Routines can be cool. Essentially, they are patterns of behavior that we plan for ourselves so we don’t have to make decisions on the spot. People who study behavior, be they psychologists, social scientists, or even economists, say routines can provide much needed structure to our lives. They can prevent wasted time and effort; they maximize our productivity. But too much routine has its downside: it makes every day the same. And, sometimes, it can amputate chunks of one’s soul.
As a teacher, I know routines well because school life is built on them. A regular schedule gives the hundreds (or thousands) of students in any given school the structure they need to grow and, just as importantly, to stay out of trouble. Solid routines keep things moving, nudge people back on track when necessary, and provide us all with a clearly defined beginning and end to our tasks and our days. That’s all good; no argument there.
But even if every day isn’t exactly the same as the one before, it can still feel that way if too much of my time is governed by routines, habits, and productivity. Usually productivity is good; it means I’m walking my talk instead of procrastinating. I’m doing the work. Too much productivity, however, is overwhelming and oppressive. Numbing. And it sneaks up on me. I’m rolling along, feeling good about finishing projects, getting packages in the mail, mowing the lawn. Then I realize several months of my life have disappeared. And I hadn’t even noticed.
That realization is not welcome, but it’s unavoidable. It’s real and gritty enough to make fantasies of quitting my job and living on my own terms nearly irresistible. That time will come soon enough, but I don’t think I need to do that right now to get a little relief. Instead, I can make a conscious effort to shake things up here and there. If I’m being crushed into a brain-numbing existence, it’s my own fault.
So, where to begin? The obvious answer is my morning routine. Right now it’s prep all the pets’ meals (which includes cutting up greens and fruit for the bearded dragons), write for about 30 minutes accompanied by my first cup of coffee, then walk the dogs around the block before feeding them. After that, I brew my second cup of joe and get ready for work. Sounds less than awe inspiring to most, but including that thirty minutes of writing has been revolutionary. I added it about six months ago and it literally gets me out of bed. Yeah, I have to get out of bed anyway, but it’s easier because I get to do something that’s creative. And purely for myself.
My writing is something I create because I want to, not because it’s a job requirement. I don’t always put out as many words or fill as many pages or make as many creative decisions as I hope to, but just allowing myself the time to try is a victory. It means I value my personal work, that I’m committing time and energy to it before I do anything else in the day. It’s painful and disappointing sometimes, but I never regret any time I spend writing. So I guess that’s one thing: more writing time.
Same thing with the hounds. Every walk, trip to the park, or drive to the store with them is an adventure. Watching them run off leash through trails or on the beach is incredibly uplifting. Their tails curl up into question marks; their ears bounce symmetrically; and they look over their shoulders at me every so often with what appear to be smiles. I’m a sucker for all that; I never feel like I should spend less time with them.
I guess that’s the ticket: find the activities that generate energy instead of draining it. And do them more frequently. Even if it’s a work day or late on a Sunday evening. As I write this, the dogs look over at me every now and then, seeming to agree.
And smiling.