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Chapter 5TeresaVida.1.5

Capítulo IV

The Cost of Leaving the World

Teresa describes the painful struggle of leaving her father's house to enter religious life, the immediate consolation God gave her, and the lesson that forcing oneself to serve God brings a sweet reward.

She describes how the Lord helped her force herself to take the habit, and the many illnesses His Majesty began to send her. During those days when I was turning these resolutions over in my mind, I had persuaded one of my brothers to become a friar, telling him about the vanity of the world; and the two of us agreed to go very early one morning to the monastery where that friend of mine was living — the one I was so fond of — though by this last resolve I was already in such a state that I would have gone to anyone I thought would serve God better, or wherever my father wanted; for I was already looking more to the healing of my soul, and made no account of ease at all. I remember, as far as I can tell, and truly, that when I left my father's house I don't believe the pain will be greater when I die; because it seemed to me every bone was being pulled apart by itself — since there was no love of God to take away my love for my father and relatives, the whole thing cost me such a fierce struggle that, if the Lord hadn't helped me, my considerations wouldn't have been enough to go on. Here He gave me courage against myself, so that I carried it through. As soon as I took the habit, the Lord at once let me understand how He favors those who force themselves to serve Him — a forcing of myself that no one perceived in me, only a very great willingness.1 At that very hour, He gave me such great contentment in that state of life that it has never left me to this day. God turned the dryness my soul had felt into the deepest tenderness. Everything about the religious life brought me delight. It’s true that I would sometimes spend hours sweeping—time I used to spend on my own comfort and fine clothes—and when I remembered I was free of all that, it gave me a new joy that astonished me, and I couldn't understand where it came from. When I remember this, there is nothing that could be set before me, no matter how hard, that I would hesitate to undertake. Because I already have experience in many things: that if at the beginning I help myself to resolve to do what — being for God alone — He wants us even to begin, so that we may merit more, the soul feels that dread; and the greater it is, if one carries it through, the greater and sweeter the reward becomes afterward. Even in this life His Majesty pays it back by ways that only the one who enjoys them understands.2 I hold this to be true from experience, as I have said regarding many serious matters. If I were someone whose counsel was asked, I would never advise that a good inspiration, if it comes again and again, should be set aside for fear of putting it into practice. For if one goes stripped of everything, for God alone, there is no need to fear that anything bad will happen, because He is powerful over all things. May He be blessed forever. Amen.

The Betrothal and the Broken Vows

Teresa reflects on her joyful profession and betrothal to Christ, then laments her later unfaithfulness, marveling at God's mercy in bearing with her for so long.

It would have been enough, O my highest good and my rest, the favors You had already done for me up to this point—Your pity and greatness bringing me through so many winding ways to such a secure state, and to a house where there were many servants of God from whom I could take example to keep growing in His service. I don't know how I'm to go on from here when I remember the way I made my profession, and the great determination and joy with which I made it, and the betrothal I made with You: I can't say this without tears—and they should have been tears of blood, and my heart should have broken—and even that wouldn't have been much grief, considering how I offended You afterward.3 It seems to me now that I was right not to want so great a dignity, since I was going to use it so poorly; but You, my Lord, were willing—for almost twenty years while I misused this favor—to be the one wronged so that I might be made better.4 It seems, my God, as if I promised not to keep a single thing of what I had promised You, though that wasn't my intention then; but when I see such deeds of mine afterward, I don't know what intention I had—the better to show who You are, my Spouse, and who I am. It's certainly true that the joy it gives me when the multitude of Your mercies is understood often softens the pain of my great faults. Lord, in whom can Your mercy shine as brightly as in me—I who have so darkened with my evil deeds the great favors You began to grant me?5 Woe is me, my Creator—if I want to offer an excuse, I have none, and no one is to blame but me! Because if I had returned even something of the love You began to show me, I could have spent it on no one but You, and with that everything would have been set right; since I didn't deserve it and wasn't so fortunate, may Your mercy avail me now, Lord.

Illness and the Gift of a Book

Teresa's health collapses under the new religious life, leading to a year of severe illness and harsh treatments, during which she receives a book on prayer that sets her on a new spiritual path.

The change in my lifestyle and diet harmed my health; though my happiness was great, it wasn't enough. My fainting spells started getting worse, and I was struck with such a terrible heart condition that it terrified anyone who saw it, along with many other illnesses at once; and so I spent that first year in very poor health, though it doesn't seem to me that I offended God much during it. And since the illness was so severe that it almost always robbed me of my senses, and sometimes left me without them entirely, my father was extremely diligent in looking for a remedy; and since the doctors here gave him none, he arranged to take me to a place that was famous for curing other illnesses, and so they said it would cure mine as well.6 This friend I've mentioned that I had at home went with me—she was an older woman.7 In the house where she was a nun, there was no vow of enclosure.8 I was there almost a year, and for three months of it I suffered such tremendous torment from the harsh treatments they gave me that I don't know how I could bear them; and in the end, though I bore them, my constitution couldn't, as I'll tell.9 The cure was supposed to begin at the start of summer, and I went at the start of winter: all that time I stayed at the house of the sister I've mentioned, who lived in the village, waiting for the month of April, because it was nearby and I wouldn't have to keep going back and forth. When I was on my way, that uncle of mine (who I've said lived along the road) gave me a book: it's called the Third Alphabet, which teaches the prayer of recollection. And although during that first year I had been reading good books—I no longer wanted to read any others, because I already understood the harm they had done me—I didn't know how to proceed in prayer or how to recollect myself, and so I was very glad to have it and resolved to follow that path with all my strength. And since the Lord had already given me the gift of tears, and I loved to read, I began to take times of solitude, to go to confession often, and to start that path, taking that book as my teacher. For I found no teacher—I mean no confessor—who understood me, though I looked for one, in the twenty years after what I'm describing, and that did me a great deal of harm, making me turn back many times, and even putting me in danger of being completely lost, because he would still have helped me get out of the occasions I had for offending God.1011

Early Favors in Prayer

Teresa recounts the first favors of prayer of quiet and union, her inability to meditate with the imagination, and the painful but necessary role of reading for those who cannot reason discursively.

His Majesty began to grant me so many favors in these early stages that by the end of this time I spent here—almost nine months in this solitude (though I wasn't as free from offending God as the book told me I should be, but I lived with that; such careful guarding seemed almost impossible to me; I did keep watch not to commit mortal sin, and I wish to God I'd always kept it; I paid little attention to venial sins, and that was what destroyed me)—the Lord began to treat me with such tenderness along this path that He granted me the prayer of quiet, and at times I reached union, though I didn't understand what either one was, or how valuable they were; I believe it would have been a great good for me to understand it.1213 It's true that this union lasted so briefly I don't know if it was even as long as a Hail Mary; but it left such great effects that, though I wasn't yet twenty at this time, it seems to me I held the world under my feet, and so I remember I felt pity for those who followed it, even in lawful things.14 I tried as hard as I could to keep Jesus Christ, our Good and Lord, present within me, and this was my way of praying. If I thought about some scene from His life, I pictured it in my mind, though I spent most of my time reading good books, which was all the recreation I had; because God didn't give me the ability to reason in meditation with the understanding, or to make use of the imagination, which is so dull that even for thinking and picturing things in my mind—as I tried to do—bringing the Lord's humanity before me, I could never manage it.1516 And although by this path of being unable to work with the understanding people arrive more quickly at contemplation if they persevere, it's very hard and painful; because if the will lacks something to occupy it, and love has nothing present to engage with, the soul is left as if without support or exercise, and solitude and dryness cause great distress, and the thoughts wage a tremendous battle. People with this disposition need purity of conscience more than those who can work with the understanding; because whoever reasons in meditation on what the world is and what is owed to God, and how much He suffered, and how little one serves Him, and what He gives to those who love Him, draws teaching to defend themselves against thoughts and occasions and dangers; but whoever can't make use of this has a greater need of that purity, and it suits them to occupy themselves a great deal in reading, since on their own they can draw none.1718 This way of proceeding is so extremely painful that if the teacher who instructs presses them to go without reading (which helps a great deal to recollect someone who proceeds this way and is necessary for them, even if they read only a little—rather, in place of the mental prayer they can't sustain)—I mean, if without this help they're made to stay a long time in prayer, it will be impossible to last long in it, and it will harm their health if they persist, because it's a very painful thing.1920

The Shield of the Book

Teresa explains how she relied on a book as a shield against distracting thoughts during eighteen years of spiritual dryness, and marvels at God's mercy in hiding her sins and perfecting her imperfect works.

Now it seems to me that the Lord arranged that I wouldn't find anyone to teach me, because I think it would have been impossible to persevere through the eighteen years I spent in this hardship and these great drynesses, since I couldn't, as I say, reason in meditation.21 Throughout all those years, except right after receiving Communion, I never dared to begin prayer without a book; for my soul dreaded being without one in prayer as much as if it were going out to fight a whole crowd. With this remedy, which was like a companion and a shield for taking the blows of so many thoughts, I went along consoled; because dryness wasn't the usual state—but it always came when I lacked a book, and then the soul was soon thrown into disorder and the thoughts ran wild. With the book I began to gather them, and I led the soul along as if by coaxing; and many times, as soon as I opened the book, nothing more was needed. Other times I read little, other times a great deal, according to the favor the Lord showed me. It seemed to me in this beginning I'm speaking of that, as long as I had books and something like solitude, no danger would pull me away from so much good; and I believe that with God's favor it would have been so, if I'd had a teacher or someone to warn me to flee occasions of sin at the start, and to make me leave them quickly if I fell into them. And if the devil had attacked me openly then, it seemed to me I would not have fallen back into serious sin at all. But he was so subtle, and I so wretched, that all my resolutions did me little good—though the days I served God helped me a great deal to endure the terrible illnesses I had, with such great patience as His Majesty gave me.22 Many times I have thought with astonishment about God's great goodness, and my soul has delighted to see His great magnificence and mercy. May He be blessed for everything, for I have clearly seen that He leaves no good desire unrepaid, even in this life. However wretched and imperfect my works were, this Lord of mine went on improving and perfecting them and giving them worth, and He promptly hid the evils and the sins.

God's Mercy and the Return to the Story

Teresa concludes her reflection on God's mercy, which hides her sins and gilds her faults, then returns to the commanded narrative, acknowledging her ingratitude and praising God's patience.

Even in the eyes of those who have seen them, His Majesty lets those eyes go blind, and He takes the sins out of their memory. He gilds the faults; He makes a virtue shine that the Lord Himself places in me, almost compelling me to have it.23 I want to get back to what I've been commanded to do. I say that if I had to tell in detail how the Lord dealt with me in these beginnings, I'd need another mind than mine to know how to do justice to what I owe Him in this, and to my great ingratitude and wickedness—because I forgot all of it.24 May He be forever blessed, who has borne with me so much. Amen.

Read the original Spanish

Dice cómo la ayudó el Señor para forzarse á sí mesma para tomar hábito, y las muchas enfermedades que su Majestad la comenzó á dar.

En estos dias que andaba con estas determinaciones, habia persuadido á un hermano mio á que se metiese fraile, diciéndole la vanidad del mundo; y concertamos entramos de irnos un dia muy de mañana al monesterio adonde estaba aquella mi amiga, que era á la que yo tenia mucha afecion, puesto que ya en esta postrera determinación yo estaba de suerte, que á cualquiera que pensara servir mas á Dios, ó mi padre quisiera, fuera; que más miraba ya el remedio de mi alma, que del descanso ningun caso hacia de él. Acuérdaseme á todo mi parecer, y con verdad, que cuando sali de en casa de mi padre no creo será mas el sentimiento cuando me muera; porque me parece cada hueso se me apartaba por sí, que como no habia amor de Dios, que quitase el amor del padre y parientes, era todo haciéndome una fuerza tan grande, que, si el Señor no me ayudara, no bastáran mis consideraciones para ir adelante: aquí me dió ánimo contra mí, de manera que lo puse por obra. En tomando el hábito, luego me dió el Señor á entender, cómo favorece á los que se hacen fuerza para servirle, la cual nadie no entendía de mí, sino grandísima voluntad. A la hora me dió un tan gran contento de tener aquel estado, que nunca me faltó hasta hoy; y mudó Dios la sequedad, que tenia mi alma, en grandísima ternura: dábanme deleite todas las cosas de la religión; y es verdad, que andaba algunas veces barriendo en horas, que yo solia ocupar en mi regalo y gala; y acordándoseme que estaba libre de aquello, me daba un nuevo gozo, que yo me espantaba, y no podia entender por donde venia. Cuando de esto me acuerdo, no hay cosa que delante se me pusiese, por grave que fuese, que dudase de acometerla. Porque ya tengo espiriencia en muchas, que si me ayudo al principio á determinarme á hacerlo que, siendo solo por Dios, hasta encomenzarlo quiere, para que mas merezcamos, que el alma sienta aquel espanto, y mientra mayor, si sale con ello, mayor premio y mas sabroso se hace despues: aun en esta vida lo paga su Majestad por unas vias, que solo quien goza de ello le entiende. Esto tengo por espiriencia, como he dicho en muchas cosas harto graves: y ansí jamás aconsejaria, si fuera persona que hubiera de dar parecer, que, cuando una buena inespiración acomete muchas veces, se deje por miedo de poner por obra; que si va desnudamente por solo Dios, no hay que temer sucederá mal, que poderoso es para todo; sea bendito por siempre, amen.

Bastára, oh sumo bien y descanso mio, las mercedes que me habíades hecho hasta aquí, de traerme por tantos rodeos vuestra piadad y grandeza á estado tan siguro, y á casa adonde habia muchas siervas de Dios, de quien yo pudiera tomar para ir creciendo en su servicio. No sé cómo he de pasar de aquí, cuando me acuerdo la manera de mi profesión, y la gran determinacion y contento con que la hice, y el desposorio que hice con Vos: esto no lo puedo decir sin lágrimas, y habian de ser de sangre y quebrárseme el corazon, y no era mucho sentimiento, para lo que despues os ofendí.

Paréceme ahora, que tenía razon de no querer tan gran dinidad, pues tan mal habia de usar de ella; mas Vos, Señor mio, quisistes ser casi veinte años, que usé mal desta merced, ser el agraviado porque yo fuese mijorada. No parece, Dios mio, sino que prometí no guardar cosa de lo que os habia prometido, aunque entonces no era esa mi intencion: mas veo tales mis obras despues, que no sé qué intencion tenia, para que mas se vea quien vos sois, esposo mio, y quien soy yo; que es verdad cierto que muchas veces me templa el sentimiento de mis grandes culpas, el contento que me da, que se entienda la muchedumbre de vuestras misericordias. ¿En quién, Señor, puede ansí resplandecer como en mí, que tanto he escurecido con mis malas obras las grandes mercedes, que me comenzastes á hacer? ¡Ay de mí, Criador mio, que si quiero dar disculpa, ninguna tengo, ni tiene naide la culpa sino yo! Porque si os pagara algo del amor que me comenzastes á mostrar, no le pudiera yo emplear en nadie sino en Vos, y con esto se remediaba todo: pues no lo merecí, ni tuve tanta ventura, válgame ahora, Señor, vuestra misericordia.

La mudanza de la vida y de los manjares me hizo daño á la salud, que aunque el contento era mucho, no bastó. Comenzáronme á crecer los desmayos, y dióme un mal de corazon tan grandísimo, que ponia espanto á quien lo via, y otros muchos males juntos; y ansí pasé el primer año con harto mala salud, aunque no me parece ofendí á Dios en él mucho. Y como era el mal tan grave, que casi me privaba el sentido siempre, y algunas veces del todo quedada sin él, era grande la diligencia que traia mi padre para buscar remedio; y como no le dieron los médicos de aquí, procuró llevarme á un lugar adonde habia mucha fama de que sanaban allí otras enfermedades, y ansí dijeron haria la mia. Fué conmigo esta amiga que he dicho tenia en casa, que era antigua. En la casa que era monja, no se prometia clausura. Estuve casi un año por allá, y los tres meses de él padeciendo tan grandísimo tormento en las curas que me hicieron tan recias, que yo no sé cómo las pude sufrir; y en fin, aunque las sufrí, no las pudo sufrir mi sujeto, como diré. Habia de comenzarse la cura en el principio del verano, y yo fuí en el principio del invierno: todo este tiempo estuve en casa de la hermana que he dicho, que estaba en el aldea, esperando el mes de abril, porque estaba cerca y no andar yendo y viniendo. Cuando iba, me dió aquel tio mio (que tengo dicho que estaba en el camino) un libro: llámase Tercer Abecedario, que trata de enseñar oracion de recogimiento; y puesto que este primer año habia leido buenos libros, que no quise mas usar de otros porque ya entendia el daño que me habian hecho, no sabía cómo proceder en oracion, ni cómo recogerme, y ansí holguéme mucho con él, y determinéme á siguir aquel camino con todas mis fuerzas; y como ya el Señor me habia dado don de lágrimas, y gustaba de leer, comencé á tener ratos de soledad, y á confesarme á menudo, y comenzar aquel camino, tiniendo aquel libro por maestro; porque yo no hallé maestro, digo confesor, que me entendiese, aunque le busqué, en veinte años despues desto que digo, que me hizo harto daño para tornar muchas veces atrás; y aun para del todo perderme, porque todavía me ayudara á salir de las ocasiones, que tuve, para ofender á Dios.

Comenzóme su Majestad á hacer tantas mercedes en estos principios, que al fin deste tiempo, que estuve aquí, que eran casi nueve meses en esta soledad (aunque no tan libre de ofender á Dios, como el libro me decia, mas por esto pasaba yo; parecíame casi imposible tanta guarda, teniala de no hacer pecado mortal, y pluguiera á Dios la tuviera siempre; de los veniales hacia poco caso, y esto fué lo que me destruyó) comenzó el Señor á regalarme tanto por este camino, que me hacia merced de darme oracion de quietud, y alguna vez llegaba á union, aunque yo no entendia qué era lo uno ni lo otro, y lo mucho que era de preciar, que creo me fuera gran bien entenderlo. Verdad es que duraba tan poco esto de union, que no sé si era Ave María; mas quedaba con unos efetos tan grandes, que con no haber en este tiempo veinte años, me parece traia al mundo debajo de los pies, y ansí me acuerdo, que habia lástima á los que le siguian, aunque fuese en cosas lícitas. Procuraba lo mas que podia traer á Jesucristo nuestro bien y Señor dentro de mí presente, y esta era mi manera de oracion. Si pensaba en algun paso, le representaba en lo interior, aunque lo mas gastaba en leer buenos libros, que era toda mi recreacion; porque no me dió Dios talento de discurrir con el entendimiento ni de aprovecharme con la imaginación, que la tengo tan torpe, que aun para pensar y representar en mí como lo procuraba, traer la humanidad del Señor, nunca acababa. Y aunque por esta via de no poder obrar con el entendimiento, llegan mas presto á la contemplacion, si perseveran, es muy trabajoso y penoso; porque si falta la ocupacion de la voluntad, y el haber en que se ocupe en cosa presente el amor, queda el alma como sin arrimo ni ejercicio, y da gran pena la soledad y sequedad, y grandísimo combate los pensamientos. A personas que tienen esta dispusicion les conviene mas pureza de conciencia, que á las que con el entendimiento pueden obrar; porque quien discurre en lo que es mundo y en lo que debe á Dios, y en lo mucho que sufrió, y lo poco que le sirve, y lo que le da á quien le ama, saca dotrina para defenderse de los pensamientos y de las ocasiones y peligros; pero, quien no se puede aprovechar de esto, tiénele mayor y conviénele ocuparse mucho en licion, pues de su parte no puede sacar ninguna. Es tan penosísima esta manera de proceder, que, si el maestro que enseña, aprieta, en que sin licion (que ayuda mucho para recoger á quien de esta manera procede y le es necesario, aunque sea poco lo que lea, sino en lugar de la oracion mental que no puede tener) digo que si sin esta ayuda le hacen estar mucho rato en la oracion, que será imposible durar mucho en ella, y le hará daño á la salud si porfía, porque es muy penosa cosa.

Ahora me parece que proveyó el Señor, que yo no hallase quien me enseñase, porque fuera imposible, me parece, perseverar diez y ocho años que pasé este trabajo, y estas grandes sequedades, por no poder, como digo, discurrir. En todos estos, si no era acabando de comulgar, jamás osaba comenzar á tener oracion sin un libro; que tanto temia mi alma estar sin él en oracion, como si con mucha gente fuera á pelear. Con este remedio, que era como una compañía, y escudo, en que habia de recibir los golpes de los muchos pensamientos, andaba consolada; porque la sequedad no era lo ordinario; mas era siempre cuando me faltaba libro, que era luego disbaratada el alma y los pensamientos perdidos: con esto los comenzaba á recoger, y como por halago llevaba el alma; y muchas veces en abriendo el libro, no era menester mas: otras leia poco, otras mucho, conforme á la merced que el Señor me hacia. Parecíame á mí en este principio, que digo, que tiniendo yo libros, y como tener soledad, que no habria peligro que me sacase de tanto bien; y creo con el favor de Dios fuera ansí, si tuviera maestro ó persona, que me avisara de huir las ocasiones en los principios, y me hiciera salir de ellas, si entrara con brevedad. Y si el demonio me acometiera entonces descubiertamente, parecíame en ninguna manera tornára gravemente á pecar. Mas fué tan sutil y yo tan ruin, que todas mis determinaciones me aprovecharon poco, aunque muy mucho los dias que serví á Dios, para poder sufrir las terribles enfermedades que tuve, con tan gran paciencia como su Majestad me dió. Muchas veces he pensado espantada de la gran bondad de Dios, y regaládose mi alma de ver su gran manificencia y misericordia: sea bendito por todo, que he visto claro no dejar sin pagarme, aun en esta vida, ningun deseo bueno. Por ruines é imperfectas que fue'sen mis obras, este Señor mio las iba mijorando y perficionando, y dando valor, y los males y pecados luego los ascondia.

Aun en los ojos de quien los ha visto permite su Majestad se cieguen, y los quita de su memoria. Dora las culpas, hace que resplandezca una virtud, que el mesmo Señor pone en mí, casi haciéndome fuerza para que la tenga. Quiero tornar á lo que me han mandado. Digo, que si hubiera de decir por menudo de la manera, que el Señor se habia conmigo en estos principios, que fuera menester otro entendimiento que el mio, para saber encarecer lo que en este caso le debo, y mi gran ingratitud y maldad, pues todo esto olvidé. Sea por siempre bendito, que tanto me ha sufrido, amen.

Notes

  1. 1 ↩"la cual nadie no entendía de mí, sino grandísima voluntad": "la cual" is taken of the self-forcing (hacerse fuerza), not of the favor; Golden Age "nadie no" read as emphatic "no one."
  2. 2 ↩Dense clause "á hacerlo que, siendo solo por Dios, hasta encomenzarlo quiere": rendered as resolving to do what God wants us even to begin, solely for His sake, so that we may merit more.
  3. 3 ↩desposorio: the religious profession framed as betrothal/espousal to Christ; rendered 'betrothal' to keep the marital vow image without archaic diction.
  4. 4 ↩dinidad = dignidad: the dignity of religious profession; merced rendered as favor (divine gift), distinct from misericordia = mercy.
  5. 5 ↩Implied subject of resplandecer taken from preceding misericordias; mercedes rendered as favors.
  6. 6 ↩Source reading "quedada" treated as intended "quedaba" ("left me" / "I was left").
  7. 7 ↩"antigua" rendered as older in age; it can also mean long-standing, but the appositive points to the friend's age.
  8. 8 ↩"no se prometía clausura": enclosure was not taken as a vowed obligation in that house, so she could leave to accompany Teresa.
  9. 9 ↩"sujeto" rendered as "constitution" (physical frame/capacity), not as a person subject.
  10. 10 ↩"Tercer Abecedario" kept as the book's common short title (Francisco de Osuna's Third Spiritual Alphabet).
  11. 11 ↩"oración de recogimiento" rendered as the technical term "prayer of recollection."
  12. 12 ↩Technical Teresian term kept as "prayer of quiet," parallel to "prayer of recollection" in the preceding section.
  13. 13 ↩Mystical "unión" kept as the technical term "union," not paraphrased.
  14. 14 ↩Used as a measure of very short duration (the time it takes to say a Hail Mary), not as a quoted prayer text.
  15. 15 ↩In Teresa's usage, discurrir means discursive meditation with the understanding, not casual thinking; rendered to match the following section's "reason in meditation."
  16. 16 ↩"Paso" here is a scene or episode from Christ's life (often of the Passion), represented inwardly in prayer.
  17. 17 ↩"Le" is read as referring back to purity of conscience: those who cannot meditate discursively need it still more.
  18. 18 ↩"Lición" = lección, spiritual reading used as a support in prayer.
  19. 19 ↩Teresa interrupts herself mid-sentence and restates the condition; the translation keeps the self-correction rather than smoothing it away.
  20. 20 ↩Technical term kept as "mental prayer."
  21. 21 ↩In Teresa's usage, discurrir means discursive meditation with the understanding, not casual thinking.
  22. 22 ↩The elliptical aunque clause is read as contrasting with the uselessness of her resolutions: service of God did help her bear later illness.
  23. 23 ↩Dora las culpas: rendered as 'gilds the faults' to keep Teresa's metaphor of covering and beautifying guilt rather than a flat 'conceals' or 'paints over'.
  24. 24 ↩encarecer: rendered as 'do justice to' (set forth adequately the greatness of); the Spanish also carries 'praise highly / make much of'.

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