The Liminality of Everyday Intentions

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Every morning, the neighbor two houses down sweeps his sidewalk.

When we first moved here I encountered him there one morning, sweeping, and assumed it was just based on need— the sidewalk gets covered in leaves and dirt, so he sweeps it.

But I’ve realized over the last few weeks that this is a daily ritual of his, bringing the broom down from the porch, making the space in front of his home as clean as he can get it, and then carrying on with the rest of his day.

I think about my own morning, the small things done with intention. I make the coffee, eat a small breakfast, say good morning to the dog and the kids. My partner and I ask each other how we slept as we pack school lunches and do a few dishes, as we choose what morning music to listen to after the kids’ podcast finishes playing.

I wonder what the difference is between habit and intention. Are they the same? Is there a liminal space in between that we often don’t notice? And do our intentions and our habits help us cope with life?

According to online dictionary results, an intention is made with planning and effort, “determining mentally upon something” and following through.

A habit is defined as “a settled or regular tendency.”

So, where do we hold intention, and where do we lean into habit? One day, my neighbor decided to sweep his front sidewalk, and one day, he did it without deciding anything. One day, our bodies say this is something we need to do and one day, we simply do it and our bodies follow suit.

While living in Vermont last year, our landlords left their old piano in our rental home, and over the course of our time there, I taught myself to play some chords, which led to some songs, which led to some deep self-care that I really needed. At first, I set intentions: in the mornings after reading and journaling, I’d spend a few minutes there before getting to work on other projects.

When we left Vermont, I lost that piano, and there were days I was brought to tears because I could feel my body gravitating toward a thing that wasn’t there anymore. As intention turned to habit, my body and soul got used to playing piano daily, and when it was gone, something broke inside me.

As an early birthday gift, my family got me the one pictured below, now sitting in a spot in our home nearly perfectly intended for it. That piano draws me to it, without intention, simply a guttural, spiritual, bodily response to the need for the music, for the care, for the tenderness that always follows. I began with intention, with a mental plan, and settled into the everydayness of the thing.

Just like my neighbor with his broom and sidewalk.

Just like the morning coffee and kids’ podcasts.

Just like so many things we don’t seem to notice, things that become part of us.

Where does intention happen for you? Where has intention led to habit? Where do you want more intention? Do you feel the ebb and flow of both?

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Onward, friends, into every good intention.