Every morning, it’s basically the same. For the last 75 days, at least. With the exception of weekends, I almost always wake up to an alarm: my phone buzzing.
I stop the alarm. No snoozing allowed. I learned my lesson on that a long time ago. I can’t trust myself.
I unlock my phone. Not always on the first try. Darn Face ID. It usually works once I put on my glasses. But I’m not ready for that yet.
Log: “Woke up. Feeling OK.” Or something to that effect—it depends on the day. I check my emails. Usually spam. I delete them all. No apps. No browsing. I open my tracker. Input how many hours I slept. It’s been less than I’d like lately. Looking forward to my vacation.
I get up. Put on the "uniform": a shirt jacket of some kind, pockets already packed with stationery (pen, Sharpie, Olfa 9MM knife). I throw on a hat to tame this mop I’ve been growing out—a slightly ridiculous haircut experiment I started at the beginning of the year (an experiment that somehow keeps going).
I head downstairs. Quietly. Fill the kettle with fresh tap water. Click it on. Watch the ring of blue light glow.
Sometimes I stand still. Sometimes I pace around. I know I’ve got exactly two minutes. I timed it. Wrote it down. Labeled it.
Lately, I’ve been using those two minutes to think about what I’ll write. My morning blog post. What’s been on my mind? Did I catch a shower thought yesterday? Not many of those lately. Where has my mind wander too lately? Thank goodness I have a bank of them logged. Most days, the idea shows up right here—in the space that sits within the hum of the kettle, as the water starts to boil.
I prep the coffee. Nothing fancy. Anything but. A couple scoops of Nescafé, preloaded in a little container I keep on a shelf I made out of black foam core and gaff tape. (Stronger than it looks.)
I wait. I think. The bubbles start to rise. They knock into each other, quick and chaotic. Time’s almost up. I can feel it—my internal clock, tuned from years of kitchen work. Two minutes. Thirty seconds. Five minutes all day...
(click)
Water’s ready.
I pour it into the cup. No stirring. No need. No need to dirty a spoon. It works good enough. Just hot black water with caffeine. I’m not a coffee person. I’ve had the good stuff. I can’t really tell the difference. I just need something warm to sip while I wake up.
I walk upstairs, careful not to spill. I’ve done that before—it’s annoying. But it also buys me a little more thinking time. What am I going to write today? What story do I want to tell?...
I get to my Studio. Tidy up my files a bit. Delete miscellaneous screenshots on my Desktop. Empty the Trash. Close all my apps. It feels nice to start fresh. Fire up Obsidian. Make sure MacWhisper is running.
Sometimes I write on paper—almost always index cards. But lately, I’ve just been talking. Talking to write. Not a new idea, but new for me, at least for these blog posts. I’ve been doing it for a couple months now. It’s faster. But it’s also something else... A way to warm up for the day—not to loosen my voice, but to get into it. To be clear. Articulate. Present. Ready to talk. There’s always talking. Meetings, planned and unplanned—it’s the nature of the work.
I stare at the blank digital page. And I talk.
Off the cuff. Just say what’s there. Doesn’t have to be good. I can edit later. I always edit later. What matters is that I do it. That I show up. That I slow down. Listen to the rhythm of my own voice.
Because I know. This isn’t just about journaling. This is about voice as presence. And presence as practice.
And eventually, I have a blog post.
Just like this one. Written the same way—this morning, as the kettle boiled.