Sunrise, Sunset

Looking back, my childhood was shaped by man-made patterns. Or rather, "mom-made" patterns.

when all else fails, show a cat pic

Each day of the week, Mom established set tasks. Monday was laundry day, Tuesday was ironing, Wednesday was grocery shopping, Thursday and Friday were cleaning days. On Saturday, my Dad pottered around the house, fixing anything that needed fixing. Saturday night was bath night. Sunday was church day, we had a big mid-day meal, then Mom checked out. 

Week after week, year after year, the routine seldom varied. There was a rhythm to having your life scheduled, a certain comfort. A way to somehow control that which cannot, in the end, be controlled at all.

I recognize that as grownups, Mr. and I have developed our own patterns. Sort of.

As a work-from-home employee, my weekdays are pretty much all alike. I rise, feed the cat, exercise, eat breakfast and start working. I take a break to shower or make lunches or clear my head between tasks. 

Meanwhile, Mr. holds down the home front with his weekly routine chores. 

On the weekends, we do the libraries. I write my blog on Saturday morning. I have breakfast with my kid on Sunday, and that's the day I go grocery shopping.

While routine is just how we roll, it's really not the "living" part of life. I pause here and look out the window. It's lovely out. Maggie cat is stretched out, lazing in a few rays of sunshine. Birds are calling to one another. There's the sound of a distant train. And in my head, I hear Connie Schultz instructing me to "breathe." 

So I do. 

Having a routine is all well and good, but it's the bubbles of light in between that make everything worthwhile.