Ever since I read the book The ONE Thing by Gary Keller, I’ve been haunted by his assertion that the idea of “priorities” is a distortion of the word “priority.”

The nature of a priority is that you can only have one.

That sounds really nice in theory, but today I have to write a blog post, attend four meetings, get my car registered, water the plants in my garden, make a dump run, and…well, that’s all I’ve got in my short-term memory. Oh yeah, I also have daily routines like checking in with my clients, updating my financial records, and so on.

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I used to be the kid who had to be picked up and carried, literally kicking and screaming, to the car.

I do remember a family party at my cousins’ house. Why would I leave? Why would I want to leave? I was still having fun.

I still struggle with transitions. Whether I’m attempting to end a meal, a conversation, a jam session, or an outing, the time to wind down feels arbitrary and forced. I don’t throw temper tantrums anymore, but I do experience a pang of melancholy.

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I tend to have trouble sticking to a routine.

I thought this was a personality trait. Ironically, though, it’s a habit: a habit of not having consistent habits. I supposed it stems from personality traits, like my desire for novelty and my optimistic take on life. But the pandemic has shown that, when the variables are reduced, I can stick to a routine just fine. And in fact, I’ve really benefited from doing so.

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There’s a sameness to these days, and I can’t remember what they were like before.

I put on my slippers and comfy clothes and shuffle downstairs in the darkness of my little house, turning up the heat as I go. I write. I eat. I think. I communicate with my team, my clients, my friends and family through various means. I eat some more. I write some more. At some point, I go for a walk outside. That’s the day.

There are moments of joy and satisfaction. Moments of connection. Moments of frustration, sorrow, and mirth. It adds up to a life.

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When the lockdown began, I was ready. I was on high-alert mode.

For two months, I worked long hours from my parents’ dining room table and my childhood bedroom, taking breaks to walk along the cold windy beach until the beaches closed, and then down and around the cul-de-sacs of the neighborhood on the days after that. Sometimes, I played a little tennis with my mom — until the tennis courts closed, and then we hit the ball back and forth in the gravel driveway in the afternoons.

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