I will typically spend at least part of any day that I have off at a bakery on the South Hill in Spokane. I order the same thing every single time I go, too. A "simply cinnamon scone" with a 12 oz drip coffee. I am predictable when it comes to my bakery orders.
And nearly every time I go there, I bump into my friend Kevin. In between sips and bites, we catch up on what has been going on in each of our lives. It's a friendship built on chance encounters that are a result of programmed routines.
Before or after these run-ins with Kevin, I will spend some time writing. This bakery is where at least 90% of the book I've been working on has come into being. In one of the same wooden chairs at a wooden table sitting by the window.
There's a predictability to it all. A consistency. A rhythm that lures me in and pulses along, letting me float upon it's beat while I seek out the spurts of creativity that burst amidst all the normalcy.
Rather than whimsy, I'm much more drawn to a steady path I can walk down day by day. It is on this path that I can gaze into the wooden depths of my mind and discover something on the horizon of this thought. And when I do, I walk there. Toward it. Pursue it. Always knowing that amid the search, there's the path to return to.
Such paths exist everywhere. In dinner time with my wife, Emily. In the early morning wake ups to take her to work. In the 45 minute drive to work each morning. Our paths become bland when all we do is look ahead to the places of ending they take us toward. They become much more interesting when we look around and witness what is going on just off of them, and let that inspire and play upon our imaginaiton.