I Get up before the sun and stagger to the kitchen in one of my favorite doghair covered hoodies, stretching as best I can along the way, doing my best impersonation of a zombie digging its way out of a fresh grave.
I boil water. I grind enough coffee beans for four cups. It lasts about 90 minutes. I let the first of five dogs out, usually, the one who’s held it longest. I stand as close to the hot stove as possible desperately waiting for the thermometer to tell me I can cook up my drugs now.
I stretch. The same muscles I stretched yesterday, the only ones I have, and unless I miss my guess about future body modifications — ala Ghost In The Shell — not really being a thing in my life, the only ones I ever will. Then I read and write and such until my “morning” ends. Rinse. Wash. Repeat.
I often for the same reason. Not because I’m going anywhere with it or have a particularly engaging idea, because stretching the same muscles every day is important, figurately, as well as physically.
No one sees my morning yoga. I’ll most likely never be complimented on my one of a kind Cobra pose. I’ll never get a high five for that stellar Down Dog, either. And sometimes I even feel like it’s a waste of time. But just like writing, I know it’ll only get better if I do it when I don’t want to. Even if today says otherwise. Even when I feel like I’m wasting my time. If I didn’t, I fear, If I only wrote when I had something bright to say, and only stretched when it was convenient, I’d be stiff as hell and stuck on chapter one. Then where would I be? An author who doesn’t write. A coach who doesn’t workout. A person … or nothing at all.
Bunch's work can also be found at joshbunch.com and other rousing websites that focus on fitness, human overengineering and general awesomeness. If you want him to write something just as stunning for your crowd, email him at firstname.lastname@example.org