Routines

Are traditions the same thing as routines, they're just done less frequently? And if the tradition is both loved and hated, what does that mean? On today's Keepin It Real, Cam shares that he both loves and hates them. 

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I have a routine that I practice nearly every day. I both look forward to it and hate it. I wake up shortly after 5am. I have clothes laid out on a chair next to the bed and I dress and go into the kitchen and start the coffee. I fold laundry while it brews. I then pour myself a cup and sit in my morning chair and write in my journal for about thirty minutes. I then review my calendar for the day, make a to-do list, boil an egg for breakfast, shower, dress, and head into the office. It’s the same thing every weekday. I love my routine. It’s helpful. It grounds me. It’s something I can control. It’s a predictable thing in this unpredictable world. It’s reliable and I like that.

At the very same time, I also hate my routine. It drains the life from me. It’s oppressive. It holds me back. It severely restricts me. It’s tyranny. How can something that I love so much, that I count on to be there every day, also crush my soul? It makes no sense, but that’s what it does.

This, of course, leads me to the upcoming Thanksgiving holidays. Routines and traditions are not the same thing, but they can have the same impact. For years my extended family has gathered at my father’s cabin in the woods of Clark County on Thanksgiving Day. I can’t be there on Thanksgiving Day without thinking of my mother. She’s been gone for three years or so and yet the place still reflects my mother’s presence. And Thanksgiving Day was the pinnacle of her presence each year there. She’d set the table in a way I can still remember. She’d send her grandkids into the woods to find leaves that had changed colors for the fall – they’re not easy to find in south Alabama. The leaves would be arranged in small vases down the center of the table. There were short wax candle figurines of pilgrims and turkeys that magically appeared on the table each year. They were on that table when I was a child; my kids, decades later, knew to expect them and asked about them. We eat. Comments are made that if you want any food, don’t get behind my sister-in-law in the line to fix your plate. The same thing every year. The same comments. The same wonderful food.

It's a tradition. It’s an annual routine. It’s wonderful to fall back on – we know exactly what’s coming. It’s also specifically prescribed behaviors which we all agree to participate in, which, to me, can feel stifling. However, I happily do it because not having it – this tradition, this annual routine – not having it available to me – would be worse. The meal would feel empty and awful. I cherish it.

Just like tomorrow, I’ll get up again just after 5AM, get dressed, start the coffee maker, fold clothes while the coffee brews, and so on. It’s boring and predictable. But I need it. I cherish it. Not having it available to me would be worse.  

I’m Cam Marston, just trying to Keep It Real.