As a single, I find rhythm elusive. An American staple: the morning routine of packing children’s lunches, setting out clothes to wear, fixing hubby’s tie are not anything I can relate to; nor is the dutiful routine to which I had grown accustomed: getting up at 4:30am to prepare my disabled friend for his medical transport. I do not have pressing matters or pets giving me longing pitiful stares to be let out. I do not even have an iteration of morning routine–that I could refer to–which will alleviate this uneasiness with the new Time I’ve been granted.
“The Time Is Out of Joint. Oh cursed spite! That ever I was born to set it right!” ~William Shakespeare’s Hamlet
I realize that this is the source of my worry: Time. Pace is by design a method to keep Time, to march to its pervasive beats, to keep in step. Each step is leading us to the slow inevitability of aging, a reminder of our mortality. When given an abundance of Time to do with as one pleases, some feel completely comfortable. They plot and chart a course and head peacefully in that direction. I, on the other hand, panic. I am alone at sea calling out a distress signal to be saved by some marauding band of pirates ready to capsize me! <= Was that a wee-bit overstated? Dang you, imagination!
My days begin by officially deciding to wake up. Even this part of the Art of Routine has been a challenge. You see, my waking self says, “Up and At ‘Em! Come on Champ! One more round to go in The Awesomeness that is your life!!” and that self is pushed by the wayside from my inner Eeyore who says, “Not today, Pooh. I’m tiiiiiiiired.” The daily battle wages on…
My goal is to reach the very Zen state of a rolling tumbleweed. It presumably gets up, pushed by the wind, steadily following its momentum, its trajectory. Only age and wear and tear and the occasional cowboy kick can interrupt it until it’s ready to go to that scrap yard in the sky.
I can live with that.