When I was 19 I worked for the California Public Interest Research Group (CALPIRG), an advocacy group and environmental watchdog. My job was “canvasser” and this meant that I would spend the twilight hours of every evening knocking on doors in a chosen neighborhood and explaining to people about the horrible loggers who were destroying the old growth forests in the northwest. I was heartbroken and vocal – animals, indigenous, water sources, economies – all destroyed… and then I would ask for a $25 check to be written to the Sierra Club to fight the bad guys. I was pretty convinced and pretty convincing, sometimes I would gather $300 in an evening neighborhood canvass, more than once someone ran me off their property and threatened to pull a gun.
When I first met Madre Mar, it was in Budapest on a tour of a tiny but committed eco-school, the Real School, they called themselves. Madre Mar and some of her colleagues were visiting as part of an exchange of best practices in education sponsored by Erasmus. I happened to be the guest speaker on site and led the group and interested parents and educators in a short workshop to use the Compass Tools to dive deep into conversation about the energy crises in Europe and the consequences and opportunities for the school to innovate and respond. At the prompting of the host who nudged me and motioned with a head nod, “those ladies are the real players,” I reached out to Madre Mar for a follow up breakfast. I was nervous, which is unlike me, but Madre Mar was a real life nun! I’m not sure I had ever really spoken with a nun, somehow I was sure that I wouldn’t know what to say, or more that I would say the wrong thing. And, if I’m honest, I felt like my liberal beliefs were a flashing neon sign, the kind that announces the brothel hotels on the dark streets of the Hague. I walked into that conversation already feeling not good enough and at the same time feeling like I had to defend the values that I’m sure we didn’t share. Mar had a soft sweet smile, just like a nun, I thought. She was slow and methodical in buttering her bread and drinking her coffee (another thing just like a nun), as I imagined all of them methodical, always reflective, always – even buttering toast. I, already one coffee in and another in hand, joined her in the hotel breakfast atrium room. She nodded to me, smiled and somehow, on cue, I started talking, and then kept talking, in the way that I do when my passion is on my sleeve and the person in front of me seems actually interested. We had a lovely conversation, although I’m afraid it was mostly me. She cordially invited me to visit her school if and when I was next in Barcelona and although her offer felt kind and authentic, it’s the kind of thing anyone would offer to say goodbye.
My current trip consisted of 7 countries in six weeks. This definitely wasn’t how I liked to travel but it was how it worked out. From Budapest, I would go to London and then would have a week before I was expected in Scotland. The UK was rainy and wet and after already a few weeks of European overcast and gray I wasn’t feeling inspired to spend another seven days and then several more in freezing cold Scotland. So, considering that sun and the south was a necessary gift to myself and I could justify it as work, I detoured for a week in Spain. Madre Mar invited me to lead a session at her school, a former convent and now fancy private school, Col·legi-Montserrat, Barcelona. I think they asked for our workshop to start at 6, which baffled me… six at night to start, isn’t that the top end hour that educators should be going home? I toured the classrooms and shared a few uses of the tools to a small group of the admin team. I stumbled through the terms in Spanish, went a bit off track to explore a conversation about professors who didn’t sufficiently clean their classroom after use, and left feeling super inspired by the school but not sure how it all landed. I followed up with Madre Mar weeks later, I didn’t hear back and figured that I would reach out again when the new school year came around.
And then, one summer morning while on vacation with my family in California, I received an email from her asking if I could come to Spain in two weeks to lead a workshop for 60 school leaders. I laughed to myself, that’s sure a first, two weeks notice from a school? Completely shocked that she even remembered, much less would invite me to their annual meeting of sixty school leaders… I rearranged my summer plans and found myself in Madrid. I was super excited to deliver this workshop, I’m not exactly sure why but there had been something so impressive about Col-legi Montserrat when I visited. It was a beautiful school, in a beautiful setting but many fancy prep schools can boast facilities and location. It was something else that struck me, students everywhere, seemingly always working, crowded around tables chattering excitedly (but again, seemingly working) and not a professor in sight. That’s not entirely true, eventually I would spot them leaning over a table with a group, or the one person in the room with the gray habit covering her hair but it was a hard find, hard and messy, like looking for waldo in those children’s books my kids used to love. Kids were sitting in the hallways, roaming in groups but no one seemed to mind or send them along, it was all cordial and seemingly normal. There was something about it that I couldn’t quite put my finger on but that felt like trust, confidence and care all packaged in one. As I prepared for the workshop in Madrid I tried to get a better idea of who this group of schools, known as Colegio Innovadores Nazaret was. I knew they had many schools, not just those in Spain but as I scoured the internet, or rather, looked at their website and the associated links, I became more and more impressed. Madre Montserrat, the namesake of the school in Barcelona and the leader of the movement, was an Ashoka fellow and recognized widely for her work. I listened to a few of her online conferences and interviews. She was inspiring, thoughtful, well studied, opinionated and passionate. She sounded like me, or maybe I sound like her, but there was something there, a kinship of purpose that I was surprised by.
But why am I surprised? I know why but I hate to say it, hate to say that I was surprised because it never occurred to me that someone wearing a habit, someone who dedicated her life to a god that I didn’t really understand, someone who followed a religious practice that throughout history was directly responsible for the persecution of people who believed differently, looked differently or loved differently – I was surprised because that person, that habit wearing nun said things in that conference that I believed fiercely in, she was smart, witty, humble and clear, damn straight clear about how we need to educate better, educate for the unique child, educate for the whole person. I was surprised because at that moment I believed in her as much as I believe in anything, I wasn’t expecting that.
I had always felt a little sorry for nuns, wondered how they ended up choosing that life, who hurt them, why did they have to hide in the dogma of old white men.
The workshop in Madrid went well. It was a mix of nuns and school leaders and by far, the most astute, present and committed group that I have ever worked with. I don’t say that lightly, I’ve worked with amazing groups but usually there are at least a few stragglers, eye rollers, why me?-ers. Maybe it was because they were already all school leaders, but they were completely engaged, they absorbed what I shared and I loved teaching them. I finished the workshop grateful that it landed well and curious about what would come next.
I was still in Madrid, helping a friend move apartments, hiking in the mountains and taking advantage of a paid plane ticket to spend a few summer weeks in Europe, when I received an exclamation marked whatsapp from Madre Mar. Nicole, if you want to come to Tenerife and visit the highest peak in Spain (el Teide), I will be there the 25th-28th of July! We have a university residence on the island, you are invited to our home!! I really like Madre Mar, there is something so settled and real about her and genuine and happy and … I could go on. I barely know her but I feel like a friend. I was ecstatic at the invitation, like really excited, again for a reason I can’t explain but I think it was the novelty of it all, the adventure. I’m being invited on a vacation with a nun? What does a nun vacation look like? Do nuns even vacation? Is that allowed? The questions in my mind were infinite, ridiculously so and most of them entirely stupid and senseless, do nuns wear bathing suits? Do nuns hike? It’s embarrassing but my thought process was definitely along the lines of, are nuns people too?
I stepped off the ferry and texted Madre Mar who had offered to pick me up when I arrived. She said she would be there in a few minutes and so I walked along the marked pavement path towards the parking lot. There had been remarkably little info exchanged between us in arranging this trip. I had no idea what to expect but it didn’t much matter, it would just be a few days. Madre Mar came rushing around the corner in the sun-scorched parking lot, she was bright, shiny, a bit out of breath and just perfectly nun-like, wispy gray hair, rosy cheeks, a tiny bit portly and a giant smile. We hugged and kissed as though it had been years, not weeks since our last encounter. Accompanying Madre Mar was Madre Monica, I recognized her from the workshop also. She was sun tanned and smaller than Mar, but equally as enthusiastic and welcoming. We made our way to the car, a tiny gray economy car driven by another nun from the workshop, Madre Merce. As I jammed my suitcase in the trunk and stuffed my backpack at my feet, I had a vague flashback of this scene, was it a movie? Off we went, they had an itinerary planned and ready. First to the quaint city of Santa Candelaria, the place where the virgin was first seen and the namesake of the Canary Islands. The wind was ferocious and gusting, but apparently always is and I soon learned that all three of these nuns had once lived on the islands. They also were lifelong friends, having studied together as young girls and moved into the nun-hood (is that a word) at the same time. Again, I thought, isn’t this a movie I watched in my teens? They were lively and lovely, each with their own personalities, all of them taking good care of me. We walked the store lined tourist street four across, I was tucked in between M. Merce and M. Mar and sometimes just on the wing next to M. Mar, but it was an interesting sensation to walk the streets with them, felt like people parted as we passed by, made way, gave us room. It was a reasonably busy tourist street and yet we seemed to power through shoulder to shoulder completely easily and naturally. I was feeling the novelty of the moment and watching others’ reactions. I had the sense that it’s more common to see a group of nuns in the streets of Spain than maybe it would be in California, but still, we definitely had many take a second look.
We finished our tour of La Candelaria and then traveled on. They had a next plan and chatted among each other about where to go and how to get there. In this friend group everyone had a role it seemed, M. Merse was the chauffeur and she took it seriously, M. Monica the driver of the action, she used her smartphone to give turn by turn instructions to M. Merce, she made the restaurant reservations and she was the quickest to speak, first out of the car, first in the restaurant, first to order. M. Mar was quiet, taking care of me, telling me the history of things, people, places. I was inquisitive, wondering about them and their friendship, about the schools that they teach at, the islands themselves and how the people live. I had a million more personal questions but I would save those for another more intimate moment if the opportunity arrived. They had made reservations at a restaurant that a local friend had recommended. It was seafood and fun… you walk in and go straight to a big long bin with different kinds of fish, sardines, calamari, mussels. The “fish guy” takes a metal tray, much like the bread trays in mexican panaderias, – you point, he grabs a fistful which goes into a corner of the tray, you point again, and it repeats until unsure, you ask him if he thinks that is a good amount… he suggests a bit more, you point one more time and then return to your table. There is not a price in sight and that seems perfectly normal. The ladies were quick to decide to order a bottle of wine, “get a good one” someone said – again, it was M. Monica making the choice and the acquisition. We settle at the table, I go to wash my hands and by the time I am back, they have moved tables and we are settled again. The restaurant is busy, all of the terrace tables are full and people, all local vacationers it seems, are enjoying the food and experience. The nuns have clearly found the hotspot in this tiny fishing town. At first, when they ordered it, I was worried that the wine was just for me, but alas… it wasn’t and as I reflect on it now, everyone drank wine in accordance with their personalities. Merce, the driver, did not partake, M. Mar ordered a tonic water but had a “little” wine as well, offering her second pour to me, and M. Monica was happy to pour and pour again and I, loving this wine (it was amazing), and enjoying the company was happy to receive the pours that came my way. It was time to pay and of course I tried, and roundly failed. Try going against the will of 3 nuns… no, just don’t. M. Mar pulled out a credit card and we were back in the car and on our way to where we would stay.
Moment after moment of this journey I couldn’t help but smile, sometimes to myself, like a warm wash on the inside and sometimes, bright and outwards. I was shown to my room and let loose for the evening. Clearly they had some other things to attend to and I think they also wanted to be sure that I felt free to do my own thing. As I left to wander out to the town in the evening, I heard a group reciting prayers behind a closed door. This felt a little more in line with what I expected and I was oddly comforted, odd because the comfort that I felt was for them, it must be nice to settle into a routine and a practice and a community everywhere that you go.
The next day was also planned. We would go to Teide, the tallest mountain in Spain. Originally when I had decided to join them in Tenerife, I had researched what it would take to climb the tallest mountain in Spain, at 3,715m it’s high, but not that high. According to the website there are two options, one is a 5 hour trek by foot with the acquired appropriate permissions, and the other is a 135 euro ride on a cable car and then a 40 min walk to the crater. Somehow, I didn’t think that either of these were happening with my tour guides, but I also had no idea what was happening, and again, they seemed to be very clear about it all, I was the one trying to just let it be and go with the flow. I whatsapped with Madre Mar in the morning trying to get an idea of what this might mean but in the softest way, “que tipo de zapatos necesito para el paseo de hoy… botas, tenis, sandalias?” I asked. She answered quickly… “tenis, but sandalias are fine too.” Okay, so we aren’t climbing anything I decided, that makes it easy. Off we went, 10am. M. Nelly, a young nun from Cameroon who is spending time on rotation in Spain, sidled up to the group as we were getting ready to go. “Can I join you?” she asked… although she didn’t ask that way, she said something in French, and then tried to translate it to Spanish and no one understood and eventually everyone understood and got a good laugh. She had wanted to come, but didn’t want to “imponer,” so asked to join in some super soft and roundabout way. The nuns reminded her collectively, “In this group, you just have to say what you need” and circled her with a big jovial hug. So now, the five of us found our way to the economy car. The nuns insisted that I sit in the front – “you will have a better view” they said. Again, I tried to suggest carefully that we might all fit better if I sit in the back – but again, going against the will of 3, now 4 nuns is a physical (quantic) impossibility. I sat comfortably in the front, M. Merce driving again and M. Mar, M. Neely and M. Monica all snuggled into the back. We headed towards Teide. It was a gorgeous drive through the winding roads and the changing volcanic landscape to a more traditional pine forest and then again, to a volcanic, almost Mars like one as we passed the tree line and joined a thin stream of cars making their way from vista point to vista point. We piled out, sweated our way to the tourist lookouts and sat down in a line on the stone wall as we watched the stream of tourists go by.
I am trying to figure out where this story goes. I could continue to share every detail but it was all just kind and generous and lovely, and surprising to me that everything about the people that I was with felt not just aligned with my values, but with who I hope that I also am in this world. I think that I have had so much exposure to religion that feels marketed, that the only cool clique is with the “believers,” where righteousness is measured in rightness, not worthiness or practice – that I hadn’t realized or even imagined another way. Yet, the people, these nuns, felt like they embodied all the good in the world and my own goodness felt resonated with and seen.
Back when I was a canvasser for CALPIRG, I decided to take my younger sister on a camping trip to visit what was left of the old growth forests before they were all gone. One day we wandered into the forest for a hike. I was maybe 19, and she was 12. Somehow we got lost, and seemed to become even more so as night came creeping in. I was scared but I didn’t want her to see it. We found a road and although I had no idea where it went, we trudged along. My rising panic ebbed into dread as I realized that we were on a logging road, the hills in the distance were bare and I pointed them out to my sister. It began to rain, a hard winter-like rain. We were cold and hungry now too. There had been no traffic on the road and it was getting dark but then the headlights of a large truck could be seen through the gray and foggy drizzle. It was easy to see that it was a logging truck, and I gulped in a moment of fear. But my concern for my sister and getting out of the forest before dark overrode every other danger. I flagged him down with all of my energy. I told him that we were lost and asked for help to get back to the campground. He was kind, he opened the cab door for us to climb up but he looked concerned. “Listen”, he said, “I will lose my job if they see you in the truck with me, but don’t worry, I’ll get you home.” As we drove for nearly an hour, he shared about his wife and kids and his job as a logger. He didn’t love it he said, but it paid the bills and it’s what he knew how to do. He dropped us off at the campground entrance with a wave and a smile. When I returned to California, I quit my job at CALPIRG. I felt like I’d been rallying people against people, good people, just trying to get by. It felt, I felt, like not having the full story, isn’t just omission, it’s lying. I felt lied to… by the stories I’d been told… and then I continued those lies in the stories that I shared on people’s doorsteps. It felt dirty, I felt tricked and I thought that I had learned my lesson.
I think that what I’m grappling with is the space where the story that I’d told myself about nuns, or even about anyone who is deeply religious, was a story that I had been willing to imagine was true because I never bothered to imagine that it wasn’t. I was naive enough to think that I had learned my lesson about judgment and half-told truths in the forest that day, but here I was again confronted and stymied by the complexity of what is real. The world sets us up to believe in extremes, that there is black and white, right and wrong, those that are like us and those that are deeply different. And yes, there are radical opposing perspectives but most of us live somewhere on the spectrum and often, we are much more alike than we ever imagined. Unfortunately, in our modern world where everything is radicalized in social media bites, often out of context, we rarely have the opportunity to dive under the surface of the package that we see. It is those very packages (I’m a liberal, I’m a conservative, I would vote for Trump, I would die first…) that keep us from each other and it is almost impossible to have opportunities to know differently. The comedian Trevor Noah said in a recent podcast, “The challenge today doesn’t seem to be making it alive through the minefield, the challenge today appears to be just having the conversation about the minefield.”
Now, thirty years older than my teenage self, I should know better. I’m disappointed and left wondering about where else I am blind, what am I judging without realizing that I am doing so, how am I being misled by my social group or my social media feed that precisely that, feeds me what I want to believe and more so, how do I see other things and know that they are real? Or, do I not? I think that what I want to suggest to myself is to just continue to practice presence, to stand in my two floppy sandals, walk into the world with curiosity and let it show me what I need to see. I can do that of course, but it feels slow and cumbersome, as though it is about me and not nearly grand enough of a plan to help others see too. Maybe, just maybe, it doesn’t need to be? The unequivocally most famous quote in my line of work is Mahatma Gandhi’s, “be the change you with so see in the world,” and so I will keep at it – present, curious, failing sometimes and finding my way.