I think I’ve gotten too far into routine. I may have to switch it up a bit.
Looking back on the last couple of weeks, my mornings, without exception have always included getting up, putting coffee on to brew, then sitting on my couch in the same spot with the same lamp turned on and my feet elevated on the same ottoman, as I read a chapter or so from the Old Testament.
Not bad you would think. Devoting a little time spiritually, if nothing else as an act of faith or an offering; time being a million times more valuable than money ever could be.
My days have gone this way for a month or so. Often this time on my couch, in my proverbial “spot” has included reading some poetry and prose; I’m currently on my third collection of Jack Gilbert’s work in the former, and am enjoying with odd satisfaction the style of Jane Austen in “Pride and Prejudice” in the case of the later.
Still, I’ve felt disinclined to write. Initially, the coziness and inspiration of all three books led me to write with a fire I’d only encountered in my life when in love.
Lately, that’s disappeared.
The truth this, I don’t believe I like routine. I love the solitude and the comfort my place offers; the lights all have lightbulbs in them that exude the perfect, non-flourescent, style light that lends one to think of fireplaces or 18th-century libraries back before televisions.
Still, I think I shall shift things around a bit tonight in preparation for tomorrow morning. I’ll spend today planning it in my free time. Maybe I’ll skip coffee, maybe I’ll move the coach, maybe I’ll do both. Maybe I’ll flip my whole day around.
Routine is only helpful as long as it produces what the performer wants. I, however, want creativity and freshness, and to see things in new light from new angles in ever-evolving ways.
I suppose that means routine must routinely be adjusted.