The Ebb & Flow of Routine
As I reach into the pantry to prepare a winter’s morning dose of caffeine, daylight struggles to penetrate the fog outside. I appreciate the confluence of this state both inside and outside of my still-sleepy brain.
Morning routine elevates my level of wakefulness. Currently, my choice of a hot drink is a powdered substance that comes in a small resealable container. I dole it out using a cute wooden scoop. As I level the powder in the scoop, I think, “I can’t live without this.” But of course I can. And in a few days, I will depart on an adventure and this bag and scoop will stay in the cabinet, and I will be without this little routine, and I will be fine.
Image from Pexels: Lilartsy
I know people who travel with their special coffees, their own pillows, their creature comforts from home, and I am not totally immune to that inclination. I always take a favorite scarf, for example, and my own bar soap. But leaving for an adventure implies a willingness to depart from treasured routines and daily habits, to make space for the main reason for going: to see what happens. Adventure means the chance to see the ways that differences in people, place and time can be engaging and interesting and worth the struggle of going.
Image from Pexels: Viktoria Alipatova
My eagerness to upset my norms is not shared by everyone. I have met (but honestly do not judge) people who choose not to travel largely because they like their routines, they want things to stay the same. There’s a lot to suggest that routines are helpful. A routine is a regular sequence of predictable, unchanging actions. A good routine is a stabilizer in a world that can be chaotic and even upsetting. When the daily news raises blood pressure and hackles, a routine of tai chi or meditation can help. When the seasons are changing, the routine of bringing the warm clothes up from storage (and replacing them with summer-wear in a few months) is a wonderful marker for the passage of time. Here’s a fun one: the 11-year-old German shepherd I adopted a few months ago has a routine of following me every time into the bathroom for a hug while I’m seated. It’s very sweet!
One reservation I have about routines are those that hold a person captive. If some daily occurrence (routine) is happening less by choice than by intractable habit, it could perhaps begin to feel like a rut. Someone once said that a rut is nothing more than an open-ended coffin. My own experience of growing up in an alcoholic home makes me watchful against such traps.
So, when I choose to interrupt my various routines (and those of my dog), I do so mindfully and willingly. I know that, upon my return, I can resume it all. It’s a dance: turn outward and see the world, turn back and c’mon home. Because I’ve been away, it all feels somehow delightfully fresh and, at the same time, wonderfully familiar. This return to my at-home routines is like greeting a cadre of old friends.
Yes. The morning drink powder and its cute wooden scoop will be here when I walk back into the house in a few weeks. That first morning back, I will reach in the pantry in a foggy, jet-lagged state and be pleased to find it. Well, hello, old friend, I might think. I will head across the house to the green chair by the fishpond (mug of hot deliciousness in hand) to write in my journal. All these small actions, these routines, help me land again. Life in all its pieces and parts, all its interrupted routines, will resume. As glad as I was to have the chance to head out on an adventure, I know I’ll also be happy to get all this back again. I will celebrate the freshness of it according to my travel-changed eyes.
