Routine

I wake up at the same time (give or take 5 minutes) every day.

Like clockwork, I then totter to the bathroom, pee, and brush my teeth.  I put on my same yoga shorts, come downstairs, start my coffee, putting the Bialetti espresso pot on the large burner of the stove, the teakettle on the smaller.

I scoop the specified amount of dog food from the dog food bag, place the bowl at the identical spot on the floor, and routinely step back for the dog to eat.

I do my stomach exercises with the universally predictable and regular result.

I let the dog out into the backyard, where she essentially has the same experience.

I pour my coffee into the cup I use every day and add the same amount of water to make my morning Americano.

I sit in the same chair, at the same place by the table, open the Seattle Times replica edition on my laptop, and begin drinking my coffee.

The dog barks to be let in.  I rise to do so.

I finish my coffee after reading the online paper in the same order as always, including the same few comics and advice columns.

I put on the same stretch pants and wool jersey as every morning, leave the house  by the same door, take a bike (one of three) from the bike shed, and ride the identical route to the yoga studio, where I do pretty much the uniform series of postures every day.

I come home, shower and shave, unfailingly dress with a collared shirt, and then make one of several breakfast variations.  

I wash my dish or two, then, come rain or shine, walk the dog, the same six block route I take her on twice a day.

At home again, I sit in Vipassana meditation for 31 minutes.

Then, I dependably write a 327 word essay, which I afterwards, without fail, post online.

It’s different every time.