Violating the Transition Time

I have a simple callisthenic routine. I think I learned about it in the New York Times.  A ten-minute work out that has me down with planks and up with jumping jacks and squats and push ups that is supposed to provide you with a quick, well-rounded box-tick toning.  For some reason this routine is utterly impossible to maintain when I go on the road.  In a hotel, it just doesn’t happen.  Here, in my office I just about always find a way. 

The callisthenic bit follows my truncated meditation routine.  Once upon a time I did that every morning for one hour.  Now I do it for thirty minutes.  Not bad.  But certainly not the same as when you push onward.  This morning, as often happens, you notice you’re dreaming.  Some warm residue of a place that seemed pleasant pulls at you as you try once again to concentrate on nothing.  This bit also proves a bridge-too-far, when on the road.

Vivekanada, the nineteenth century Hindu mystic talks about the importance of having a room dedicated to certain ritualized functions.   So does Virginia Wolf.  A luxury certainly, but it is remarkable how much easier certain things are to follow-through on in a space dedicated for this activity.  A hotel room is certainly one’s own for the evening.  But there I always seem to wake up late or start right in on work, violating the transition time.

My wife made a big log of biscotti this evening.  That was different.  She is always pushing her culinary boundaries, trying new recipes, which I can only respect.  I never use recipes.  Yes.  Sometimes it shows.  I go about it with a taste in my mind and try to recreate it.  But for something like biscotti it’s probably best to follow some instructions.  The almonds are crunchy and it’s impossible not to dip it into milk and then into wine.  We’ll reckon with it all during the next morning’s sit-ups.