The Freedom of Routine

     A Facebook friend of mine sent me a private message the other evening at around seven o'clock. It was a long message, requiring from me a rather detailed response. I wrote back that same evening just to tell her that I would write her a proper response the following day, as "I have to shut down my computer now, per my self-imposed schedule." The next morning, I found a response from her, asking me to tell her, if I were willing, why I have a self-imposed schedule. I thought it an interesting question.

     I have noticed in the past few years that I feel bit discombobulated if my daily routine is disrupted. The thought crossed my mind that perhaps I've become a slave to routine -- but on further reflection, I believe rather that my routine is my freedom, and anything that disrupts it infringes on that freedom. I realize this may seem completely upside-down to most people. But, to paraphrase a well-worn adage, one's man's prison is another man's freedom. Let me try to explain.

     Most of my readers know that I worked in opera for many years, most of them at Houston Grand Opera. Now, I don't know how other companies operate, but at HGO the schedule for any given day during production (i. e., the rehearsal period and performance run of a show) is determined only the day before: every afternoon, the following day's schedule and assignments is printed and distributed. This means that, during production, one is unable to make plans outside the opera house more than a half-day in advance. (Doctor's appointments and such are the exception; one fills out a release form to be approved by the administration.) Furthermore, one is basically "on call" -- extra rehearsals, time changes, and coachings often come up with little warning during production periods.

     The first ten or so years, I was perfectly fine with this scheduling policy. Opera was my whole life; I had no friends outside the business, no steady love life to speak of, and I considered anything other than my work to be an unwelcome distraction. Only in my last few years in Houston did I feel suffocated by the capriciousness and unpredictability of the production schedule. This had little to do with my reborn faith and monastic vocation, though I was frustrated that I couldn't attend Mass as often as I liked. No, I felt that my creative capacity, which I knew extended beyond opera, was being stifled by the demands of my work. Quite simply, there were other things I wanted to do, that I wanted to do since childhood.

     Monastic life taught me the value of routine and the freedom that can be derived from it if used correctly, in the right spirit. The horarium, with the Divine Office as its skeleton, is strictly adhered to but never suffocating. When the bell calls you to chapel to pray the Office, you must stop immediately whatever you are doing and obey "the voice of God." This isn't in the least frustrating or maddening -- because you stop out of love. That's what I meant by "the right spirit." Everything -- whether it be prayer, study, meditation, cooking, laundering, gardening -- is done for love of God and for his glory. And it is this love that gives you freedom. It frees you from selfish ambition and the pressure that it bears; it frees you from being dissatisfied with the results of your labors because it also teaches you that the means is of equal importance as the end, and that effort is its own reward. I wish I had learned this while I was at HGO. I think it would have made those last years easier.

     Paradoxically, I found my creativity thrived within the confines of the horarium. Because I was learning to let go of ambition and success, my poetic muse of old reawakened, I learned basic bookbinding, and I also rediscovered a small talent for drawing and composing. These gifts were still there, lying dormant for so many years, and I was grateful that God gave me the chance finally to use them, but also that the horarium kept me from becoming bound to them.

     With my latest calling as co-caregiver for my father came the necessity to impose some semblance of a routine upon myself, if I was to remain reliant on prayer for strength and patience. Though my father could sometimes be unpredictable as to when he'd wake up in the morning, I found I was fairly safe if I set my alarm at 6.30 for praying the Office of Readings and Lauds. If Dad got up before I started, I'd get his breakfast and settle him at the table, then start the Office. If I heard Dad get up after I started, I heeded St Vincent de Paul's advice and made the getting of Dad's breakfast my prayer for the morning. The rest of the day, unless Dad had a doctor's appointment, easily accommodated the other hours of the Office, plus praying the rosary. I made myself take my evening shower, and go to bed, at the same time every day. Routine, and having more or less set times for prayer and meditation, kept me sane. If I didn't have those things, I'd have become a slave once more to caprice and unpredictability. 

     Now that my father has entered eternal life, and it's just me and my mother at home, I continue to keep my routine and to enjoy the sense of peace and freedom it gives me. I shut down my computer no later than 7pm, because I know I'm perfectly capable of playing with it till the wee hours, and if I allowed myself to do that, I'd never do anything else -- in the same way that working at the opera allowed me so little time to do anything else.

 

Blogging A to Z: "L" is for Liturgy of the Hours

One day shortly after the renewal of my faith in 2002, I paid my twice-monthly visit to my favorite Houston antiquarian bookstore, Detering Book Gallery. They were having their big annual sale that weekend, 30% off all regular stock. Browsing in the Philosophy/Religion room, I espied four volumes, each a different color, perched atop a random pile on a table. They looked, at first glance, like Bibles, but looking closely at the spines, I saw the words "Liturgy of the Hours."

Until my return to the faith I had no idea what the Liturgy of the Hours was; I had been so long away from the Church, having "left" it while still a teenager, and even before then, I was ignorant of many things, including this beautiful and universal prayer, the official prayer of the Church. I finally became aware of the Liturgy of the Hours, or the Divine Office, as it is frequently called, when I began discerning a vocation to religious life. I learned that the primary apostolate of contemplative nuns was prayer, and the Divine Office was their most important work; indeed, they are bound by pain of sin to pray the Divine Office, in full, every single day of their lives, a duty which they share with the clergy. However, laity are also encouraged to pray the Office, or at least a part of it, every day, in addition to attending Mass faithfully. It is an extension of the Mass.

When I stumbled upon the four-volume Liturgy of the Hours at Detering that day, I felt it was more than mere coincidence. God was gently steering me toward a life of prayer; whether as a religious or as a lay person, he wanted me to pray the Office. And the fact that those usually costly volumes were priced 30% off an already "used book" price clinched the deal for me!

The problem I then faced was: how do I pray the Office? Looking through the books, called breviaries, I was completely mystified, even after I read the copious introductory material in the first volume, and the Ordinary, which is found in all four volumes. Finally, I went online and found a website that explained the Office very simply and clearly, step by complicated step. With a hardcopy of those instructions close by and my breviary in hand, I began what has now become one of the most important habits of my daily life.

By praying the Office, the liturgical year with all its glories unfolds day by day, not just Sunday by Sunday. Morning, midmorning, midday, midafternoon, evening, and night -- with each of these "hours" of the Office, I am not only sanctifying the day, but am sanctifying it with the whole Church in praise and through the contemplation of God's word. The reciting of the entire cycle of Psalms over a four week period, along with the other Scripture readings, provides a constant source of inspiration, strength, and revelation; more importantly, it serves to strengthen and unify God's Church on earth. When I open my breviary, I am aware that millions of Christians throughout the world are opening theirs, too, and together as one body, we are worshipping the God who created us.