Routine Is Also Ritual, and It's a Beautiful Thing for a Writer

 Just before the pandemic (the 2020s, to clarify for when I beocme nothing but a blip in history), we sought a better situation for our daughter and enrolled her in a private school. Moving from a class of 30 to one of 12 transformed her academics, though it strained our finances. Among her new classmates was an unexpected addition—a guinea pig named Miss Addie. The school asked for volunteers to care for Addie over Christmas break, and we eagerly stepped in.

Addie and I bonded instantly (I’m a self-proclaimed pet whisperer), and when it came time to return her, I delayed by almost a week, because I just couldn't! I mean, look at those lovely, soulful, pink eyes! Pink! When the pandemic closed the school in March, they asked me to take her in again. By May, the school announced its closure (lack of funds... and at 1500/month, in a rural farm area, I understood why), and Addie became a permanent part of our family.

During lockdown, my daughter discovered, through taking a guinea pig care class virtually on Outschool (highly recommend Outschool, BTW), that female guinea pigs prefer companionship. Enter Baby, a pet store adoption, who turned out to be less of a companion and more of a reluctant roommate for Addie.  I had nicknamed Addie "The Duchess," and she certainly did not seem to feel as though she needed the roomate we acquired for her, often biting poor little Baby right on her rump! It probably didn't help that Baby looked like a a Holstein cow. A duchess does not want to live with a Holstein. Over time, thankfully, as I've never returned a pet, a tolerance developed between them.

When we moved back to California, in pursuit of yet another better school for our daughter after our only local (but expensive) option went bust, our cross-country drive from the East Coast included two cats, two guinea pigs, and one dog. They travelled like champs, all in all, and everyone seemed to enjoy the warmer climate. A year later, though, so sad, The Duchess left me. Addie passed away just before Christmas. Baby, grief-stricken, refused to eat, and guinea pigs, as I quickly learned, cannot survive without constant food. After two stressful days of hand-feeding, we adopted Punky, a pumpkin-colored ball of personality. Baby was so happy about Punky, though she did sometimes bite her ear. Almost two years later Baby followed Addie over the Rainbow Bridge. When that happened I watched Punky anxiously for several days, because it suddenly occured to me that, because the guinea pigs were never going to be perfectly age-matched, I could be adopting new ones every two years or so... for a looooong time. 

Well, unlike Baby, Punky has embraced singlehood, thriving as the CEO of her (suddenly last summer) luxuriously large cage (you know, 'cause her roomate is dead). 

Our mornings together have become a cherished ritual. While cleaning her cage, I chat with her—“Wooo, Punkus!”—and she chirps back louder and louder until I bring her a treat. It’s a soothing routine: I remove her fleece bedding, snacks, hay, and inevitable poops, wash everything, and set up her cage anew. The fresh bedding, replenished hay, and carefully prepared salads feel like gifts to her, though the process is a meditative gift to me.

Many might think this is too much effort for a “kid’s pet.” Years ago, when Addie first joined us, my daughter and I made a deal: I’d take over cage cleaning in exchange for her handling emptying the dishwasher, a chore I despise, and one that small kids can do safely if you remove the finger-slicing-things first. The trade stuck, and now I enjoy the calm, purposeful time spent caring for Punky, while my daughter schleps the clinky dishes and all that silverware.

For those of us who don’t subscribe to traditional religious practices, rituals like this hold a special meaning. While I was raised in a Christian household, I never connected with church rituals. To me, they felt more forced than meaningful. Yet I’ve come to understand that ritual is universal and deeply personal—it helps us process life, emotions, and change. Whether it’s decorating for holidays, sharing meals, or caring for a small creature, rituals offer grounding and peace.

My granmother loved her church, and her rituals, everything from the time she ate her meals (she had herself on a schedule the army would be proud of) to the way she draped her tea bag over the saucer. Punky reminds me of my grandmother: warm, round, vocal, and always delighted by a good snack, a hearty laugher. Cleaning her cage feels like honoring both of them, which kinda makes me laugh because I know my mother would be so haughty about the thought that I am comparing her mother to a "rodent," (so I just won't show her this post!) but I do not think my grandmom, Sara Vantine McGinnis, would mind at all. She would get it. So Punky and I are good. And while performing chores in order to give Punky a cleaner happier life,  my thoughts flow freely—often sparking ideas for my writing. It’s a meditative reset that leaves both Punky and me refreshed.

It’s funny how small rituals like this can have such a big impact. They’re part of what keeps me focused and moving forward, even when life feels overwhelming. I’ve noticed that same magic when I meet with other writers—there’s something powerful in shared routine and a collective sense of purpose. It reminds me of the rhythm I’ve found with Punky: steady, comforting, and productive in ways that are sometimes surprising. In fact, this realization about the power of ritual and routine has led me to try something new: I’m starting The Chapter Book Club in February. 

The Chapter Book Club is a space for writers to meet weekly, create their own productive rhythms, and carve out time for writing. It feels like a natural extension of what I’ve learned with Punky—sometimes the smallest, most consistent acts lead to the biggest rewards. And I also figure that, though I hate the whole concept of NaNoWriMo (as I probably spouted on about here before) doing it like this, over time, could get you to where finishing in November might actually be possible! What if you could finish your book by next NaNoWriMo? and kick NaNoWriMo in its sanctimonious butt? I like kicking sanctimonious butts! (Though I admit to being a clumsy kicker in general, and probably too short and awkward to actully hit a butt with my booted foot!)

Though Punky won’t outlast me (fingers crossed!), I’ll cherish this ritual and the connection it brings. And as life moves forward, I’ll continue to find meaning and joy in the small, repetitive acts that shape my days. I hope you stop and look at your chores anew, and see them less as drudgery, and more as little wins, little quiet spaces in your mind, in your day, small sweet rituals to be cherished, even if they involve a bit of poop.