The contemplative mask

I feel dread when my phone rings these days. This presents a bit of a problem, because I make my living by taking peoples’ calls. The same goes for e-mail. I’ve got more than a week’s worth piling up unanswered.

Part of this I can explain: When I made a promise as an oblate on the altar at the Benedictine community of Saint Walburga, I was serious about cultivating a contemplative life of prayer and at least the semblance of a quiet interior. Ordering your day by the Divine Office is supposed to keep distraction at bay.

The other part, however, is where the problem lies: my posture as a contemplative has become, at times, a way to cultivate an interior craziness that is about as soothing and comforting as a Fox News broadcast. Instead of cultivating interior peace, I end up using the Daily Office and my intentions for contemplative prayer as a shield. And my contemplative orders act as a mask for the inner craziness.