How do we begin our day?

As we have read in the rule these past few days about Lauds – the morning prayer – this is the question that echoes.  This question is also pressing for me because two months ago, a brain aneurysm burst in the occipital lobe of my brain, and the routines which shaped my life ceased.  The rituals and daily procedures have given way to days filled with a focus on healing.  And these days have shifted and changed as the course of my healing progresses. 

In the hospital, my morning began with waiting:  for nurses to give medicines, for my husband to arrive with tea.  This waiting was often characterized by closing my eyes against the headaches and breathing through the pain; I would breath through the muscle aches and cramps of forced bed rest.  I listened to Peter Gabriel’s song “Washing of the Water” in which we pray “teach me how to float” and to “wash this pain away.” I have been blessed; I was only in the hospital three weeks. I am grateful for the goodness around me. I rejoice in the love of my family, the kindness of my visitors, the prayers freely given, the abundance which poured forth from the communities at work and church.  Praise God! Let your ways be known on earth! (67:2)

When I first arrived home, the morning formed a ritual: medication and a bath.  In the hospital, I was given sponge baths, and when I first came home, the stitches in my head prevented me from showering; I gloried in bathing.  This water washed the pain away; it was meditative and healing.  In Psalm 51, each day we ask God to heal: to wash us through and through.  In those days, my prayer focused on physical brokenness.  I prayed these mornings for strength, both physical and spiritual.  During these days friends visited, letting me find strength in their presence.  I was given CDs to listen too, since I was still seeing double.  My husband called home each day to check on my well-being.  Create in me a new heart; renew a right spirit within me. (51:11)

As my eyesight and mobility have improved, I have begun to feel anxious about getting things done, getting moving.  Some days I must force myself to be still in the morning; some days I get bogged down in the stillness.  And even as I try to be still, I find myself surrounded by distractions: a computer, a tablet with solitaire and crossword puzzles to play, two books, and a TV.  So, while I am physically still, I am quite restless.   I have lessons to learn from these days of brokenness.

How should I begin my day?  How do you begin each day?  How do we set our mind in the way that we should go each day?