QUESTION:

Routine- Is it a passion-killer or a comfort?

I think most of you know we've moved house. Back to the beach again. An unintended consequence of this is... that our well-established routines set up at the old place- they're no longer applicable. Several factors: The abysmal internet speeds at the new address (.20-60Mbps do not fast internet make, and since our 'family' has extended further due to the unexpected and surprising discovery of a 6th bedroom which was not advertised, and the subsequent moving in of Boyd and his girlfriend Molly... and the expected-any-minute arrival of a rather large batch of kittens going by the footy match taking place in her belly- we're full and frustrated!)

The boys? They are sleeping in separate bedrooms for the first time in their lives. This has... changed them. Marcus promptly placed his desk in "my" room and completely ignored the plan of using their separate living area as "the new man cave". Dylan (he's yet to set up his desktop- he got rid of the old board-room table and is 'desk-less' till he finds the right one) is either on his laptop in their kitchen or... on my bed. Disoriented.

My father (and it is sad despite the humour of the moments) keeps getting lost. The townhouse had 'open-living', whereas this one has designated rooms. Also, several small balconies and that's where he mostly goes astray, trying to find his 'smoking spot'. We keep having to spin him around and point him in the right direction.

My mother... she's totally lost the plot. The back area of this home has a 'self-contained flat' with two bedrooms, a living area, a kitchen, a bathroom and a laundry. The boys, of course, staked a claim. Trouble is, she doesn't understand this. They suddenly 'care' that she invades their space and does the same things she did at the old one. Suddenly, they resent her intruding. She is no longer "needed". A battle rages.

Me? I am having the time of my life. A new writing space to set up... though the terror of not being able to find my 'wall' (the collection of words said to me or about me, words plucked from others and bits and pieces of memories collected since and centred around a photo of him I'd promptly stashed in what I'd thought at the time a 'safe' place when moving- meaning safe from my mother's habit of throwing anything she didn't merit as important (?) out) was highly unpleasant, till I found it and reinstated it above my desk. Phewww.

Yet I hate routine. It's really what got me into the mess I was in of late. Too long doing the same things. The passion fled from me. I'd felt desiccated, worn, tired and old. Every day, waking to the same day. Trying to alleviate the stifling, choking feeling by creating drama- anything to instil some difference to a day, even a detrimental one.

Now I am in my element again. There's excitement, passion, there's all this 'newness' to occupy me, all the discoveries to make and of course, there's the beach. Feeling free; not stuck in a box in a street surrounded by endless boxes and eldless streets and driving around as though in a maze. Not repeating the same day, since each one now brings a new possibility in its wake. My mind active again, imagining, speculating... my creativity sparked, I can feel it hissing and spitting and wanting to get out in every way possible. My sense of adventure renewed.

Yesterday, walking the shore in arctic, blustery conditions, I said to Dylan: "How many hours will it take to reach Portsea from here? Walking along the shore." (Portsea being the very tip of the 'right arm' of our bay and some 70kms away but accessible by foot in almost its entirety along one long stretch of sandy beach, except for a few areas where hills met the shore in rocky outcrops.)

He whipped his phone out and did some calculating. "Fourteen."

"Wanna do it one day? Just start and keep walking. Then get public transport back."

"Better to take public transport there and walk it backwards mum. Think about it."

I love my kid!

I just hate routine. It's my nemesis.

How do you view routine? Hindrance or comfort?