Mornings set the tone of the day, and patterns comfort the mind

that seeks rhythm, meter, color schemes, and conspiracies.

 

I rise and evacuate in the lavatory across the hall as I shed sleep.

Pulling out the copper wishbone, I rinse and scrape my tongue, then

place a half teaspoon of coconut oil between my lips and swish.

With ballooned cheeks and taut jaw, I prepare the kitchen table:

half lemon, hot water, coffee, gluten-free bread, half an avocado,

garlic salt, knife, multi vitamin, cranberry juice pill, and probiotics.

 

And while the bread toasts, I scoop a cup of kibble for eager Artemis

(the other one stays under the bed until a decent hour for rising), and

grab a little garlic salt to sprinkle atop the avocado on toast, squeeze

lemon in hot water, spit out the oil, brush my teeth, swallow my pills,

cream the avocado on toast, and sip my coffee to the crunching jaws

and wagging tail, slapping the cabinet doors, as I play word games on

my phone, read news, messages from the universe, and check my

morning emails before setting off downstairs to open the back door

for the awaiting kitty cat, then hit the bath, where I practice pranayama,

meditate, stretch, dress, and write the morning gratitude for the day.

 

Dinacharya, life rituals order my mornings, no matter how the

remaining hours unravel in the frayed edges of orderly chaos.

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