When I get back to the clinic to start my afternoon, I slump into my chair. I criss-cross my legs one way and then the other. I shift my hips this way and that, tossing and sloshing frustration. Slowly and persistently, I wear through the afternoon. It’s a blur of appointments, prescriptions, lab work, and messages.
Finally, my last patient of the day arrives. She’s 30, healthy, and here for a wellness visit. It should be an easy visit. We talk casually about nutrition, physical activity, and sleep. This part of the conversation goes mainly as expected.
In the seat of the physician, energy exchange tends to be one directional. I ask probing, personal, and intentional questions to hopefully motivate the patient into finding the answer to their own problem. They ask me questions about medicine, science, and the research, seeking objective evidence to fill in their knowledge gaps. Occasionally, a patient will throw a personal question back at me.
As I conduct my exam, she asks me an unanticipated question, “do you have a morning routine?” I take my otoscope out of her ear, lean against the countertop in front of the exam table, and look at her for a moment. I consider my answer.
The honest answer right now is “no.” While I have had seasons where I exercise, journal, or mediate in the morning, I’m not currently doing any of those things. As I consider her question further though, I realize the brutally honest answer is ”yes.”
I wake up every morning, and I fight my alarm. I try to force myself back to sleep. Oh no, not again, oh god no. Maybe if I fall back asleep then today won’t really happen. I eventually — begrudgingly — drag my body out of bed and into the bathroom to splash water on my face and try to tame my scruff. I rush through some chores, throw on scrubs, and spill my coffee as I run out the door on the way to work. It’s a total tragedy, until I log onto the screen at 7:58am and put on my showtime face.
It didn’t always used to be this way, and I certainly understand the importance of a morning routine. Julia Cameron introduced me to morning pages in The Artist Way, which was truly transformative. For years, I practiced rising early to write a few pages before my day got started. It was a quiet time of contemplation and introspection. It was some of the best work I accomplished, and I felt grounded and clear-headed the rest of the day. The practice of a regular writing routine produced prolific creativity.
Just as the planet Venus follows a predictable pattern through the night sky, an artist must cultivate a routine. The Goddess of Art and Beauty is generous to those who show up to the page to receive her gifts. Inspired writing only happens if I’m writing.
Morning pages was a good routine, until it wasn’t. It was good until it became dogmatic. Guilt sat heavy on my chest if a skipped a day, so I kept pushing ink onto the page. My hand cramped as it gripped the pen. Cursive became scribbles. I scratched out every other word because my hand couldn’t spell as fast as my mind. Then I scratched out my attempt to correct the spelling because I misspelled it again. My words lost meaning, purpose, and direction. Instead of a meditation, it became a race against the clock. Another task to check of my growing list of things to do for the day.
Now I rush, rush, rush through my morning. I drag my caffeine-fueled, adrenaline-filled body through the day, until I can get home to collapse on the couch, moving from screen to screen to screen. Tomorrow, I tell myself, tomorrow will be the day that I become the writer I’m supposed to be.
Instead of a confessional, I deflect, “oh yes, the early morning hours are thought to be sacred. Why do you ask?” My evasion goes unnoticed.
Writer Body and Soul 