As a child and young woman I rebelled against routine in all its manifestations. I hated to get up at any particular hour, especially early ones. I hated regimens and protocols. I was far too free of a spirit for such rules.
But the thing about routines is that they permit all of the maintenance stuff, the requirements, to be attended to so that there’s still time in the day for the free spirit stuff. I don’t have to wonder if I brushed my teeth or when I’ll fit in time for grading papers–I already know that I did and what time. My daily schedule includes 30 minutes of writing time–which I didn’t get to today, but I’m galvanized to get to tomorrow. If I can make this schedule work, that’s 30 more minutes a day than I’ve been doing.
Today, the first part of the day went pretty well. I got stuck with technical difficulties in the late morning, which put lunch and everything after out of whack. When I finally sat down to meditate, I was two and a half hours late and it was tough to focus. I gave it nine minutes, which is better than no minutes. I also applied to two more jobs today, which is a weigh off, even if it is simultaneously a reminder of the weight that will be on soon, when my contract is up.
I’ve been thinking a lot about my grandmother since I’ve been living in her house. About how the days got away from her, in reverie in some book or dreaming up some new craft or project or trip. We are not dissimilar in that regard. I want to do something with all the lists she kept, all the lists I make. This is something I’ve been rolling around in my brain pan lately.