The Same Old Routine

Coronamnesia. I don't think it's a real word. And I don't think I'm the only one to use it. But it's a real thing. Our memories are dependent on repetition and rhythm and routine, and major upheaval--getting too far from normal for too long--makes it harder to remember things.

But I do remember some things from this strange time of pandemic upheaval. Like that the last time I wrote here, I wrote about the cello. I will say more about that, but right now I'm thinking about the piano.

I also remember that back at the beginning of 2020, I wrote about the determination to write more regularly. Which did not happen. The erratic state of my blog is a reflection of the erratic state of life.

Because someone recently reminded me that I have a blog, which got me to thinking about all this, I've also been thinking about a little index card that I noticed one time in the windowsill above Grandmother's oven. Just a little white card with the words written in blue ink in her handwriting:

Thank God for the same old routine.

I don't remember my age or situation when I first noticed it, but it stuck with me because it struck me as odd that she would have that written out for herself to see. We were brought up to count our blessings, but I had never thought of "the same old routine" as a blessing to consider.

Wow, do I see that differently now. For many reasons, experiences over many years have made sense of those words and why she might write them out to remember.

"The same old routine" feels like a faraway dream to me right now. Since writing "now I begin" back in January of 2020, the pandemic broke out, changing all kinds of routines and rhythms for all of us. Additionally, we went real estate hunting, found a place, renovated "the chateau" (a condominium, but I dislike that word as a descriptor for my living space, and our complex has a French name, so I'm calling it a chateau), packed up our things and sold our lovely house, and moved into the chateau, which is lovely in ways of its own. Then within a month of that move, I learned that I would have to find a new office space for my practice. That was another upheaval. It also had a lovely outcome, but it was very stressful when I had no idea where I'd go but had to get out in a short amount of time.

And this year has had its share of smaller disruptions of rhythm, both sweet and somewhat bitter. The vaccines meant that Zoom piano lessons turned into children physically present in my living room again, which was wonderful. I began taking cello lessons, which was great fun. Resulting shoulder/arm pain led to stopping the lessons and starting a month of physical therapy to remedy the pain and, we hope, make playing cello possible again.

But I still don't know about that, because just a week after ending the PT sessions, I had foot surgery which left me largely dependent on husband, friends, and family for about a month. The following month included more mobility and physical therapy for the foot. I'm still not back to normal, but I'm starting to be able go for short walks and do some of the yoga-like exercise that was part of my same old routine before the surgery.

And now on the horizon, sailing steadily toward us, is the big ship of moving back to Croatia. I haven't written about that on my blog before, just another indication of how strange this time of life is! We've seen this ship coming for some time, but that doesn't diminish the size of it nor the amount it will disrupt and change the same old routine--what little there is of that.

I've begun a sort of rhythm in that each week I've been seeing fewer and fewer clients and going through more and more boxes. I trust both my clients and I will make this adjustment okay.

Support for that trust came to me yesterday in the form of a metronome. I'm about to get a metronome for one of my piano students and begin the process of teaching her to use it. And as I was looking at my own cute little one, a passage came back to me from my DMin thesis that gave me hope, in a week when I've had multiple moments of feeling close to overwhelm level. A few years ago, applying these ideas to a life of disciplined prayer, I wrote:

A common friend of many musicians is the metronome. A metronome helps measure time, providing a steady tempo for a musician to match. People are not born with perfect rhythm; they learn it from their environment and from practice. As a piano teacher, I have worked with many students who struggle with rhythm and who have never used a metronome. Initially, they tend to struggle mightily to stay with the metronome. It requires will, persistence, and generally significant encouragement. Most go through a period of resisting and complaining about how hard it is to keep themselves in tempo. Those who stick with the process, however, wind up realizing (and often saying) that the metronome has become a good friend. It actually helps their playing improve and helps them achieve their goals of making meaningful music. Its difficult discipline eventually frees them, allowing them to feel more clearly and confidently the spirit of the music.

And in the thesis I connected this with a wonderful passage about Dietrich Bonhoeffer, a musician himself, who wrote to a friend in Letters from Prison:

What I mean is that God wants us to love him eternally with our whole hearts [. . . . ] to provide a kind of cantus firmus to which the other melodies of life provide the counterpoint . . . . I wanted to tell you to have a good, clear cantus firmus; that is the only way to a full and perfect sound and can't come adrift or get out of tune, while remaining a distinct whole in its own right. Only a polyphony of this kind can give life a wholeness and at the same time assure us that nothing calamitous can happen as long as the cantus firmus is kept going.

Over many years of making music, and quite a few years of working as a counselor, helping people with mood disorders and people without diagnosable disorders who nonetheless struggle with moods because of temporary situations, I've come to realize the importance of actual metronomes and metaphorical ones.

And I know the value of conductors who keep a steady beat that can keep dozens or even hundreds of performers together so that what could degenerate into cacophony instead sounds beautiful or powerful.

With clients I sometimes talk about finding and creating anchors, small morning and evening practices they can make a part of each day, even if the rest of the day feels completely out of their control.

And perhaps as with the conductor, the value of staying connected to even one or two people who have a steadying effect can make all the difference between cacophony and harmony.

Especially staying connected to the Divine Conductor makes a difference. "Nothing calamitous can happen" if we do that. Bonhoeffer wrote that from prison in the midst of a savage war, and he wound up a martyr. Somehow that helps me believe I can handle what lies before me.

It's been hitting me that I need more rhythm, more anchors, more "metronome work" in my life, even if it was only yesterday the metronome itself spoke to me about this.

So I've found a way to make tomorrow a true retreat day, at a church with a beautiful nave and empty space where I can do some much-needed praying and planning. And I'm determined to work out a flexible but firm enough "rule of life" to get me through these next few months and into the new life beyond.

There's something comforting about the sound of an old-fashioned metronome. (I can't say the same for the digital ones I've used, whose sounds tend to annoy me.) The steady, resonant tick tock continues no matter how many times you get off the beat and have to start over.

And there's something comforting about looking forward to tomorrow and knowing that even with all the change, plenty of practices from my past can be reinserted into my life and carried forward. My life may be changing, but the God I pray to and the friends who love me aren't changing. The park I've walked in is still there. I can create a new rhythm with what is possible.

The old-fashioned metronomes, like old-fashioned clocks, have to be wound anew every so often, which for me is also a comforting thing, reminding me of my beloved piano teacher who occasionally had to stop her metronome and wind it during one of our lessons.

I'm ready to wind my metronome and use it more consistently. I hope writing in here will become more a part of my rhythm, even in the change-filled days ahead. I'm not ready to commit to that yet, but it's up for consideration.

I thank God for the same old routine, for this period of minimal routine, and for the new routines to come.

And I smile in the hope that Fr. Lanteri would be happy along with me. Nunc coepi. Now I begin. (Again.)