I’m not a person that thrives on routine; in fact I’m spontaneous, and fiery. I’m quick to change plans and rush ahead into a new set of plans regardless of the chores I have awaiting for me at home.
But, Monday-Friday, I find a strange comfort in my incremental morning routine. It’s the time of day, right before the rat race of my existence takes hold. It is the time of day that my steady pace is my own.
I awake at 5am, live in a state of denial for five to ten minutes of my brutal and cruel alarm clock. I finally get out of bed, grab my puppy from his cage, and take him outside along with my seasoned twelve year old dog. Then it’s feeding for the pups, and coffee prep time for me. Then I do yoga stretches for ten to fifteen minutes while I’m trying to fend the puppy off from eating my face. My ear drums flood with the meditative hums of Yoga music. Then, another ten minutes of a prolonged trip outside with the dogs for exertion and relief. Finally, I return inside to awake my two children to start their morning routines.
The ritualistic devotion to which I hold my private routine surprises me. I watch the clock checking off the minutes that each portion of the routine occupies. Any deviation in it, I feel like a daggered betrayal.
For someone whose fire is fueled by spontaneity, who has a deep necessity to escape the busied rat race, and the jostle of my life; this routine is mine. A time and space that I can control without any outside will or force intruding on it.
It’s a comforting straightjacket I zip up myself before the real madness begins.