Routines, and the Two Week Rule
Coffee! The routine without which none of the other routines exist. I bought this mug a few weeks ago, and I drink out of it every morning, and I swear it makes the coffee taste better.
In late September, while we were having lunch on the Brooklyn Promenade, a friend shared with me something her father had once told her. Decades ago, he volunteered in a veterans’ home, where many of the men had served in World War I. When he asked them about their lives in the trenches, their responses were surprisingly positive. The trenches? Well, it was funny, but after two weeks, they just felt like home.
I’m a creature of routine. I’ve known this about myself for a while, but 2020 has emphasized it. (Strange, maybe, that in these chaotic times my routine is more steadfast than ever. Or maybe it’s not strange? Controlling what you can control, etc.) Over the last seven months we’ve stayed in Rhode Island, Philly, New York City, and now Montauk, and in each of those places, my routine didn’t vary. My afternoons tend to be looser, but my mornings follow the same script, of which writing is the most sacrosanct part, because after lunch my brain just doesn’t work as well. Against these changing backgrounds, the pattern has become hyper-clear.
I like to think that my routine gives me a sense of grounding; it allows me to feel at home no matter where we are. I’m good, I tell myself. Coffee, books, time to write, a chance to exercise. I can do this anywhere! I’m good. In this kind of thinking, the routine becomes more than just a routine. It becomes an article of faith, a shortcut to stability, an assurance of happiness. A form of magical thinking. And while this is kind of true, it’s also kind of … not true. It works eventually, but it doesn’t work immediately. You can plop yourself down in a new place, you can declare that this is now where you live, you can bring all kinds of resources with you, both outer and inner, the material comforts of home and the psychological comforts of self, but there is still an adjustment period. There is always an adjustment period. This year has taught me that there’s no way around that.
Tomorrow marks four weeks in Montauk. I guess this is obvious, but the longer we stay, the more we love it, and the more it feels like home. So much so that this present contentment threatens to erase the past uncertainty. So let me recall it, for the sake of honesty and accuracy. Those first few days out here, as we tried to settle into our usual working routines, it all just felt … well, weird. Sort of off. Was this a good idea? I wondered to myself. A whole month out here: had we made the right decision? Could this creaky old house ever feel like a home? Though I was sticking to my usual routine (you better believe I was!), the routine, strong as it is, wasn’t enough to eliminate the deep awareness of unfamiliarity.
But time kept passing. And then, right around the two-week mark, can you guess what happened? It was like an internal switch flipped. With a feeling of recognition, I remembered what my friend told me on the Brooklyn Promenade, and thought: Like clockwork. Huh. Good to know. I’m so glad she passed along that little nugget of wisdom. I plan to carry it with me for a long time.
I will always believe in the power of a good routine (The Power of Habit didn’t sell a bazillion copies by accident!), especially the routines that make you feel closer to your truest self. But there is also the wider world to consider, the infinite fluctuations over which we have no control, the feelings of uncertainty or unfamiliarity. There is the creaky old house whose charm takes a little while to sink in. I suspect there is no shortcut through these things. And often the necessary ingredient during those periods of adjustment—it’s definitely the ingredient which has kept me going through all of this pandemic—is grace.
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Routines! I started young. Every Friday night of my childhood, without fail, my family ordered pizza and watched a movie, and tonight that’s what Andrew and I are going to do, because on a day as rainy and cold as this, we can’t contemplate anything but maximum coziness. (Here in Montauk, we’ve been ordering the Grandma Pie from the fantastically named Sausages Pizza & Pastabilities. Pastabilities!) Tomorrow the sun is allegedly going to emerge, and we are going to dress warmly and go on a bike ride and maybe reward ourselves with a donut from Grindstone, or some such thing.
I miss you, my friends! I’m sending you love, wherever this finds you.