Thoughts About Morning Routines.

Why is the word routine so often associated with dullness?

For as long as I have been in charge of my own awaking, my alarm has been steadily going off at 6AM.
What was once a necessity for academic reasons as my high school required a 40 minute bus ride and a strict 8AM roll call, organically transitioned into a mindless habit in my adult life.
If, as a teenager, I despised the strident noise of my digital timer, as an adult I rejoice what it signals: the start of a new day.

Early mornings are sacred to me. They have a magical aura, a padded vibe, silent and soft, undisturbed by external intermittence.
The few sounds that do filter through the window are damp, as if rolled up moist rags were placed at the foot of each door.
Sometimes birds are chirping, an occasional beep may break the peace, a neighbor stomping down the hallway could be heard. However, as the vast majority of the world is still in slumber, I find myself at peak.

The total isolation provided by the sluggish first hours of the day triggers a sense of comfort, a sort of time capsule, where I can truly connect with my surroundings at my chosen pace.
The absence of stress-causing agents like urgent texts allows for a luxurious, inward retreat. Early mornings are mindful and high-end.

There is an unspoken respect for daybreak, maybe because the crack of dawn is regarded as the time of elders. Or because it takes a particular sense of self-constraint to wake up before everybody else.
Waking up early suggests sleeping at an hour that is considered juvenile or geriatric.
It means rejecting late night invitations, the thrill of mingling at the club and saying no to after-hours dinners.
It hints self-regulation, the deprivation of indulgence and assertive behavior.

But there is something so powerful about activating alongside the sun.
The dusky sky slowly clearing, the sharp 6AM air poking your face as you refresh the bedroom from the nightly condensation.
It all feels surreal, like living in an enchanted world.
In winter, the frosted greenery recalls a glittery painting.
In the summer, the sweet smell of blooming flowers pinches the senses.
The pastel lighting typical of dawn is unparalleled.
Hard to depict, the hazy cerulean blue gradually becomes a yellow shade of orange; all of a sudden it’s white.

The deaf silence of the early morning accompanies me through a set of religiously repeated actions that, if skipped, will maim the rest of my day.
I open my eyes, I turn off the remaining five alerts on my phone, I lift the latch on the shutters and, after brushing my teeth, I make my way to kitchen, where an Alessi Moka by David Chipperfield awaits on the stove for its routine cameo.
Sometimes, a 30 minutes high intensity work out precedes the coffee ceremony.
The roasted scent of the brewing coffee is calming. The whistle signaling its readiness is familiar.
I like my morning drink particularly strong, not for the caffeine but for the kick supplied by its bitterness. I smooth it out with a hint of warm oat milk.
I do not have a favored cup, however I often find myself picking out a ceramic tea mug decorated by a picture of the Queen and her husband that I picked up at the Portobello Market on my last visit to London.
As the infusion pours out, I squeeze the juice of two oranges - rigorously Sicilian and bloody - into a tumbler, while I simultaneously toast some bread. I thaw some butter with my palms and scoop one tablespoon of citrusy jam out. My breakfast is ready.
For the next hour and a half, it’s just me, the light feast and the book I am currently reading.

Often misjudged, the word Routine assumes a precious meaning when handled with care.
It affords us to regenerate our mind and make space for better ideas.
It enables a homely sensation no matter the instance or space. Routines make us who we are, they help us become who we want to be.
Routines are not dirty, boring or predictable. They build resilience.
In an era so ridden with anxiety, routines are medicinal - definitely palliative.
If framed the right way, they can be theatrical.

Morning routines are rituals, they can be as deep as religion. Unbreakable, unorthodox and personal.
They help us disconnect from the erratic frenzy of life. They are inherently ours.
They can be shared, yet they will never work the same for others.
They can be inspiring and motivating - the emblem of a prosperous life.
We can borrow a routine from a friend, but ultimately, it’s up to us to create our own.

But then why - if routines can be so therapeutic and personal - are they so often criticized as boring mundanity*?

*Not sure this is a word but I made it a word just now.

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