Morning

Every morning since early this year – I would have to look up the exact date – I start the day with writing a number of pages. It is nothing fancy and certainly nothing read-worthy but it is a ritual that I have come to recognise as essential to my wellbeing.

Which is strange because I find myself struggling to find wellbeing recently.
(Imagine what a mess I would be if I didn’t write in the morning, I guess?)

I started with the full-on intention that I would continue to write Every Single Day and while the intention was serious, there was at that time already the little doubtful voice in the back of my head. The little voice that says ‘yeah yeah easy there grasshopper you won’t keep it up anyway nice try though’. My inner voice eschews punctuation. And then I did something extraordinary: I kept doing it, every morning, every day, a few pages a day.

Usually I write three pages. Sometimes more. Sometimes, when I am feeling particularly down or when I am in an extreme hurry, I write less. But I always write. And that feels nice because I am usually a giver-upper of such pursuits.

There is one snag. I wanted to write to get rid of some of the anxiety feelings I had during the day. But now I lie in bed in the morning trying to guess the time because I don’t want to miss my ‘quiet’ spot for writing when the rest of the family is still in bed and the house is mine alone. But I don’t want to get up every morning at 5 am either, just to be sure. Between 6 and 6:30 is the sweet spot.

How about you?

(Image: a steaming white cup of tea by sunrise. My view is less impressive, my cups usually more interesting.)