The Morning Ritual

Before the phone. Before the day has any opinions about you.

Warm water, and nothing said.

Clay, mixed — never poured — and left to do its work while the light moves across the wall. Ten minutes. It is not long. It only feels long because we have forgotten how to stand still in a bathroom.

Rinse. A fine mist, eyes closed, and the small shock of something cool on skin that has only just woken.

Then three drops, warmed between the palms. Press — do not rub. The face, the neck, the place under the jaw that nobody remembers.

Breathe once, properly.

That is all of it. Four minutes, most mornings. Not a routine, which is something you get through. A ritual, which is something you keep.

The day can have you now.