Routine, and the Order of Things
When I arrived home from Scotland, I found myself at the kitchen sink within half an hour – washing up cups, plates, and cutlery, and putting things away in the kitchen cupboards. Every time I opened a cupboard I found something that didn't belong, or something out of place. It struck me how many small rules we invent to establish an “order of things” around us.
I found cereal bowls stacked differently, spoons among the forks, and a hundred other things. Tiny differences to my “normal”. Some people would probably label me “obsessive compulsive”, but I would disagree. It's not that Ihave to arrange things in an orderly manner – it's more that I wouldlike to arrange them so, if I have the opportunity. Given that the rest of the house is barely disguised from mayhem, at least the kitchen is predictable. The cups go inthat cupboard. The wine glasses gothere. The tumblers gothere. It's not difficult stuff, but I seem to be the only person that cares about it.
Being back in the routine of the morning rush has been strangely comforting.
In the hotel over the last few weeks I imposed a routine on myself – getting up at a certain time, showering by a certain time, eating breakfast at a certain time, all in order to leave the hotel in time to arrive at the client site in time. “In time” seems to rule most of the things that happen on a morning for me.
Now I am home again, during the week everything is predicated around “the time at which we must leave the house, in order to arrive at School on time”. We are ruled by the ticking of the clock. At the weekends, the clock ticks towards the time by which the younger children must arrive at their swimming lessons, football, and rugby practices. Tick tock, tick tock.
When we first adopted the children we heard again and again that children “like” rules. I can't help feeling that rules, constraints, obligations, and expectations harm creativity in a way I don't like. Sitting down and doing nothing – daydreaming – has almost become outlawed, and that seems like a great shame.
While walking in the Eildon Hills last weekend, I was alone with my thoughts for the best part of 8 hours. I didn't listen to music, and didn't see another soul for the better part of the journey. A lot of my thoughts surrounded where I was, where I was going, and how much my feet hurt, but the rest of my brain was entirely disengaged for the first time inyears. I didn't realise it at the time, but it feltgood.