I am a person who likes a routine. Routines for the kids, for myself, for cleaning, for cooking. They make life feel easier; I get more done with less stress. I find calmness in my daily, weekly, monthly routines. And since meditation is something I cannot for the life of me manage, I take calmness where I can get it.
Last week: I went to bed Sunday night feverish and with a headache. I woke up feeling worse. And as one day turned into two, and all I felt was worse and worse, I drug myself to the doctor and was immediately diagnosed with pneumonia. I was directed to stay in bed, to sleep, to drink water. I was not to do any housework, I was not to drive, I was not to work, I was not to pick up my children. All my routines slipped through my fingers into a cloud of achy sleep.
When I managed to be awake, I watched my husband as he did e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g. All the household things, all his work things, all the kids things, all of my things. All the routines. Not how I do routines. Not necessarily the way I do things. But everything, EVERYTHING, got done. Without compliant, with patience and love. And I love him for it. And I love that I am growing enough to have the grace to let my well loved routines go, to not panic when things aren't just so, to rest when I need to and let other, wonderfully capable and loving hands, take over.
This morning, feeling better, getting back to normal, I sat down to my normal morning routine. I sat down with a cup of black coffee and my bullet journal and planned my day out. I was thankful to be well, to have a loving family, and a partner who is truly that, and to be back to my own form of meditation. To my daily routines, which I cherish and love and am grateful to share with this little family of mine.