Quiet Monday. Memorial of St. Anthony Abbot (Anthony of the Egyptian desert). Holy Eucharist. Smoked fish and fried rice. Morning papers and coffee. Cold, crisp air.
One rather ordinary day...
This kind of situation is really a little tougher than when one is saddled by a hundred tasks. One that never fails to catch me off guard.
Free, quiet, Monday mornings are times when one gets to resume engagement in the on-going internal battles that he cannot but confront for the rest of his blessed life. Stirrings that are often drowned in the noise and muck of the rest of the week.
It is in the uneasy quietness of a day like this that one feels most vulnerable and naked, bereft of pretensions, of roles to play, of duties to perform.
This might just also be the best time for prayer. When I can be completely bare before Him who first emptied His all for me.
Who sits in solitude and is quiet hath escaped from three wars: hearing, speaking, seeing; yet against one thing shall he continuously battle: that is his own heart.
Abbot Anthony
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