In May 2021, I left 85° F weather in India, where I was cooled by a tall swamp cooler running 24 hours a day—and moved (back) to America...to a part that I had not lived in before. Arriving in the Northwest on spiritual reassignment, in temperatures described as moderately chilly and humid with a high of 64° F, I wore a jacket buttoned up. In September, after living with my family for three months, I moved into a one-bedroom HUD apartment. Fall came with brisk air. I slept in flannel pajamas under four blankets that lay heavily on my 103 pounds. Learning this, my older daughter suggested I look for a down comforter on sale. Within days, one the color of an opened papaya arrived. When she next learned that I was still sleeping with several blankets on top of the comforter, she explained that its warmth depended on taking in air. I had found a large, abandoned, wicker basket that I kept because I liked it, although I couldn't think of a specific use. Scrubbed with white vinegar and water, it sat beside a chair. It now holds the bedspread at night and the comforter by day, one of the small routines that has made my new home in America pleasurable with comfort and organization.
Curious about the derivation of the word "routine," I found that it was Middle English from the Old French "rute"(road) and earlier from the Latin "rupta (via)" broken (way). As spiritual teacher David Cousins once called me a journey person, I think of my growing number of routines as journeys to a new simplicity for my days.
In India, I had two routines for throwing away food that for obvious reasons would not be possible in my American home. In India, I emptied my compost across the dirt lane in front of my house to the same place every day where passing cows and goats would stop by and eat. My trash went into a rusted metal can, where it would be burned; periodically I tipped over the can to spread out the remaining ash.
An entirely new routine that I have developed in America came about after months of failure to keep my hands clean while removing the flesh (known as the mesocarp) from an avocado. I use a sharp knife, a tablespoon, a table knife, a teaspoon, and a fork. Cut, scoop, slice, and scrape. I cradle the pit in one of the half-shells, then wearing gloves I rinse and allow to dry what remains to be put in the plastic-lined kitchen wastebasket.
While my return to America after years of living in India had seemed like a first time visit to a foreign country, routines increased my familiarity, gradually easing me into my second year here—at home.
My realization is, "Routine may be a friend who doesn't speak, cannot move, and may need improvements, yet it contains our human ability to give comfort within its own vocabulary of repetitious movements."