Routines are nice as long as they don’t become ruts. Routines are not the same as schedules. A schedule seems rather inflexible and fixed, but a routine is a pattern that gives meaning to a day. Routines are more like tribal customs.
In the dim, dark ages that many people have never experienced, those days before hand-held computers and cameras and iPads and iPhones, my tribe was a small but fun group consisting of Lola, Carol, and me. We shared the miseries of late-night studying for exams and discussing the merits or idiosyncrasies of various professors. To have fun, we drove to the Longhorn restaurant for a Coke. If we were flush with money, say an extra dollar, we had a hamburger to go with it. These were not silent occasions. We talked and giggled about boyfriends, our hopes and dreams, and if the car whichever one of us was driving had enough gas to drag Main. Sometimes we were just silly. We laughed and joked about everything or nothing.
Fran’s house 2016
Life changes our tribes and our tribal customs. I still like a Coke but drink a lot more coffee than when I was younger. When meeting with friends, we talk about writing, books, grandchildren, and the rising cost of everything. The tribal feeling is still there, the warmth of understanding and shared values. Sometimes even grandmas and white-haired authors laugh, giggle, and have a good time. Only now, I think those times are valued more.
This morning, as I look out at a dark and damp day, my cup of Folgers in front of me, I begin my day with you, my readers. I know most of you only through the merits of the internet, but I know you are there, my far-flung friends, and I like the custom of beginning the day with coffee and you. This has become my routine, giving meaning to the start of another day.
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