Rituals

Every day, you write.
Every day, you paint.
Every day, you pray.

Every day, feeling it or not, you eat, you meditate.
Every day, you make wise choices,
you hug your wife, pet the cat,

Every day you read.
The bible. A trashy novel.
The news.

These are rituals. Your rituals.
They corral your unruly mind,
at least for a while, long enough

to do the work
that matters.

About this poem.

I need habits more than most. For the past fifteen years, as the depression hit, my mind has been perpetually unruly. Only discipline keeps it going. Frankly, I wish I didn’t need my daily rituals. There was a time when discipline came naturally. Easily. Now it is unnatural and hard.

But effective. And I’ll take effective.

Dancing at the diner,

Tom

PS: The picture was taken in my studio.