Part VII: The First Appointment of My Day Has a Wet Nose.

Sometimes you can feel it. That strange sensation of being watched. You’re still half asleep. And yet, somehow, you know. Someone is there. I slowly open my eyes. About a postage stamp’s width from my nose stands our dog. In full life-size. He is staring at me. Completely still. Almost reverently. As if he were checking whether I’m awake yet. The very moment I open my eyes, his tail begins to wag. Not cautiously. With absolute conviction. As if to say, “Ah… you’re awake!” “Yes,” I mumble. “I am now.” A few moments later, the alarm clock goes off. Completely unnecessary. The first appointment of my day has already begun.

I love our early morning walks. The air is fresh. The lake is often perfectly still. While our dog carefully investigates every new scent, my thoughts seem to arrange themselves almost effortlessly. There is something deeply meditative about these walks. Perhaps because they begin the same way every morning. Or perhaps because they remind me that a new day doesn’t have to start with anything spectacular. Sometimes, it is enough simply to begin.

For many years, my work provided that beginning. My calendar set the rhythm. Meetings. Events. Business trips. Deadlines. Weeks. Months. Everything had its place. Even the busiest days followed a familiar pattern. And perhaps that was exactly why the little islands in between mattered so much. A good book. Yoga. Meditation. A walk. A few quiet moments to breathe.

Today, my calendar looks different. Between our walks, there is suddenly a great deal of unplanned time. More than I sometimes know what to do with. And gradually, it wasn’t only my work that disappeared. A piece of the routine that had quietly accompanied it disappeared as well.

We often talk about purpose. About identity. About motivation. Far less often do we talk about structure. And yet, our minds depend on it more than we may realise. Routines give us orientation. They soften the uncertainty of the day ahead. They offer our brains something they naturally appreciate: Predictability. Perhaps that’s why we often feel calmer when we know what comes next.

Of course, I’m looking for a new job. I browse job portals. Read job descriptions. Write applications. But afterwards, there is still an astonishing amount of day left. 

So I began creating new anchors for myself. I write. I develop ideas. I work on a project close to my heart. I meet people. Sometimes I even make a conscious decision to do absolutely nothing. Something I still find surprisingly difficult.

And then, one day, I noticed something. Sometimes you don’t find structure. You build it. Not all at once. But one small step at a time. A walk. Another chapter. A conversation. A trip to the shops.

Sometimes I still wonder whether I’m building castles in the air. Whether all these hours, all these ideas, might simply disappear into nothing. Then a quiet voice speaks up inside me. “What if I fall?” – “Oh, but my darling… What if you fly?” The American poet Erin Hanson wrote those words. I love them. Not because they promise that everything will work out. But because, for a brief moment, they gently shift my attention away from fear and towards possibility.

By now, our dog has decided that it’s time to play. His tail is wagging enthusiastically. I hide a few dog treats around the house and out on the terrace. With remarkable precision, he finds every single one. As if this were the most important project of his day. Perhaps it is. And afterwards? Another walk is already waiting.

I don’t think dogs spend much time reflecting on routines. They simply live them. Perhaps that is their quiet wisdom. They don’t wait for the perfect life to arrive. They simply take the next step. And then the one after that. Sometimes, that’s exactly how a new chapter in life begins. Not with a grand plan. But with a wet nose.