There’s a word for how I prepare for bed. It’s spelled R-O-U-T-I-N-E.
I pour my glass of water, drain my bladder, wash my hands, floss, brush, take a sip from the glass, shut off my cell phone, stretch my back and legs, and climb into bed.
But it doesn’t end there.
I open the top drawer of the nightstand to the left of my bed and unveil my journal and its dedicated pen. I open it. And I write. For myself. By myself.
Then I write down the time, date, and number of entry and gently pack it away to be retrieved tomorrow night.
The journal holds the keys to the revving engine of my soul. It has its own personality yet reflects the evolution of mine. It is the evolution of me. And it interjects creativity into the otherwise blasé nightly R-O-U-T-I-N-E.