One Hundred and Eighty Days

One hundred and eighty mornings. That is the number. That is what today is for — the simple fact of the count, said plainly, with no need to dress it up.

One hundred and eighty cups of tea or coffee or water. One hundred and eighty breaths taken at the beginning of an ordinary day. One hundred and eighty small, ordinary openings — of the book, of the eye, of the room, of the day. Some of those mornings were easy. Most were not. Some you barely remember. Some you wanted to skip. Some you read the page and did not believe a word of it and read it anyway. Some you forgot entirely, and then came back — and that returning is itself part of the count.

A practice for a real person, in a real life, is not a perfect line. It is more like a coastline. Some sections are smooth. Some sections curve and double back. Some sections vanish into fog and reappear on the other side. The count is not a verdict on how well you walked each mile. The count is the simple fact that you walked them.

You do not have to mark the day with anything grand. You can simply, privately, in the kitchen, pour the morning's drink and say to yourself: one hundred and eighty. Out loud, if you want. Quietly, in the chest, if you don't. The number is the prayer. The number is the whole observance.

Whatever else has not yet arrived, this has: one hundred and eighty mornings, on the record, kept. Not by anyone else. By you. You did that. Not in one grand morning. In one hundred and eighty small ones.