365 True Things: 81/Morning (6/17/15)

Woke up this morning to the sound of the radio downstairs.

That's something I don't do: listen to the radio or watch TV in the morning. These days, virtually the only time I listen to the radio is while I'm driving.

Me, I like a quiet morning. I'm not even crazy about saying "Good morning," should someone else have the misfortune of being in "my" space in the morning. Silence is my idea of the way to start the day.

When David was gone, I managed to get into a little routine that I liked: I'd get up and put the coffee on; check email and FB while it brewed. As soon as it was done, I'd pour a cup, then go upstairs and read poetry while I sipped. When the cup was finished, I'd meditate for half an hour. Et voilà: my day had started.

After that, it was a crapshoot what would happen next. Routine isn't exactly my métier. But just that much of a routine felt somehow grounding. I kept meaning to try to add on other activities, make a mega-routine. But that didn't happen.

And then David came home, and since he gets up before I do, and makes the coffee, my old routine was shot. I could have invented a new one, I suppose. But it didn't occur to me. I was back to my old go-with-the-flow ways.

So this morning, lying in bed listening to the rumble of a commentator's voice—no words, just sound with a Scandinavian inflection—I pondered whether I should try to get a routine started again when I get home from vacation (and anything is possible!). I could take advantage of the coffee already being made and simply go upstairs and read poetry—skip making the coffee, skip email and FB. That's a possibility.

However, I also wonder if it might not be more beneficial to start the day with exercise: get on my bike in its trainer machine and cycle for twenty minutes, then do the seven-minute workout. That would be an excellent way to start the day.

Or I could start the day with some writing. This blog maybe, or a "15."

Maybe it would make sense to do the hardest thing first thing, and everything would seem easier after that.

The problem is, I'm not sure which of these things—meditation, exercise, or writing—feels "hardest." None of them is really hard; they're all things I enjoy doing. Once I'm doing them. (And definitely once I've finished doing them.)

The "hard" part, maybe, is figuring out how to string these various activities together. And that's all about transitions. Which is a whole nother ball o' wax.