My mind is a wanderer. Discovery pulls me in every direction. I love that. But it also means focus is a constant battle, especially in the evenings when my energy dips.

I’ve tried many tricks. Some work. Some don’t. But one thing makes a difference every time: ceremony. Small, intentional acts that clear the path and then signal it’s time.

Most nights, 7:30 PM is the transition point. Dinner’s done. My art workspace is a mess. My brain is fried. I don’t know what to work on. This used to be the perfect excuse to procrastinate. But now I have a ritual.

First, I plant the seed early. What creative thing do I want to work on today? A sketch? A painting? Music? Trains? Morning-me picks what’s most exciting, the thing that makes my body tingle. I let that thought linger all day, when I’m waiting for coffee to cool, stepping outside, taking a break from work. By night I know what I want to work on.

Second, I prepare the space. Before dinner, I reset my art table. No clutter. Just the tools I need. I think of myself as an assistant setting the stage for my future self. Clearing obstacles before they become distractions.

Then comes the ceremony. At 7:30, I ring a small bell. I say a blessing. A simple reminder: This is sacred time. A gift to myself. The process matters more than the outcome. Struggle means growth. Tonight, I am here to create.

That moment – the chime of the bell, the words spoken aloud – anchors me. It’s a line drawn between the noise of the day and the quiet of creation. It tells my body, my mind, my spirit: You are here now.

For someone who has always felt unrooted, this changes everything. The ritual is my tether. The ceremony is my anchor. And night after night, I return to it, present, focused, and finally, grounded.