You’d think weekends would be a good time to write but no. After only a week of this I find it easier to sit down on a Monday morning and dash something out than I did to gather my thoughts on a Sunday afternoon, after good church and a great pre-valentine lunch in the city with my sweetie. Instead of writing something calm and profound yesterday I finished that awful, fascinating fantasy book; ate popcorn; and watched Masterpiece Theater.
But this morning I’m back to the weekday routine, where this writing has managed, in one week, to nestle in like an extra person on the couch. Routine is not boring; it is the route. It makes the path through the day that keeps me steady. The days that work best are the ones in which I follow it.
FYI this is my routine. Stumble down the steps, make tea, light the fire, sit, drink the first cup, pouring a tiny splash of milk for the cat, who also loves routine. Now write, journal first and then blog. Drink more tea. Maybe sit some more, maybe meditate though I don’t push it.
This is followed by everything else that I need to do in the day, the work part, and late in the afternoon the routine kicks in again: assemble dinner, go out to exercise, eat dinner, and unapologetically sog out for the rest of the evening.
Routine is the foundation for spiritual practice. Maybe it is spiritual practice. The tea, the fire, the cat, the cooking, the exercise, and even the sogging out are practices as sustaining as the writing and meditating.
In any case I have always found it easier, when I want to start something new, to wedge it gently into the daily routine and see what happens. Sometimes it finds its place and sometimes it doesn’t. I know myself too well to try to force myself to do anything.
This one seems to have stuck but I’m not making any promises.
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