I am more of a night owl than a morning crow. Those late hours when the day's work is done and everyone has gone to bed are precious to me. Nothing pressing to accomplish. No crisis or tragedy to handle. Just me and my neuroses.
I have writer friends who get up at 3 a.m. and stumble to their desks/laptops/journals. One friend, in particular, has finished his daily writing before my alarm even goes off in the morning. Every once in a while, I have been known to scribble in my Moleskine before I leap into the day's activities, especially when my brain is cluttered with worries and anxieties.
For the most part, however, I cherish moonlight over sunlight.
Billy Collins's morning routine . . .
The Order of the Day
by: Martin Achatz
and the sun shot down through the branches
into the tall, bare windows.
The brindled cat rolled over on his back,
and I could hear you in the kitchen
grinding coffee beans into a powder.
Everything seemed especially vivid
because I knew we were all going to die,
first the cat, then you, then me,
then somewhat later the liquefied sun
was the order I was envisioning.
But then again, you never really know.
The cat had a fiercely healthy look,
his coat so bristling and electric
I wondered what you had been feeding him
and what you had been feeding me
as I turned a corner
and beheld you out there on the sunny deck
lost in exercise, running in place,
knees lifted high, skin glistening—
and that toothy, immortal-looking smile of yours.
As I've said before, I make lists every morning of things I need to get done. Then I prioritize the list, using a complicated method of letters and numbers. (I blame my math/computer science background for this habit.) Sometimes, the list is short, ranging from A1 (most important) to A4 (get it done before the end of the day). Other times, the list gets a little . . . long and messy, moving from A1 to B1 (try to get to this, but it's not urgent) to C3 (think way into the future, if you have time).
So, I spell out my order of the day pretty explicitly. That's why, when something truly unexpected occurs, I have a difficult time recalibrating. One minor fluctuation can cause me unease, and one major glitch can send me into a tailspin from which I can't recover easily.
If all this sounds slightly control-freakish, it is. I admit it. Yet it works for me, giving me a sense of control, however false that sense may be. In truth, I know that I'm not in the driver's seat when it comes to my life. As a Christian, I've been taught to believe that God is my chauffeur. (Cue Carrie Underwood singing "Jesus, Take the Wheel.") When I get lost on some backroad through a swamp, I'm supposed to slide into the passenger seat, close my eyes, and trust. That's difficult for me.
Today had a few twists and turns. Things I didn't expect. My life was never in peril, but I did have to alter my order of the day several times to compensate for these not-so-welcome surprises. Now, sitting on my couch, my night owl self takes over. I have this blog post to finish and poems to revise (A5 on B2 on my list). If I don't get too tired, I will tackle both of these items because I hate unfinished business. If my brain decides not to cooperate, I will fall asleep feeling that I have failed today.
Saint Marty's prediction: failure.
.jpg)