Routines

Last night I was given a prompt to write a blog about routines.  This was during a monthly writing workshop at a local public library.  I noticed I immediately launched into a diary of a day in my life. 

What is a routine?  At the end of my writing last night, I questioned the definition: when I am tromping around on the same trail in the woods, my dog is relishing the new smells wafting her way.  Here is what I wrote: For Polly it’s always fresh in smells and sounds, squirrel trails and neighbor dogs.  Letting the stale, inside air leave her body, filling herself up before curling up for a long nap at home.

 Later on, I found myself pondering routines and early this morning, while writing in my trusty notebook, some ideas came to light.

 I have been wrestling with the idea of routine all my life.  I blame my Mom and her schedules: breakfast, cleaning, shopping, etc.  It all seemed to have a place in a weekly schedule.  Benefits to me: food on the table; clean house; clean clothes; comfort: certainty.  Detractors: lack of warmth, spontaneity, and passion.  Interruptions by noisy, messy children not tolerated so well.  So did I trade my passion for perfection?  Feels too global to me, in any given moment, a thousand possibilities come forward.

So washing the dishes: the warmth of the water tempering the cold of the hands.  The sticky crud on the dishes challenged by the slippery soap.  A bubble floats free of the bottle, traveling briefly before landing lightly, trembling and vanishes.  Do I really believe at 8:05 AM tomorrow that same bubble will show up?