I've always imagined that my best life would be predicated on a strict routine. Yet it's usually eluded me. There was a brief period a couple weeks ago where I at least forced myself to floss and exercise every night but even that quickly fell by the wayside. It hasn't helped that without a standard 9-5 job, and in isolation where there's no subtle pressure to match sleeping schedules, I've drifted into staying awake until 3am. I suppose there isn't anything inherently wrong with that, except I have a very hard time doing anything productive once the sun has set. If I can't get a reasonably early start, it feels futile to even bother.
So last night, I wrote down a detailed list. Awake at 6:30, coffee, cereal, shower, shave, teeth, prayer/devotion, clean kitchen, go to the dump, replace smoke alarm battery. I did manage to get up with the alarm at 6:30, quite an accomplishment since I wasn't asleep until well past 3. But felt so tired as I managed to check everything off the morning list, I had a hard time imagining I'd be productive for my planned work. But with the first items all checked off, apart from showering/shaving/teeth, I let myself lie down for a bit and watched a short film called David and felt reasonably well rested by the time I got in the shower around 8:45am.
Sitting down now to start on the task list of work items for the 9-5 shift at 9:30, which isn't too terribly tardy, and hoping that I can end the day with some sense of satisfaction and accomplishment, and go to sleep tired at a reasonable time, and feel inclined to do it all again tomorrow.
Having so strict a routine seems like an impossible fantasy after 35 years of wanting it but proving incapable, but hopefully the poem that once caught my attention in a book of Religious Verse I inherited from my grandfather can be believed:
Have we not all, amid life’s petty strife,
Some pure ideal of a noble life
That once seemed possible? Did we not hear
The flutter of its wings, and feel it near,
And just within our reach? It was. And yet
We lost it in this daily jar and fret,
And now live idle in a vague regret;
But still our place is kept, and it will wait,
Ready for us to fill it, soon or late.
No star is ever lost we once have seen,
We always may be what we might have been.
Since good, tho’ only thought, has life and breath,
God’s life—can always be redeemed from death;
And evil, in its nature, is decay,
And any hour can blot it all away;
The hopes that, lost, in some far distance seem.
May be the truer life, and this the dream.
The Sower
Having finally got the boy to sleep, he walked to his son’s small desk and unwrapped the brown paper covering the box.
It had been almost impossible not to open it earlier, but he knew if he didn't wait until after bedtime, he would feel compelled to tell the boy everything about the grandfather he would never know--not to mention about himself--and he just wasn’t up to it.
Carefully clicking on the desk lamp and looking back to make sure it hadn’t disturbed the boy, he opened the box to find a small black notebook nested in several stacks of unbent hundred-dollar bills. He flipped through the dog-eared pages and pressed his nose to the inner binding, breathing in the smell of ancient paper--like damp wood and burnt, bitter vanilla--then set it down on the surface of the desk and gathered and counted each bill. Two hundred of them in all. Twenty thousand dollars.
There was an instant of excitement, vaguely familiar, in thinking what sorts of things he could do with that much money. But just as quickly it dissolved with the certainty that he could never spend it.
He picked the notebook up, turned the cover back gently, and began to read the handwriting he had seen so many times before.
He drew a long breath before taking a pen from his pocket and jotting something out beneath the final line.
Then, replacing the book carefully in the box atop the spread of ancient, dusty bills, he redid the wrapping, offered a last glance at his sleeping son, clicked off the desk lamp and stepped out through the doorway, leaving it open a crack so that if the boy woke frightened and lonesome in the dark, some light from the hallway might bleed through.
Managed to get up with the alarm at 6:30am today after being successful yesterday at sticking to my schedule. Was a bit disappointed that doing so didn't fill me with any greater sense of satisfaction, but I suppose that's to be expected. In any attempt to put one's life more in line with what one wishes it looked like, the real satisfaction is probably more the lack of dissatisfaction than any daily reward.
I did encounter the recurring and underlying issue right away though when deciding whether to take a shower. I didn't feel particularly inclined to. Knowing I won't see anyone today, and having a completely sedentary lifestyle, it's hard to justify a daily shower. I wound up Googling whether daily showers are beneficial and found a medical report that said no; that if anything, daily showers can remove the oil and bacteria that are meant to be a part of our immune system, and dry out our skin. I had a laugh when the doctor who wrote the piece concluded "Of course, if you're like me, you'll never want to give up your daily shower..." since there's enough of a stigma that he felt the need to make sure every reader knew "but I shower daily, obviously."
But so much of the trouble with routine does seem to boil down to daily questioning every aspect of it. Do I need to shower? Do I need to put on decent cloths? Do I need to wake up early? Do I need to start working at 9?
Inevitably the answer to any single question is often "no", but in removing any piece of routine, the whole thing becomes very precarious.
Just the same, I passed on the shower.
So last night, I wrote down a detailed list. Awake at 6:30, coffee, cereal, shower, shave, teeth, prayer/devotion, clean kitchen, go to the dump, replace smoke alarm battery. I did manage to get up with the alarm at 6:30, quite an accomplishment since I wasn't asleep until well past 3. But felt so tired as I managed to check everything off the morning list, I had a hard time imagining I'd be productive for my planned work. But with the first items all checked off, apart from showering/shaving/teeth, I let myself lie down for a bit and watched a short film called David and felt reasonably well rested by the time I got in the shower around 8:45am.
Sitting down now to start on the task list of work items for the 9-5 shift at 9:30, which isn't too terribly tardy, and hoping that I can end the day with some sense of satisfaction and accomplishment, and go to sleep tired at a reasonable time, and feel inclined to do it all again tomorrow.
Having so strict a routine seems like an impossible fantasy after 35 years of wanting it but proving incapable, but hopefully the poem that once caught my attention in a book of Religious Verse I inherited from my grandfather can be believed:
Have we not all, amid life’s petty strife,
Some pure ideal of a noble life
That once seemed possible? Did we not hear
The flutter of its wings, and feel it near,
And just within our reach? It was. And yet
We lost it in this daily jar and fret,
And now live idle in a vague regret;
But still our place is kept, and it will wait,
Ready for us to fill it, soon or late.
No star is ever lost we once have seen,
We always may be what we might have been.
Since good, tho’ only thought, has life and breath,
God’s life—can always be redeemed from death;
And evil, in its nature, is decay,
And any hour can blot it all away;
The hopes that, lost, in some far distance seem.
May be the truer life, and this the dream.