on practice, on weekends

It's Saturday morning again. I started drafting this post last weekend--I got as far as the title. Oh irony.

I was thinking about what is now vogueishly called 'practice'. I define practice as anything important to do for its own sake. It's related to ritual and to routine; it's often (not wrongly) deemed religious. Or spiritual--we really do need a better word for the care and feeding of our Selves that we rationalist-materialists do.

I made a list of my practices. (Many of them started out as "survival techniques".) They include writing, reading poetry, reading fiction, reading non-fiction, reading math, baking bread, stretching, powerlifting, cycling, tending plants, making the bed, intuitive eating, knitting, blogging, sun bathing, hanging laundry out to dry, sleeping, lying on the floor, drinking water, fixing things.

I quickly realized that with regard to practice I am a staunch weekend warrior. You say I have an empty house and two days off at my disposal? Why sure I'll start a loaf of sourdough and spend twenty quiet minutes stretching and connect with my blogosphere darlings and drink 2 L of water and then plunge into that short story I'm working on. Why sure I'll relax with a thick novel in bed. Please excuse me if by Wednesday evening I'm playing 2048 by the hour and drinking more than I wanted to. Please excuse me when my precious Self feels crazy, abused, and neglected and lashes out at everyone around.