I am running into a new year, the title of a poem by Lucille Clifton, was the first line I jotted down in my notebook this morning, the first day of 2014. I am aware that by tomorrow, my feet will be running on that treadmill of life. It is happening much too quickly, as Clifton’s words suggest. The truth is, I haven’t had much time to think about the advent of a new year, returning only last night from a week in Toronto, Canada, sharing the Christmas holiday with my daughter and her family and, in the process, looking back more than forward.
Toronto is the city I still think of as “home,” or indeed, as more “home” than any place I’ve lived since our return to California several years ago. Even in the aftermath of a record-breaking ice storm there, power outages, city streets lined with broken trees and ice-covered sidewalks keeping us housebound for a few days, the time was filled with reminders of time past: a granddaughter who bears an uncanny resemblance to her mother as a preschooler, driving past familiar landmarks, short walks around the neighborhood where I lived and studied so many years ago. For much of the time, the past occupied my thoughts, certainly not the future, and I was filled with longing for my old Toronto life.
“So when are you moving back?” My daughter asked us this many times, but old friends did too. We were vague in our replies. Our intent, whenever that foreign concept of “retirement” defines our lives, is to make Toronto our home base once again, but, as we experienced Canadian winter over several days, that probability sometimes blurred. “Soon,” was as definite a response I could muster. My husband hates the cold, and enough to delay any move to a place where winter exists in full force, which means we’ll compromise—time there; time in warmer climes. Yet, as we braced ourselves for the dash to our son-in-law’s car for the drive to the airport yesterday—the thermometer dipping well below zero and accompanied by wind chill—I blurted out that, for once, I was happy to return to San Diego (a remark my husband will likely repeat any time we have the “when and where shall we move” discussion).
But it was much, much more than mild weather that beckoned us home. We both missed the comfort of our own space and routines. Guests for a week, we slept in unfamiliar beds and lived out of suitcases. Our waking hours were focused on our granddaughter but, as we knelt and rose repeatedly from the floor where we played together, we winced with discomfort, knees aching. Any “quiet” time we had depended on her naps and bedtime, and with the cost of roaming fees for our mobile phones and infrequent internet access, communication with the outside world was limited. We realized how much our lives are defined by certain daily routines, maybe even more we liked to admit. When we returned to San Diego last night, with little more than an hour left of the old year, each of us breathed an audible sigh as we entered our house. The longed-for familiarity and comfort greeted us with a silent “Welcome home.”
It was more than just the familiar. Coming into our house and space signaled a return to the daily life that is ours, its predictable comings and goings, freedom to move through the day as we each prefer. It was the little daily rituals that mark our lives, the ones that ground us, that say, “Yes, you are home.” Home, I realized, is as much tied to the familiar as anything.
Today, this first day of the New Year, those rituals pulled me back into my life, the here and now. I rose early, as is my habit, grateful for the quiet of early morning. After grinding the beans ground to a fine powder for morning coffee, with Bach playing quietly in the background and my notebook in hand, I sat down in my usual spot to gaze out at the morning light and, after an unintended week’s hiatus, began to write.
The shoes put on each time
left first, then right.
The morning potion’s teaspoon
of sweetness stirred always
for seven circlings—no fewer, no more—
into the cracked blue cup…
How did we come to believe these small rituals’ promise
than we are today the selves we yesterday knew,
tomorrow will be?
(From: “Habit,” by Jane Hirshfield, in Given Sugar, Given Salt, 2002)
My little rituals and routines help me feel grounded, connected to the world. In times of upheaval or struggle, our rituals can be a source of comfort, talismen against fear, an assurance that life will go on. I know that by tomorrow, the new year will be pulling me headlong into the busy-ness of life: course preparation, teaching schedules, appointments, household tasks, and social commitments. There is excitement, promise and possibility in it all, but I need the assurance, the comfort of small quiet moments, my little daily rituals that help me remember who I am, once was and will be.
Write about habit, the things that offer you calm, connection or renewal in life. Write about the promise to be found in the small rituals you keep.
I wish you all a new year filled with promise and the joy of life fully lived each day.
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