Tiny House Morning Routine

I wake before dawn—which is easy because it doesn’t start to get light until 7:15. I turn up the heat on my way to the bathroom, after which, I take off my sleep slippers and put on my regular slippers with rubber tread. On the back of my door are coats and fleeces; I put on my corduroy shirt, more of an overshirt with pockets, and turn on the lights and flip the switch on the kettle. The ceramic tiles are still cold as I get down and do a series of stretches—yet the exertion also warms me up. By the time I’m done the tea is ready.

At the same time I’m firing up the computer. At night I close the lid and put a throw on top. Corners of the Tiny House can get cold and, since I know nothing of how these things work, I comfort and baby the machine that runs my life. The computer whirls awake and I’ll click on NPR news and select the stories I want to hear. Sorry no Gaza, no school shootings—mostly weather and politics (which is scary enough). By now the Tiny House is warming up, the mini split set at 67 or whatever. The fan on the light pushes the air down into the cold corners. Nevertheless, I put the computer throw over my lap and begin to tap away at morning pages, what might turn into a blog post. I’m thinking about writing about the blizzard, how the store shelves were cleared of snacks, how despite the dire warnings people were still out driving, their animal instincts telling them to fill up on chips and soda—just in case.

Not sure that equates.

After writing for a while, whatever we want to call it, I think about breakfast. On these cold mornings I want hot oatmeal or grits, Perhaps, a grapefruit. This a.m. I squeezed oranges for a quick juice. Still coming back from the upper respiratory bug which hit me over the holidays. Also still musing about the scramble for snacks during a crisis—is there a story there?

I do more serious writing after eating. Writing, meaning, I work on submissions, revising, organizing notes. Mostly, again, sitting and thinking, hoping for an interruption. By now the sun is up, out, white, pale, not really shining, casting no shadows nor illuminating, but just there, announcing a new day, revealing the blobs of snow decorating tree boughs, the strip of snow blanketing the fence top. Or perhaps new snow, flakes falling from the sky, drifting down. They’re not thinking about Gaza either, they have no capacity for school shootings; they just are. Come what may—in a few days melted away or piled up by the driveway, sooty from car exhaust, trampled upon on our way to the garbage bin. For nature it is about the cycle of life—then why do I take it all so personally? By now it is time to stop all this introspection and get dressed—either for a run before work, or if I’ve left it for too late, to actually hurry and get ready to leave.

Whereupon I turn down the heat, turn off the ceiling fan/light, but turn on the grow lamps for my plants, for the orchid about to break out five new blossoms, the buds hardening into fat balls, while the other orchids lie dormant, wondering what it’s like to be vibrant, alive on this cold winter’s day. I shut the door behind me.