me with water and anointed me with oil. He clothed me in linen and silk and decked me with jewels and priceless gems.
With infinite love he fed me on wheat and honey, and, seeing then my matchless beauty, he made me a great queen.
I was ripe for love. With my sisters I swam in the sea, and the sea threw its green cloak about me, decked me with pearls and with sapphires. And on the edge of the ocean, the edge of the world, I walked hand in hand with Violetta. We loved. Naked we swam in the waves, and in the creamy foam we would embrace. We shared mind and body and spirit. She spoke directly to my soul. And we ate bread and honey and drank fresh milk from old glass cups. ‘Here’s to the End of the World!’ she used to say, and she would hold her cup aloft and take a long draught.
The Space Between the Bed and the Wall 69
Violetta, people used to whisper, is more than a little crazy. She was Italian.
Jesus united me with Celine at this time, united us with bonds a hundred times stronger than the bonds of blood. He made us sisters of the spirit, following gaily in his own footsteps. Ripe for love, I was embraced by Jesus, united with Celine in the spirit.
What wonderful talks we had, Celine and I, at night upstairs in our room as the moon rose above the trees and its silvery light poured over the sleeping world. Stars glittered in the dark blue of the sky. One night as I stood by the window, I looked up at the heavens, and I saw, written in stars on the velvet cloth above me, my own name, Therese. I pointed this out to Celine, and we felt at that moment that everything was drawing our souls up to God.
I look up at the heavens and I see the stars. I close my eyes and look into the arching heavens within the dome of my skull and I see the velvet field of night cut by the pinpricks of screaming light. The waters within me are pulled this way and that by the power of the moon and the great tides come and go on my beaches. My stones are tears that have fallen from the eyes of the weeping moon. I am a silent girl, quiet as darkness, soft as a spider’s web of wishful sleeping silk. My name is written in the stars, you know. Clearly written for all the world to see. Heaven deals with me directly.
I never spoke, never said a word to my confessor about what was going on in my soul. This was because I knew that the path I trod was so bright and straight I needed no guide but Jesus.
God was dealing with me directly. There are scholars who spend their whole lives in study. If such scholars had questioned me at this time in my life they would have been amazed to come across a girl of only fourteen years who understood so much. I understood the secrets of perfection, secrets that all the learning in the world can not reveal.
The saints have this knowledge; they have it in their hearts.
70
The White Garden
The great Spanish mystic poet, St John of the Cross, said: ‘I had neither guide nor light, except that which shone within my heart, and that guided me more surely than the midday sun to the place where He who knew me well awaited me.’ In my own case, I knew that the place where my Jesus was waiting for me was the convent where my dear sisters Pauline and Marie were already professed.
French, Italian, Spanish — we were so very continental. The nuns at school were from a most French order, and they emphasised the importance of European culture. The life of the Little Flower was studied, naturally, in French. Violetta had a great gift for languages, and said I could probably learn Italian by drinking her blood. We would pick scabs from each other’s body and then we would chew them and swallow them. Hers were very sweet. She said mine tasted of cinnamon.
It was Christmas when I watched my name being written in the stars, and it
In his understanding of the peril I was in from the world and the flesh, he threw his cloak about me, washed me with water and anointed me with oil. He clothed me in linen and silk and decked me with jewels and priceless gems.
With infinite love he fed me on wheat and honey, and, seeing then my matchless beauty, he made me a great queen.
I was ripe for love. With my sisters I swam in the sea, and the sea threw its green cloak about me, decked me with pearls and with sapphires. And on the edge of the ocean, the edge of the world, I walked hand in hand with Violetta. We loved. Naked we swam in the waves, and in the creamy foam we would embrace. We shared mind and body and spirit. She spoke directly to my soul. And we ate bread and honey and drank fresh milk from old glass cups. ‘Here’s to the End of the World!’ she used to say, and she would hold her cup aloft and take a long draught.
The Space Between the Bed and the Wall 69
Violetta, people used to whisper, is more than a little crazy. She was Italian.
Jesus united me with Celine at this time, united us with bonds a hundred times stronger than the bonds of blood. He made us sisters of the spirit, following gaily in his own footsteps. Ripe for love, I was embraced by Jesus, united with Celine in the spirit.
What wonderful talks we had, Celine and I, at night upstairs in our room as the moon rose above the trees and its silvery light poured over the sleeping world. Stars glittered in the dark blue of the sky. One night as I stood by the window, I looked up at the heavens, and I saw, written in stars on the velvet cloth above me, my own name, Therese. I pointed this out to Celine, and we felt at that moment that everything was drawing our souls up to God.
I look up at the heavens and I see the stars. I close my eyes and look into the arching heavens within the dome of my skull and I see the velvet field of night cut by the pinpricks of screaming light. The waters within me are pulled this way and that by the power of the moon and the great tides come and go on my beaches. My stones are tears that have fallen from the eyes of the weeping moon. I am a silent girl, quiet as darkness, soft as a spider’s web of wishful sleeping silk. My name is written in the stars, you know. Clearly written for all the world to see. Heaven deals with me directly.
I never spoke, never said a word to my confessor about what was going on in my soul. This was because I knew that the path I trod was so bright and straight I needed no guide but Jesus.
God was dealing with me directly. There are scholars who spend their whole lives in study. If such scholars had questioned me at this time in my life they would have been amazed to come across a girl of only fourteen years who understood so much. I understood the secrets of perfection, secrets that all the learning in the world can not reveal.
The saints have this knowledge; they have it in their hearts.
70
The White Garden
The great Spanish mystic poet, St John of the Cross, said: ‘I had neither guide nor light, except that which shone within my heart, and that guided me more surely than the midday sun to the place where He who knew me well awaited me.’ In my own case, I knew that the place where my Jesus was waiting for me was the convent where my dear sisters Pauline and Marie were already professed.
French, Italian, Spanish — we were so very continental. The nuns at school were from a most French order, and they emphasised the importance of European culture. The life of the Little Flower was studied, naturally, in French. Violetta had a great gift for languages, and said I could probably learn Italian by drinking her blood. We would pick scabs from each other’s body and then we would chew them and swallow them. Hers were very sweet. She said mine tasted of cinnamon.
It was Christmas when I watched my name being written in the stars, and it
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