The Rhythm of Being

Sometimes, the simplest things are the most crucial, aren’t they? I’ve come to understand that with a clarity that I wish I’d possessed decades ago. It’s about the rhythms. The predictable, reliable, almost unconscious sequences that underpin our days. It’s easy, when you’re young and full of a certain… vitality, to dismiss the importance of such things. To assume that your body will simply *perform*.

I remember thinking, when I started teaching, that I could simply go, go, go. Long hours in the classroom, grading papers late into the evening, then tackling the grocery shopping and the laundry. I rarely paused. Rarely checked in. The expectation was just to keep moving, to keep producing. And for a while, it seemed to work. But then, of course, the accumulation of years began to show. Not in dramatic fashion, mind you. Just a subtle… unsteadiness. Things felt a little less reliable.

The feeling itself is hard to describe, this sense that the ground beneath your feet isn’t quite solid. It’s a low-level anxiety, a persistent hum of worry. You start to anticipate the unpredictable. You find yourself listening to your body in a new, almost frantic way, trying to decipher its signals. It’s exhausting. And it’s, I suspect, a common experience, though not often spoken about.

This summer, with my retirement, things have shifted. Bernard, dear Bernard, continues at his work. And I’ve found myself with a quietude I haven't known in… well, a very long time. And in that quiet, I've been paying attention. Really paying attention. To the sun rising, to the birds singing, to the way the tomatoes ripen on the vine. But also, importantly, to the need for a regular walk. To the comfort of a cup of tea at the same time each morning.

It’s not that I suddenly became a devotee of rigid schedules. Quite the opposite. It’s about finding a framework, a gentle scaffolding to support the body’s natural tendencies. Think of the robins in my garden. They have an innate understanding of when to feed, when to rest, when to sing. It’s built into their very being. We, it seems, are capable of developing something similar, though we require a bit more conscious effort. We’ve complicated things, haven’t we?

I’ve noticed, for example, that the plants I’ve been tending thrive when I give them consistent attention. When I water them regularly, when I fertilize them at predictable intervals, they respond with a vibrant abundance. It’s a simple principle, really. The body, like a garden, appreciates regularity. It *learns* from it. There's a sort of internal calibration that occurs, a system that adapts to the reliable signals it receives. It’s almost as if it breathes a sigh of relief when it knows what to expect.

And I've realized, with a touch of melancholy, that so much of the discomfort I've experienced over the years has stemmed from a lack of this simple predictability. From the constant pressure to perform, to adapt, to *change*. There’s a wisdom in allowing things to be as they are, in providing a stable foundation for the body to simply… be.

It's not about controlling things, of course. There are limits to what we can manage, to what we can intervene with. Sometimes, the best thing we can do is simply observe, to offer a gentle rhythm, and to trust in the body’s innate ability to find its balance. A short walk each morning. A cup of tea by the window. A quiet moment to breathe. These small acts of consistency are, I suspect, the quietest, most powerful form of self-care.