Tell me the story of your day.

What story, you ask? Same old, same old – just another day?

No! This is defection, not fact. Humans, alone among creatures, have stories – with characters, plots, suspense, satisfactions, disappointments. Each twenty-four hours contain, give or take, sixteen hours of consciousness, during which the protagonist ventures forth, attempts, slays dragons or is slain, wins, loses, draws. The trick of awareness is seeing your story, enjoying it. No day is same old if you’re paying attention.

Begin – when? – on waking, say. What’s the hour? Is this early or late? Do you wake with zest or resignation? Are you glad or sad to be alive?

I am what’s called “a morning person.” I erupt out of bed if I’ve slept, in a rush to work. But first, feed the dog, heat the coffee, empty the dishwasher. These are my lauds, with their precise ritual. What to write about, I wonder, gazing into the field, beautiful in all weathers. (Is nature capable of ugliness – or only man?) Sometimes my topic’s pre-booked; at other times, more excitingly, I have no idea. On the rare days nothing comes to mind, I return to sleep, for I am not ready. When two possibilities compete, I let them duke it out.

Likely, Jane’s still sleeping. She’s not a morning person. She revs up during the day, reaching peak productivity at dusk, when I’m a husk. She’ll read past midnight! If I read for fifteen minutes at bedtime, it’s a lot.

I open my laptop. I’d rather not glance at my inbox, but how can I resist? What if something’s happened! I skip the news unless it’s drastic. Headlines syphon awareness, which is my fuel. On a good day, I’ve got three, maybe four hours of concentration – squander not!

Writing pauses my day’s story. Writing I am not thinking – about myself, that is. My mind is immersed in the puzzle of saying. Highwire act may be a better analogy. Lose focus and crash. No electronic noises please! (The Devil invented robocalls.) Henry’s forbidden to bark, though he sometimes ignores the injunction. The quality of the six hundred words on my screen makes or breaks my day. A shapely phrase jollies, even if my topic’s bleak.

Having written my MDR, I return to being me. Do I have time for a walk? (Henry’s in favor.) Or maybe there are chores I can’t put off. (I’m a champion put-offer.) Read, yes, good idea, but what? (Presently at my elbow some thirty books are stacked.) Avoid the quick mud of email and headlines if you can. I can’t. What does Krugman have to say, I need to know, and Heather Cox Richardson, and Robert Reich, and…

Now it’s lunch. I make Jane her sandwich and myself soup, which we consume before a lecture from the Teaching Company. At present we’re learning about the Olmecs. I knew nothing about the Olmecs. Now, after a few dozen half-hours, I know next to nothing. It is pleasant learning, even if one soon forgets.

Now it is time for my nap, maybe past time – I’ve been known to doze during lectures. My post-prandial naps are emergencies. Without one I am useless in the afternoon and at risk of gloom. I must plug in to recharge. My charging station is music streamed through earbuds. What do I feel like today? What makes a day a Monteverdi or Mendelssohn or Menotti day is an enduring mystery.

Let us leave our protagonist dreaming his dream of music. (Henry’s sleeping too.) The story of his day isn’t done but his six hundred words are.