I resolve to rise.
I remove my mask and search for the alcohol spray to sanitize the surface.
I hand the mask upside down by a small black clamp I have on my headboard. I do this so no particles or cat hair settle in the inside of the mask throughout the day.
Spray, Spray, Spray.
I sit on the edge of the bed. I shift my awareness to my feet and notice which joints are stiff, sore, or sticky.
Maybe I play with the sensation left behind from whatever dream I just had. I try to remember the details, but my mind is already sweeping out the sparks, confetti, and dust.
I stand up and walk into the bathroom. Toilet. I brush my teeth.
The feeling is… foggy, stateless.
I have only the minimum sense of my bearings.
I put the kettle on. My favorite coffee for the last few years is an arabica by “Pride of Arabia”. It is not even the slightest bit bitter.
Grind, grind, grind.
During coffee preparation, still, on autopilot, I will likely notice my thirst for the first time and, well before the kettle is done and the coffee is made, I’ll have at least a half glass of water. More than that I risk the feeling of having a rock in my stomach.
I will feel the impulse to sit at my computer or check my phone. Lately, I have been successfully subverting that urge, instead of moving to the couch, crawling under a blanket and writing in longhand. I feel a twinge of loss because this practice has replaced meditation as a morning ritual. I say “replace” because of the trade of the time. The two things, writing in longhand and meditation are similar in how they calm my mind and give me a sense of mindfulness. They are both very singular processes that require a distinct kind of focus.
I will write using thinking tools or I don’t. I collect questions and frameworks in a kind of inspiration chemistry-set in case I need to unblock myself.
At this time of day, no unblocking is required.
I like writing in a narrow rule book because I like the rhythm it forces my script into. I enjoy the slow languid motion as I empty my pen.
I have an aversion to what I would characterize as work. I accomplish much in my life because many of the things I can do competently, I don’t really consider work. Most of the time the trick is figuring out how to begin.
At some point, I can feel my brain wake up. I continue to write. At the point where I feel some undefined hunger has been satisfied, I get up and move to my desk.
I feel compelled to shift into high gear.
What will today be?
