This week I was planning to write about getting bored of myself. Of the dangers of sliding into ruts that get deeper and deeper. Of a shrinking world as I age. Of the virtues of keeping things fresh, and of how we could keep trying really hard to make this happen.
And then we took the dogs on their morning walk. Aiko waited until we got to the park for her first wee of the day, then she led me on a merry dance as she sought the perfect long grass before squatting. Ralph queued up behind her, waiting patiently for her to finish so he could wee on top of her wee. (I assume this is because he wants to scare the big dogs away from his friend, but who knows what’s going on in his little doggie head.)
It is a scene I have watched play out countless times since Ralph came to live with us, and it delighted me. There was something about the predictability of their choreography that deepened my love for them both and (although this might sound unfeasible I shall say it anyway) my love for everything.
It seems appropriate that my original urge towards writing about IMPROVEMENT should be tempered in this way - that the Universe literally pissed on it. The urge had arisen after I’d lingered on social media for too long and become caught in an endless doom scroll. As time went on I started to be rankled by the dull predictability of other people’s posts, and then I noticed the dull predictability of my own. Oh God, here I am posting pictures of cake again. Surely not more preaching about the planet? Not another photo of the dogs…
It was not a pleasant feeling. What could I do about it? My frustrated disgust at my smallness slowly transmogrified1 into a fired-up feeling - I could turn over a new leaf! Become a new person! Dedicate myself to the new and throw out all that stale nonsense I’ve been carrying around for half a century! The beginning would be this piece I’m writing now, where I would extoll the benefits of letting our old habits drop from us like old snake-skins, and enumerate a million ways to find fresh ways of encountering the world, each other and ourselves.
This ‘let’s change everything!’ feeling is all too familiar to me. It drives my hunger for self-help books, articles and courses. It has fed into my life-long predilection for support groups, study and therapy. It even fires some of my spiritual life (I know, I know).
On the evening of the dog wee walk I went with friends to watch Perfect Days at our local cinema. The film follows Hirayama, a toilet cleaner in Tokyo, as he methodically moves through his day. Without dialogue we watch him waking up, rolling up his sleeping mat, going downstairs to brush his teeth, carefully watering his maple saplings, getting himself a can of coffee from the vending machine outside his tiny flat… Everything he does, including his job of cleaning public toilets, is done properly. He carries an aura of steadiness, and he is also open to magic - we watch him pause to gaze at the shadows of leaves shimmering on the outside toilet wall and his awe shivers through us.
It’s so unusual in films to see days portrayed in such an ordinary way. Nothing much happens! For a long time in the film, we watch him follow the same routine day after day, with a slight variation at weekends, and after a while I accepted that this was how the whole film would be.
Slowly, against the backdrop of all this routine, fresh things do ‘happen’ - an encounter with a troubled young girl, money troubles, messengers from his dark past. We see the until-now unflappable and mostly silent Hirayama stirred by anger, sadness and despair. He is human after all. And, as we discover in the film, what a human. After spending time with him in his world, I emerged from the dark theatre filled with gratitude for having ‘met’ him. He will remain one of my teachers.
One of the things that struck me about the film was the deep comfort Hirayama took from his routines. He folded his bedding in the same way every morning, he visited the same café for his food every evening, he washed himself in the local bathhouse in the same way. Here was a lesson for me: ritual and routine can be deeply nourishing. As fallible humans we can thrive in these familiar spaces, where we drink from the same blue mug, exchange pleasantries with the same cashier, and take deep draughts of sweet scent from the same roses in our garden year after year.
And, of course, even when we do things in the same way they are different every time. Sometimes they look the same but they feel different, as when Hirayama fails to gain his usual pleasure from his weekly ritual of sorting through photographs he’s taken of trees. Sometimes they are a variation on a theme as one morning, after a tough night, he buys two cans of coffee rather than his usual one. Sometimes the best rituals in our lives get smashed up beyond recognition for a while, or forever.
After watching Perfect Days, I realise that I don’t need to worry so much about my routines getting stale. They will change, whether I like it or not. What I can do is enjoy them while they are here. I can dwell in the delight of the dog’s weeing dance, because the dogs won’t be here forever (or, I won’t be here to see them). Maybe I will even foster rituals - knowing that wheels run more smoothly when they’re in ruts - appreciating their support and comfort without forgetting their sacred heart.
Repetition is what allows something brand new to occur. Repetition, like the lapping of ripples against a rock, gently shifts the ground on which we tread, and so alters our relationship to the things we experience. ~ Anne C. Klein
What I can also do is let fresh air in when it wants to come. To become aware of when I’m barricading myself away from new things, and to bring gentle curiosity to the barricades. To venture into new spaces when the mood takes me. To relish the thrill of the unknown and to sprinkle it into the dish of my life like dashes of salt and pepper.
I will probably continue to bore myself sometimes. I will also continue to take exquisite pleasure from cycles and from repetition. The same deep pink sweet peas that grow near the gravel path each Spring, the same song on repeat, my predictable and repeating limitations, the same baby blue morning sky, the same scrumptious smell of marmite on toast.
In this world of constant and churning flux, there is no greater joy.
Go gently,
Satya <3
This song features in the last scene of Perfect Days. The song and the scene totally slayed me. I’m hoping you’ll find a little time for it today, and go see the film!
This may be the first time I’ve used transmogrify in a sentence. Aren’t words wonderful?
Such timely words for me. I completely relate to being bored with myself, my routine. You reminded me that, yes, routines change and I will eventually grieve the routines I now find tiring. And, I can take heart that something new is likely around the bend. Thank you!
P.S. Our male dog does the exact same thing. 😂
Fantastic post and fantastic film recommendation. My spouse and I watched _Perfect Days_ last night and it was just beautiful. I also loved how even when Hirayama was pulled out of his routine, he simply bent with the current and never broke, and eventually slid back into it. It shows the subtle (and sometimes counterintuitive) nature of routine: that when the unexpected does occur and pull us from it, if we've established the discipline of routine itself, we have the capacity to let the disruption happen and then return to the usual ... the beauty in it. The final scene was a triumph.