I had always wanted to be one of those people able to greet the day through a sunrise meditation or chanting, but always had trouble with daily practice (DP). Over the years I had tried different practices. I love nature so I thought a daily nature observation would work – it did not. I work as a lecturer in creative arts therapy (CAT), so I hoped an artistic endeavour such as clay work or stitching would engage me. As a person who loves movement, I thought yoga might be it. But every attempt at a new practice petered out after a week or two. I was not alone in finding it difficult to establish a DP; psychologist Eric Maisel (2019) lists a variety of reasons why people do not continue with their DP: busyness, lack of time, distractions, high expectations and lack of motivation.

I finally found a practice last year which not only suited me but also enriched my life. This made me curious about whether my colleagues at Whitecliffe College, Aotearoa New Zealand, had similar troubles and/or similar practices. To my delight, the three CAT lecturers I asked were happy to share with me their DPs – activities they had developed based on their needs and personalities, encompassing dance, yoga/gratefulness, and walking. Each of our DPs are simple, and need minimal materials or preparation, which helps the practitioners stick to the practice (Maisel, 2020a). The DPs described below vary from a few minutes to longer than an hour and are practised at different times of the day. Three of us practise alone, one with a companion.

The differences between those DPs are obvious, but I was interested to see what characteristics the practices had in common as well as how they relate to our profession as CATs and CAT lecturers. At the heart of this article lie the written accounts of my co-authors as they speak more deeply and authentically to the power of DP than any of the sparse academic articles about DP I have found.

I refer to myself and my three CAT colleagues when I use the pronouns ‘we/us/our’ in my writing below. Other arts therapists may have different experiences when engaging with DPs. I also decided, in agreement with my co-authors, to use their first names, deviating from the academic norm of using last names. The use of first names expresses more accurately the personal nature of the practices described, as well as the relationships we share with each other.

Eberhard’s and Atkins’ definition aligns well with the ways we practise, suggesting that DP is an activity “done on more days than not”, allowing “some gentleness... while still supporting the importance of a regular ritual and grounding practice” (2014, p.80). Maisel (2020b) talks about time carved out from each day where we pay real attention, as opposed to daily habits where the main purpose is relaxation or entertainment, such as a cup of coffee in the morning, or watching Netflix at night. Hyland Moon writes in the same vein about “looking for poietic possibilities in everyday objects and occurrences” (2008, p.51). Each DP encompasses elements of mindfulness, which Kabat-Zinn (2017) describes as follows: “We practice through relating to the environment and self by paying attention, on purpose, in the present moment in a non-judgemental way”. Aspects of this are alive in Deborah’s description of her DP:

Deborah Green

It began over three years ago when difficult times arrived in our home. I realised I could only continue to hold space and provide compassionate steadying if I cared for the me that was doing the holding. The resulting practice came together quickly from activities and knowings that I had gleaned from my dissertation and PhD. This ritual rooted deeply in my soul and every morning since then I have stepped into this calming and gathering space. Most of the time I’m in my own home looking through the windows at Mt Herbert rising across the water from the caldera that forms Lyttelton Harbour. But even while travelling for work or holidaying, I have carried this practice into these different spaces. At its birth, it held me as we wrestled monsters in the shadows. Once the light began to return, I leaned into this daily ritual to replenish, nourish and ready me for my creative therapeutic work with clients, students, supervisees and colleagues and for my playtime climbing, biking and paragliding.

In the early morning, in my living room, I begin by standing in mountain pose, eyes gazing out to the hills, taking three deep breaths. On each inhale I raise my arms and I feel my spine crackle open. I then roll down and hang, heavy, feeling my spine further unravel. I move into a simple sun salutation, including downward-facing dog, stepping into warrior, revolved side angle, bent triangle and tree pose.

Then I orientate towards the day to come. I begin with those no longer in the flesh. Breathing in and out I raise and lower my arms and greet and thank my mother and my father. Another breath, I thank my first husband and my beloved cat, Sebastian. Hands together down my centreline, I call to all the lovely humans and critters who have shared and shaped my life and then I stand for a moment feeling the presence of my ancestors warm and firm at my back. Breathing in I raise my arms again and orientate towards myself. Setting intentions, I touch my steepled hands to my forehead calling for clear thinking, my eyes for clear seeing, my lips and ears for clear speaking and hearing. I drop to my heart and soul calling for creativity, imagination, wonder, whimsey, magic, mayhem. My hands move to my belly calling for clarity and purpose of spirit. Raising my arms in a final deep breath I call to mind others sharing this living experience. Sometimes I single out a specific few and hold them a little longer. I then expand to the more-than-human, imagining mycelia/tentacles/cobwebs rhizoming out and connecting me with all. I breathe golden light out into these entanglements with the world and then draw golden light from the world back into my being. I finish with my hands cupped over my beating heart, as my gaze rests on the water and the hills. 

I read back over this description and feel a nipping cramp at how serene it all sounds. And yes, sometimes I swim smoothly through, flow-state arriving and buoying me along. But mostly, I wrangle, reminding my reluctant and petulant self that I always feel better afterwards. My mind skitters every which way. Sometimes I don’t feel grateful. Sometimes I’m acutely aware of how I failed each and every one, a tangy guilt permeating my practice. Other times I feel resentful, flooded by the harms they’ve caused me. Sometimes I have little gold to share and the gesture on my outbreath is tight. I hold all these wayward sensations gently and do it all anyway. And each day I emerge grateful, a little more limber, a little more connected inwardly and outwardly.