The bliss of the slow morning

Dear reader,

Most mornings, for the last several years, I have given the first ninety minutes of the day to a small routine that I have, slowly, refined into something close to the version I want. The ninety minutes is from six to seven-thirty. The contents have changed over the years, but the duration has stayed constant. Ninety minutes is what the morning needs to set up the day, in my own experience, and ninety minutes is what I protect.

I want to write today about what is in the ninety minutes, in the small hope that the specific structure might be useful to someone trying to refine their own morning. The version I describe below is the current version; it will, presumably, continue to evolve.

The ninety minutes

Six to six-fifteen: the small early waking practice. Bare feet on the cold floor. A glass of water. The small breath practice I have written about elsewhere by the open window.

Six-fifteen to six-thirty: the small face routine. Warm rose water on the face. The cold gua sha stones from the fridge. A small amount of moisturiser pressed in.

Six-thirty to seven: the morning yoga practice. Twenty minutes of slow movement on the bedroom floor. Mostly the same sequence each morning. The body has, by now, learned to do most of it on its own.

Seven to seven-fifteen: the small breakfast. Always the same — a small bowl of porridge with seeds and a small amount of honey, a small pot of green tea, eaten slowly at the kitchen table by the window.

Seven-fifteen to seven-thirty: the small reading and preparation. Fifteen minutes of slow reading from whatever book is currently in the morning rotation. The small mental setup for the day's specific tasks. The phone is, by now, on but only briefly checked for anything urgent.

By seven-thirty, the day is ready to start. The body is awake, has done its small practice block, has been properly fed, and is in the right state to begin the work of the day. The ninety minutes is the small foundation on which the rest of the day is built.

On the small case for protecting the ninety minutes

The hardest part of this is not the practice itself. The hardest part is the small ongoing protection of the ninety minutes against the small constant pressure to start the day earlier, or to skip parts of the practice, or to let small early tasks creep into the time. The phone, in particular, wants to be checked first thing. The small list of unfinished work from yesterday wants to be attended to. The small urgent message that arrived overnight wants to be answered.

All of these get deferred, in my own practice, to seven-thirty. The ninety minutes is, by rule, for the practice. The rule is what makes the practice sustainable.

If you have a morning routine that has been drifting — getting shorter, getting interrupted, getting eroded by the small demands of the rest of the day — consider rebuilding it as a protected ninety-minute block. The specific contents are less important than the duration and the protection. Ninety minutes, every morning, given over to the small structural practices that set up the day. The cumulative effect, across years, is the small foundation on which a sustainable life is built.

Until next morning,

M.