I am often critical of myself when it comes to routines and rituals. ADHD in my brain has meant that most of my life, I’ve tried to adhere to what people suggested or human best practices that left me feeling as if I couldn’t do anything right.
As I have aged, I have started giving less and less fucks about what other people think and how other people do the things.
This past spring, I had a chance to spend entirely too little time with my friend and editor, Denene Millner. As we discussed future projects and I exposed all the open idea/drafts tabs in my head, she made a comment that had me questioning the entirety of how I had operated up until then.
“Ma’am, you do realize that’s your process, right?” She was attempting to stave off the over-explaining of how I should be writing, how I should be scheduling time into the day, how I should be blocking off time or getting up at the ass-crack of dawn to pen the next thing. When in fact, I’m the person that will see a squirrel one day and then remember a poem or a blog post that I wrote about a squirrel that has me pulling out the thing and then drafting v1 of a children’s book. It seems so simple. But it takes me so long to get there.
I do have a routine. I do have a ritual. It just has never looked like what others do. It never will. And I’m tired of beating myself up about it. I don’t think she realized it then, but that conversation with Denene reset the way I think of myself, my routines, and my rituals. It allowed for a forgiveness of self, for an apology to my brain for thinking it was never right simply because it didn’t match what I heard, what I saw.
I am captivated by the simplest things. I draft a poem every morning. It never gets written down, though. My routines don’t look like everyone else’s.
This morning I was reminded that my morning ritual is sacred. No, it’s not waking up at the ass-crack of dawn and doing yoga or meditating before a healthy breakfast and a cup of coffee or tea that I take under my pergola before gliding into my office.
I drive baby girl to school every morning. So yes, I still wake up at the ass-crack of dawn. And I definitely make sure I have a cup of coffee as I head out. That’s where the similarities end between my dream “perfect soft start” and my reality.
I usually head to the car with my coffee cup and water bottle. As I walk to the car, I inevitably notice the sky. I rush to put my things in their designated spaces and on days like today, I pull out my phone and take my place on the running board of the SUV. This is what I snapped today.
I then drive to school, occasionally pointing out a particular set of clouds, or a certain hue in the sky so that the kid, still half wishing I’d tell her she never has to go to school, can take it in as well. I want to pass on the magic of the sky and I often wonder if she’s getting it.
After dropping her off, I snake my way back home, with a new outlook on the sky, brighter colors, differently shaped clouds. I cannot escape a sense of wonder, even on the days when I am in pain, anxious, or cycling through a mental to do list.
The sun is my ritual. It’s a quiet promise that things will be okay. A glimmer of light that pulls hope along with it, like a child dragging a stuffed lion by its tail on the way to snuggle up on the couch.
The sun is my connection to those that came before me. I often wonder if I’m the only one in my family to be struck on a regular basis by the colors I find in the sky, and the simultaneous prayers that form on my lips at the sight.
As I drive, I write love poems in my head. I write poems of grief, of gratitude. I delight in the sun and ask it to please not get any hotter because, damn, this was not the heat that Whitney sang about. I smile. I relax into myself. Into all the versions of me that there have been, all the ones that this sun has witnessed.
Some days, I head to the backyard for sunset. It’s a lovely routine that I’ve developed with The Mister. I often comment about the fact that we now know why old people sat on their porches after dinner. We can spend hours back there, if not for the fading of our warmth and light. If not for what I have dubbed the night crew (the bugs and the bats top that list). There, I write sonnets for the bees, visiting the flowers one last time before heading to their hives. There, I tell stories with my eyes, I make pronouncements with my smile, and I come to conclusions with the sighs of relief that are borne out of safety.
When we are not together, I might still send a quick pic of what my eyes are trained on. Or, he might interrupt me to let me know he’s looking at a fantastic vision in the sky as he makes his way to or from work.
The sky is my ritual. When I cannot see the sun, I let the sound of the rain be the backdrop of my thoughts, the cadence to my beating heart.
I’ve learned to pull over and hit record on my voice recorder or simply type a few words that will hopefully bring me back to whatever thought has captivated me in that moment.
These words come to you today courtesy of this image:
I couldn’t capture the image I saw as I drove back home, though. The bubble that rose beyond the horizon, glazed in a yellow I will never be able to duplicate. At least not with my camera.
My heart, though? My heart logged it as it normally does. With a note to tell someone about all the things it sees as I glide through my very own morning ritual that looks like nothing I ever expected it to be.
Do you have a ritual? What’s your morning routine?
This is beautiful! Now that my daily routine has changed, I’m in the process of carving out moments of peace and “meaning” like this.
Oh, the beauty of a sacred ritual that matters only to you. I love this for you, my friend.