Unless you’re one of those fellows with an inexhaustible – and frankly acidulous – resource of gusto, one of those chaps who heroically prefers to start his day with pushups and a cold shower, I have found by contrast that starting a day is never easy. Often it is not only difficult to know when exactly to begin but also how to begin. For example, does one preserve the Stoic profile and get up at seven o’clock? Or adopt instead the vulgar urban model and linger beneath the duvet until at least eight o’clock? Or (as Samuel Beckett might ask) does it really matter when one gets out of bed on a rainy day? And then there’s the matter of what one should do? Or what must one do? Is there an appointment to keep? Or a place to go? Or something important to be done? And in the full scheme of things, what is the point of it all in any event?
These sabotaging existential challenges tend to dampen one’s spirit. Nor is the impairment a product of alcoholic hangover. Our collection of spirits, wine, fortified wine and cognac are for appearance only (those delightful amber and ruby red colours, the alternate Scandinavian and Victorian shape and design of the crystal decanters with their sterling silver collars, the mahogany and beveled glass of the wine rack). Instead the morning arousal peril is a combination of what I feel to be the innate lethargy of old age and psychological remorse – basically, where did I go wrong? why didn’t I listen to my father? what was I thinking?.
Overcoming these bottomless obstructions is technically impossible; or, at the very least, hugely cumbersome. One must therefore – as a matter of pure routine – slip into the pathway which is already in motion. This entails not only the common matters of ablution but also a sometimes curious examination of one’s diary, one’s photos, maybe spots of the news, certainly the texture of the cornfields and the shimmer of the river; likely an assessment of the weather and the colour of the sky. And all this before attaching oneself to more meaningful proportion – such as moderate exercise on one’s tricycle, stopping to chat with a friend along the way, breezing by an industrious gardener with a cheery wave and hello, before settling into the more serious matter of washing the car or gassing the tank. I practically frazzle myself to relate the effort!
The commotion of life is as a result no accident. Though I’ve tried to restrain myself buried beneath the feathers, it is a pitifully incapable project. And the appalling truth of it all is to discover unwittingly that the sooner one submits to the demands of existence, the better. Before you know it, the bowl of steel cut oats and fruit has slipped away from beneath your wistful regard out the drawing room window; the reviving morning breeze has blown across the handle bars or through the open car windows; the beams of sunlight colour and warm; the perfection of duty transpires without interruption or regret; the day suddenly gives way to afternoon leisure and the prospect of a good book or a delicious meal.
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Where to Begin?
Unless you’re one of those indefatigable fellows with a positively acidulous reservoir of gusto—one of those types who insists on beginning the day with push-ups and a cold shower (possibly while quoting Marcus Aurelius)—then, like me, you may find that the business of starting a day is never quite straightforward.
Often it’s not merely a question of when to begin, but how. Should one preserve the Stoic profile and rise at seven, stiff-lipped and resolute? Or follow the modern urban practice of lingering beneath the duvet until eight, or later, pretending to be deep in thought while actually recalling the price of petrol? Or, as Beckett might have asked, does it even matter when one gets out of bed—particularly if it’s raining and nothing terribly urgent awaits?
Then, naturally, comes the issue of what to do. Or more to the point: must one do anything at all? Is there an appointment to keep, a bill to pay, a car to wash, or some other worthy sacrifice to the gods of productivity? And in the grand scheme of things—existential, spiritual, or merely practical—what, pray tell, is the point of it all?
These sabotaging questions tend to sap one’s spirit before a sock is even pulled on. And no, I can’t blame it on a hangover. Our modest collection of spirits—wine, port, cognac—exists solely for its visual charm. There’s the ruby glint of the claret, the amber glow of the whisky, the elegant glint of crystal decanters with their sterling silver collars, standing like minor nobility within the bevelled glass of the liquor cabinet. It’s all decorative, like taxidermy or mahogany coasters—suggestive of past indulgence, though firmly post-indulgent in practice.
No, the real culprit is something closer to a blend of age-related inertia and the gentle torment of retrospection. A kind of psychological gout, if you will. Where did I go wrong? Why didn’t I listen to my father? What on earth was I thinking with that second property in 1986?
Overcoming these morning obstructions is technically impossible—or, at the very least, absurdly cumbersome. One must instead, with the grace of a reluctant penguin, step into the preexisting stream of daily life. This means ablutions, of course, but also a faintly investigative survey of the diary. One may browse yesterday’s photographs or peep at the news (preferably the weather, which has fewer moral complications). One might consider the colour of the cornfields, the shimmer of the river, the tilt of a blue jay on a wire.
And then, before one knows it, one is laced into the mechanisms of the day. Perhaps some cautious pedalling on the tricycle, a cheerful chat with a neighbour encountered mid-promenade, a wave to the gardener who is—infuriatingly—already halfway through pruning the hydrangeas. One might even, in a fit of reckless ambition, wash the car or visit the gas station. It’s enough to make one long for the duvet again, frankly.
In truth, the commotion of life is no accident. Despite my attempts to remain concealed beneath the pillows, the project is doomed. And the appalling truth is this: the sooner one submits to the clatter and call of existence, the better.
Before long, the bowl of steel-cut oats and fruit has vanished; the morning breeze has licked across the handlebars or streamed through the open car windows; the beams of sunlight begin to colour and warm the walls. Duty, dressed in the plain clothes of domestic ritual, unfolds without resistance. The day tiptoes into afternoon, offering its usual consolations: a good book, a chair angled toward the light, perhaps even something delicious bubbling in a pan.
And so, with resignation and a touch of bemusement, I begin again. Hal.
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Where to Begin?
Unless you’re one of those indefatigable fellows with a positively acidulous reservoir of gusto—one of those types who insists on beginning the day with push-ups and a cold shower (possibly while quoting Marcus Aurelius)—then, like me, you may find that the business of starting a day is never quite straightforward.
Often it’s not merely a question of when to begin, but how. Should one preserve the Stoic profile and rise at seven, stiff-lipped and resolute? Or follow the modern urban model of lingering beneath the duvet until eight, possibly nine, feigning philosophical depth while actually calculating whether it’s worth boiling water for tea? Or, as Beckett might have asked, does it even matter when one gets out of bed—particularly if it’s raining and nothing urgent awaits?
Of course, lurking beneath these trivial domestic queries is something more subversive: a mild, creeping sense of disorientation. What exactly is the structure of my day? What are its animating principles? And who, for heaven’s sake, is in charge?
Then, naturally, comes the issue of what to do. Or more to the point: must one do anything at all? Is there an appointment to keep, a letter to post, a prescription to refill, a car to wash, or some other sacrament of productivity to perform? And in the grand scheme of things—existential, spiritual, or merely practical—what, pray tell, is the point of it all?
These sabotaging thoughts tend to sap one’s spirit before a sock is even pulled on. And no, I can’t blame it on a hangover. Our modest collection of spirits—wine, port, cognac—exists now solely for its visual charm. There’s the ruby glint of the claret, the amber glow of the whisky, the elegant posture of crystal decanters with their sterling silver collars, standing like minor nobility within the bevelled glass of the liquor cabinet. It’s all decorative now, like taxidermy or opera glasses—suggestive of past indulgence, though firmly post-indulgent in practice.
No, the real culprit is something closer to a blend of age-related inertia and the gentle torment of retrospection. A kind of psychological gout, if you will. Where did I go wrong? Why didn’t I listen to my father? What on earth was I thinking with that second property in 1986?
To be clear, this is not despair. I don’t feel sorry for myself. But mornings have become a kind of slow negotiation between what I once believed I might become and the curious, possibly wiser, certainly more wrinkled fellow who now rifles through the kitchen drawer for his reading glasses.
Overcoming these morning obstructions is technically impossible—or, at the very least, absurdly cumbersome. One must instead, with the grace of a reluctant penguin, step into the preexisting stream of daily life. This means ablutions, of course, but also a faintly investigative survey of the diary. One may browse yesterday’s photographs or peep at the news (preferably the weather, which has fewer moral complications). One might consider the colour of the cornfields, the shimmer of the river, the tilt of a blue jay on a wire.
These acts, seemingly trifling, have acquired spiritual weight. To notice something—to actually notice it—seems more valuable now than to act upon it. I find I am more interested in seeing than in doing. More interested in attending than in achieving. This is not resignation. It’s a kind of realignment. The urgency to perform has dwindled, but the appetite for beauty, for quiet precision, has increased.
And then, before one knows it, one is laced into the mechanisms of the day. Perhaps some cautious pedalling on the tricycle, a cheerful chat with a neighbour encountered mid-promenade, a wave to the gardener who is—infuriatingly—already halfway through pruning the hydrangeas. One might even, in a fit of reckless ambition, wash the car or visit the gas station. It’s enough to make one long for the duvet again, frankly.
But the body warms as it moves. And the mind, that occasionally peevish machine, begins to hum. A certain cheer arrives—not of the effervescent, high-performance kind, but something gentler. The cheer of being included. The cheer of knowing one still has a place, however modest, in the unfolding theatre of the morning.
In truth, the commotion of life is no accident. Despite my attempts to remain concealed beneath the pillows, the project is doomed. And the appalling truth is this: the sooner one submits to the clatter and call of existence, the better.
Before long, the bowl of steel-cut oats and fruit has vanished; the morning breeze has licked across the handlebars or streamed through the open car windows; the beams of sunlight begin to colour and warm the walls. Duty, dressed in the plain clothes of domestic ritual, unfolds without resistance. The day tiptoes into afternoon, offering its usual consolations: a good book, a chair angled toward the light, perhaps even something delicious bubbling in a pan.
And as I sit—resting, yes, but also somehow fulfilled—I think: the beginning is always hard, but the middle is often rather lovely. That may be all the wisdom I have to offer, and perhaps it’s enough. Hal.