Waking moments.

Living in a small space (200 sq. ft.) forces me to attempt to be organized—no small feat for a champion information junkie and stacker of important things that can’t be thrown away. Add to the mix, a partner who dribbles nails and assorted metal things around and some days it looks as though a williwaw breezed in for a visit.

Mostly we do well living in closeness, however, there are mornings—like this one—when the cooperative dance falters. I think, mostly, that I spend many hours of my life in simple rhythms. I wake at the same time, make my coffee, feed the cats, bathe, and dress. Each step measured to get me to work at the same time each workday. This morning, because Tim had the day off and was taking up “my” space, my rhythm was jazzed. I was uncomfortable and that feeling leeched out into the cabin. Even the cats, it seemed, felt my discomfort; loudly mewing in long, lingering sentences. Or perhaps, they, too, were merely voicing their concern about the shift in the morning routine.

While I usually find the rhythms soothing—a morning meditation, I pondered as I drove out Happytown Road this morning. When does the rhythm becomes a rut? At what moment is that shift made? Or is it the intent—conscious or unconscious—that matters?

Then I found myself turning into the drive at work. And another morning rhythm was shot. I hadn’t checked for the husky, looked for the eagle, or noticed whether the sheep were out.

Maybe my rhythms serve to set up those moments of dissonance that move me out of comfort. Offering me a moment to ponder why the rhythm and does it still serve me well.