At twenty-nine years old, having an experience of responsibility towards others, a professional habit of attention and psychological and spiritual interpretation of behaviour, upon entering the novitiate I had to lay down all my burden and hand myself over as a little disciple to those he had the task of training me in monastic life. It wasn't easy or painless, but very positive and liberating. The word of Jesus is clear: «If anyone wants to come after me, let him deny himself, take up his cross and follow me. Because whoever wants to save his life will lose it; but whoever loses his life for my sake will find it" (Mt 16,24-25) and furthermore: "To him who makes himself small like children belongs the kingdom of heaven" (Mt 19,14).

The rhythm of the monastic day was intense in the alternation of prayer and work. For the novices there was also adequate time to dedicate themselves to study and monastic training: Rule of Saint Benedict, sacred Scripture, patristics, liturgy, monastic spirituality, Gregorian chant: everything was a delight for me and I immersed myself more and more in the mystery of Christ and the Church, embracing all humanity. Physically I suffered from the effort to adapt, especially to the different diet and - in winter - to the cold. I have a chilling memory of this. Hands, feet, face were all full of chilblains. An evil to cry.
I remember the first Christmas. I was still a postulant. The nostalgia of home, of family, of children invaded my heart and left no escape. After dinner, while waiting for the vigil celebration, I had to help an elderly nun decorate the altar and the entire church with flowers. The cold was intense and my hands groaned; for a little clumsiness the nun gave me a severe reprimand; shortly after, however, seeing me with tears, caressing me, she apologized for having made me sad. I replied: «But it's nothing! There is Baby Jesus!». Once again I realized that Jesus alone was indispensable to me and, furthermore, that on that night I myself was a child like him who had just been born, in need of tenderness, and therefore a participant in all human poverty and weakness.
The transition from the postulancy to the novitiate took place in the spring, and I felt myself sprouting again: the monastic habit, the white veil, the new name... Meanwhile, the Second Vatican Council had also begun: another springtime for the Church.
Until my first profession, I was subsequently assigned various services: in addition to cleaning various rooms, collecting papers from the printing press, embroidering sacred vestments, taking care of some turtle doves locked in a cage, wardrobe and ironing... Then came the request from the Curia of Milan to examine and catalog the correspondence of Cardinal Ildefonso Schuster in view of the process for his Beatification. I was instructed to do it – under oath of secrecy – together with my novitiate partner. What grace! It was a long, patient work that put me in deep communion with the holy Benedictine cardinal, so much so that I always felt protected under his cloak.
And after this, a request came from the Central Presidency of Catholic Action for the preparation of subsidies for the catechesis of the various branches of the members: children, young people and adults. Subsequently, the Italian Episcopal Conference asked for collaboration in the revision of the new version of the Bible and in the preparation of the new official books of the sacred Liturgy. Thus I found myself in my hand the pen that I thought I had put down forever; and from then on it was no longer possible for me to put it down, because now, as a nun, I was a daughter of obedience.
The day of perpetual monastic profession also came. First lying on the ground in front of the altar of the Lord to invoke the help of the Virgin, the angels and the saints, then consecrated by the Bishop and united to Christ with a spousal bond, I sang my Suscipe - Welcome me, Lord... - raising my arms with the desire to offer him not only myself, but all the humanity I was responsible for. In me the strongest feeling was always that of motherhood, and this, in prayer, now took on truly universal dimensions. But I still didn't know what the Lord was preparing me for.
After a few years I was entrusted with the role of novice mistress. These were generous young people, from the generation that breathed the post-Council air together with that of a rapidly evolving society under the pressure of new sociological currents and secularism. They were years of intense spiritual work; in presenting them at the altar ready for perpetual profession I clearly felt that in me and in the community it was the whole Holy Church that rejoiced before the Lord for the faithfulness of his love for him. Consecrated virginity is, in fact, one of the most beautiful and fruitful gifts of grace that the Lord has given to humanity redeemed by his blood.
In those years, however, there were many problems raised in the Church regarding consecrated life and they needed to be addressed promptly and thoughtfully, with openness to wise innovations, but without breaking away from validated tradition. The pleasant circumstance of the presence of a small crow found in the mountains by friends with an injured leg and entrusted to the community offered me the inspiration for a kind of "parable" in which to consider, with seriousness tinged with humour, the dynamics of monastic life in light of new times. In fact, “Cra” – that's what we called the crow – found himself in the monastery and went through all the logical and disconcerting situations of monastic life and reacted with the liveliness of a witty observer. The Mother Abbess herself, combining business with pleasure, took pleasure in reading the story to the community during evening recreation, while I was with the novices.
I must say that from the beginning of my monastic journey I received the grace of a deep and very sweet relationship with the Mother Abbess: an already elderly woman, with an austere and at the same time gentle appearance, very humble. We just had to look at each other. The words of our souls rose into our eyes and were communicated in silence. When - but it happened rarely - the Mother was absent from the monastery, I had the impression that it was immediately evening and that the monastery was left without a roof. Her name was Maria Angela and she was an angel. I feel that she always remained close to me both during her life and after her death. The memory of her is a blessing! And this is because we rejoiced and suffered together.
For thirteen years I remained in the Abbey of Saints Peter and Paul nestled in the vast expanse of meadows and rice fields of the Lower Milanese area; I now loved that place no less than my native hills, and first of all I loved the community very much for that spiritual bond that is created with the profession of monastic vows and which is no less strong than blood ties.
But in the meantime the Lord was about to surprise me with a new adventure of grace.