For me, some days are held together not by plans or resolutions but by the small rituals that steady me. A cup of coffee brewing in the kitchen. The soft thump and scratch of Auggie landing on the floor after his nap. A pot of soup simmering quietly on the stove. These invisible threads can pull me back into myself when the world begins to feel loud or tilted.
Today was that sort of day for me. I had finally carved out enough time to settle in for a couple of hours’ work on my collection of recipes. November was truly a “month from hell” for me, loaded with plumbing problems, grocery-budget crunching that involves a lot of plant-based proteins, and various shenanigans with my medications as I deal with a brand-new issue: backaches! I was truly happy to see the month draw to a close and hoped only that the screen door didn’t bang it on the arse on its way out.
But ah, today. Up at 7:30, medications smooth, an assortment of fiddly little issues like appointments handled and scheduled. Even the last dish, washed and in the drainer, cried out its permission for me to go ahead and get lost in whatever I wished to do. Would it be a nap? A brand-new Scotland-based murder mystery waiting on my Kindle? Or perhaps a little Jane fanfiction, somewhat risqué, that I’d had my eye on?
First a bowl of soup. I brought my latest culinary experiment back to a simmer in the big iron pot—beans and ham, perfect for the chill outside. Auggie sat and watched me reproachfully as I settled in with the soup in my favorite red bowl.
“Rrrrrrr-owl!” he finally said, giving me the full accusatory stare. Two or three of his favorite cat crunchies soon settled him, and I set to work on my chosen task: compiling my recipes and making them presentable and easy to find. It’s not difficult or demanding, but it is absorbing as one tries to find the clearest way of arranging and organizing a recipe.
I was surprised to look up and find it was nearly three, time again for the perpetual medication cycle. A little pot of coffee would be the perfect accompaniment. I carried my lunch dishes to the kitchen, set the water on to boil, and scooped the coffee into the French press. I returned to my recipe work barely conscious of having interrupted it.
Six o’clock brought its own alarms to break into the quiet: An incomprehensible call from an Instacart delivery person. When I finally figured out what the lady wanted, it turned out she was looking for my daughter-in-law, who shares my last name with my son. I swore by all that is sacred that I would contact that daughter-in-law and pass along the message that the missing bag from her delivery was on its way. I kept my promise faithfully, happy to learn that the message meant a lot more to my kids than it did to me. And by then it was time to put away the recipe work, feed the cat, see to dinner, and settle in to write this post.
I’m glad for days like this. I’m grateful for the small rituals involving cat, soup, and coffee—the days when all that’s necessary is to sit still and wait for the kettle to boil.
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