There is a whizz and the sound of pouring water. The smell of coffee beans breaks into my morning routine, welcome and warm. I am rummaging for cream to add to my favorite mug. I am adjusting the lights while my laptop loads, my kids and husband on their way to start their day. I have let the dogs out, and now they are busily munching chewing sticks. It is both noisy and quiet.
I can hear the garbage trucks making their rounds down the street. Stopping and starting. Screech, hiss, rumble. Screech, hiss, rumble.
I am bearing witness to the ordinary. I am savoring the delicious scent of rhythms and morning reflections. I am discerning my day.
I am unlearning hustle culture.
Decades of furious push. Mugs, signs, stickers. One step ahead. Ten more minutes. An additional move. Keep going.
I am stirring my coffee and inhaling deeply.
I have traded cups that quipped about swiping on my lipstick, drying up the tears, putting on my heels and… There is now a mug with a fox. A mug with Christian community. A mug about tears. The word “hustle” is notably absent.
Instead, I appreciate the steam rising from cup. I think about the interruption of taste and smell in my morning. I can feel a small bit of anxiety rushing in as I watch the clock. I can’t be late; I don’t want to disappoint.
I can feel it hunting at my heels, begging me to prove myself. It is that quick. What if they think I’m not pulling my weight? What if I fall behind? What if someone wonders? I force myself to sit. I breathe deeply again.
I would have never considered myself an anxious person. However, there was a hum deep in my soul that drove me with the deliberate intensity of a person who has had to start from the bottom. I could not afford the luxury of an unproductive moment. I did not want to let anyone down. I did not want to waste an opportunity. The margin made for me, paid for by others, felt like a bottomless debt that required unending movement. My soul was exhausted.
I thought about this on the day we put our remodeled kitchen back together. My body felt withdrawn, and the to-do list had no end. I looked at the mug in my hand, “Put on your lipstick and hustle,” and I walked to the trash. This was it.
Mugs, cups, stickers. I swept through the house and gathered all the reminders. I could let go.
Every day it got easier. The moments turned into days, then weeks, and new rhythms.
It is a hard-earned freedom. Some days I have to fight harder, but I have more days of steady walking than frenetic rushing. I stand at the window. I find joyful tasks for my hands. It has been a beautiful detox. I am finding the ordinary beautiful, and it is so good.
