A Balanced Life

The Rhythm of the Day

To wake at five a.m., and pray, assess the day— it

rains— and smile and say, “Good morning, Jane,

and many thanks, how does your little Kylie?” to

the maid who brings my customary coffee, very

strong, and buttered toast and berries, and to truly

feel relieved when she replies, “Why, Kylie’s better,

finally! Her fever’s gone; she’s even been outdoors

to take the air.” To say, “Thank God!” and

mean it....

Now alone again, indulging in my love

affair with coffee for the moment, savoring

the scent, remembering the humble bean that with

its cousins starts the hearts of millions in home-or-

office ritual around the globe, those spirits kindred to

my own for whom a cup of tea is most ungenerous

indeed with flavor and caffeine— A little note to

Jane: “I need your recipe, my angel; I can’t

make the coffee zing the way
you do. Perhaps you
might give me

a lesson.”

Then to bless with all my soul the baker of the bread,

the picker of the berries, not forgetting all the others—

growers, drivers, bankers, clerks— whose work is to

ensure that Jane has fruit and fiber on my tray at five-

fifteen a.m.... There is no condescension here; I merely

try to not take anything for granted and to wish them

well and hope that they’re as glad I purchase what they

grow and sell as I am that they’ve done it, and I add a

blessing for the ones whose bosses lack compassion; as an

afterthought, repentantly, I bless unpleasant

bosses too.

Arising then, I wash and dress, then meditate, or the reverse,

whichever has become my habit— that’s the point: to be

methodical and thoughtful, too;
and then the mitzvah: This one is for ritual,

first kindness of the day, but not the last. Perhaps an

aspidistra for myAunt Elizabeth, recovering from shingles, such

an awful case of them, will cheer her up. I’ll visit her this

afternoon but send the florist
with the plant

ahead.

Alas! The cook is on vacation, so I put some breast of

chicken in the crock pot with a bunch of carrots and

potatoes and the broth and set the dial to “Low”— my

nemesis is that I usually forget to
turn it on— Oh, that

all nemeses were
as innocuous.

I plan my day permitting spontaneity and set aside some time

for company— I’m such a hermit otherwise— but there is

much to do domestically, professionally, and once I would

have looked askance at all the tasks, especially the nastiest,

the ones that I despise (in my case, making phone calls) and

I would have moaned and gotten back in bed, but now I’m

swept along by plans made in advance and by the rhythm of

my life.

 There is no Jane, no coffee brought to me in bed, no cook, no

florist whom I can afford, it seems; this isn’t even my routine.

I have no servants, wish I did, but

first things first:

To have such discipline, to think ahead, to do what’s necessary

with attention, joy, humility, but in addition to have time and

energy for many chosen things to fill my calendar— this is my

aspiration, this my dream; but to bring order out of chaos somehow,

that would be

enough for

now.

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