A Morning Steeped in Ritual (and Tea)

I’m convinced that mornings are the foundation of everything, and mine begins with a stubborn refusal to let my alarm dictate the rhythm. Instead of jolting awake, I allow myself a full five minutes of appreciating the stillness of my old sea captain’s home. The creak of aged floorboards, the faint tang of salty air wafting through the window—it’s an atmosphere I wouldn’t trade for anything (not even for the early bird bagels at Aunt Marie’s bakery down the street).

When I finally roll out of bed, there’s one rule: conversation-free until tea is brewing. Coffee drinkers may wax poetic about their morning fix, but I believe tea offers a slower seduction, much like the early stages of courtship. It’s ritualistic, contemplative, and endlessly nuanced. Depending on the day, I might go for an Earl Grey with a hint of lavender or a smoky Lapsang Souchong—it’s like crafting a first text in a budding romance. Am I confident? Flirty? Bold? These decisions matter.

Checking the Weather (and My Mood, Apparently)

I live by the coast, so the weather is its own capricious lover. Morning rituals wouldn’t be complete until I slide into battered leather loafers and shuffle to the porch to take in the sky. Is it an overcast kind of day, with brooding storm clouds rolling in from the Atlantic? Or one of those unnervingly cheerful sun-dappled mornings where seagulls are more chatty than usual? Each has its vibe, and I let it dictate how I move through the next few hours.

I’ve learned dating has a bit of that same “check-the-skyline-before-you-move” energy. As you step into a connection, it’s worth gauging: Is this the calm-before-a-storm date where things get heavy? Or, better yet, is it the conversational equivalent of a sunny day picnic—light, breezy, and brimming with laughter? My advice: always keep a metaphorical umbrella handy. You never know when a sudden downpour of emotions will hit.

Also, Maine coastal air can turn your hair into a frizz factory within minutes. Humility and a solid bun are my weapons of choice.

Breakfast Philosophy: Lobster or Leftovers?

Now here’s where things get a little odd. Some days, breakfast involves the lovingly predictable crunch of toasted sourdough slathered with butter and blueberry jam—because nothing says, “You’ve got this!” like berries that taste like they were kissed by a Downeast fog. Other mornings? It’s lobster rolls for breakfast, baby.

You see, dating (and life, really) has taught me to lean into what makes me happy and leave behind conventions that don’t serve me. Is eating last night’s lobster at 7 a.m. “normal”? Probably not. But is it joyful, delicious, and highly satisfying? You bet. Love is a lot like this. Do you insist on conventionality, or do you follow your flavor, no matter how “unexpected” it might look to others? Love someone—or yourself—the way you love a buttery lobster roll at sunrise: unapologetically and on your terms.

Midday Maintenance: Boats and Boundaries

My afternoons often include a walk past the docks, where boats bob gently like they’re part of some secret maritime code no landlubber could ever crack. There’s something profoundly soothing about the constancy of coastal life.

It’s also where I contemplate boundaries—a word I once thought belonged exclusively to property lines, but now I wear it like a crown. Boundaries are what keep us afloat in life and love, much like the seawalls protecting our harbors. I was once the kind of person who would leave her metaphorical rowboat untied, floating off into someone else’s storms. Now, I’m a firm believer in anchoring myself first.

Setting clear boundaries in relationships isn’t about distance; it’s about clarity. It’s saying, “This is who I am, quirky tea rituals and all. Take it or sail on by.” Let me tell you, nothing builds confidence faster than knowing you’ve secured your metaphorical ship against the tidal pull of modern dating.

Afternoon Journals and Edith Wharton Realness

By mid-afternoon, I carve out some quiet time to write—whether it’s plotting a literary mystery drenched in salty air and candlelight or jotting down snippets of conversations I overheard at the market. (Note: if you want the best dating advice in New England, lurk by the lobster counter.) Today’s entry might explore something like why relationships are so much like the tides—always shifting but with patterns you can learn. Or I might shamelessly dissect that moment from last week’s date where someone tried to prove their love of poetry by reciting a line from Taylor Swift. (Respect for effort, if not accuracy.)

This is my sweet spot. A couple hours where my mind can wander freely, anchoring itself to stories both lived and imagined. Writing, much like dating, is an exploration. Some passages stick; others you cross out and rework entirely. It’s the best kind of creative chaos.

Evenings: Downtime with a Side of Nostalgia

By the time the sun begins to dip, casting its gilded light across the harbor, I’m ready to slow down. Dinner is a sacred ritual—whether it’s a clam chowder simmered to creamy perfection or simply a picnic of gouda and crackers at the edge of the beach. It’s the simplicity of eating something that reminds me of home—of the stories and legacies carried in these recipes. Being rooted matters.

Love, I think, is much the same. It comes down to shared experiences as much as new adventures. Like the time I took someone on their first clamming excursion, only to have them squeal when a crab skittered over their boot. (Not exactly love at first sight, but we laughed until our sides hurt.) Connections thrive when they’re tethered to moments of wonder and shared vulnerability.

Nights: Of Moonlight and Mist

As a Mainer, I’m lucky to have nighttime skies that feel untethered to reality. There’s magic in swaddling yourself in a wool blanket, stepping onto the back porch, and basking in the maritime silence. Stars above, waves below—it’s something out of a Brontë novel. It’s also where I do most of my thinking about love, life, and those slippery-next-steps we all constantly navigate.

Every night, before turning in, I light a candle—sometimes for peace, sometimes for people I’ve loved and lost. Setting this small flame alight reminds me that everything, no matter how challenging, eventually passes. And yet, the things worth holding onto—whether in romance or personal growth—have an unshakeable glow.

Final Thoughts

My days don’t always follow a neat rhythm. Some mornings I forget my tea. Some afternoons I forget myself entirely. Some days, no matter how much I try to write the tides of life into stories, the words just don’t come. And that’s okay. What I’ve learned is this: it’s less about having a perfect routine and more about holding space for yourself.

Life, like love, isn’t something to master—it’s something to marvel at, one creaky step at a time.