A gentle push of renewal on the throne

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Each one of us is a historian, a writer, a thinker. We work quietly in solitude, recording our own intimate stories each day, from birth to death. It’s a natural, innate ability we exercise without fanfare, often without awareness. Yet what unfolds in this daily ritual is a profound practice in self‑realization — an act of cleansing that readies us for whatever the day demands.
Lowly toilet paper becomes the silent witness and steadfast participant in this honest relationship with oneself.

In this ritual, one lets go and emerges clean and reset. The toilet paper bears the evidence of an involuntary purge of the unwanted. One must clean up one’s own mess.

There is voluntary, full acceptance and execution of responsibility — without debate. It’s an act one performs willingly, with no expectation or desire for someone else to step in.

Delegation is not even a consideration. No one is allowed or expected to take up this task except in the case of young children and invalids.

There is no blame game here — no “see what happened to me, you fix it.” Instead, there is total ownership of the process and its proceeds. It’s a ritual one yearns to be punctual for; being late has consequences that are well understood.

This ritual is a surrendering to one’s true nature, where self‑dignity is upheld with reverence. It is a promise to oneself to own and complete the task — signed on toilet paper. Rolls of it. A daily record of action and reaction, the history of ingestion, digestion, and rejection documented and then cast away, flushed.

It is catharsis. Performed day after day, rewarded with feelings of goodness, freedom, rebirth, and honor — reiterated and renewed.

It is the story of all that one ingests, good and bad. Undisputed evidence that doctors use to advise how one might craft the next chapters of life.

A delay in this daily practice throws life out of gear, creating a backlog one cannot wait to resolve. There is a strong desire to get the job done — just in time. It is the time of reconciliation, at least once a day. When unable, the historian aches to write.

The world of one’s inner turmoil — however suppressed or disguised — eventually reveals itself. Once, during an MRI, a technician looked at me and said, “You are backed up.” I heard it as, “You are full of crap,” a revealing and awakening diagnosis.

This ritual of renewal and truth‑telling comes under threat every now and then. We know it because some days our charmin’ and soft partner à la toilet paper goes missing or runs out of capacity, leaving one stuck on the throne — unable to rule, unable to run.

Pandemics and supply‑chain disruptions do not care how deep in trouble one is. And who wants to be caught with one’s pants down in quiet captivity? Hence the frantic emptying of grocery shelves, a desperate attempt to avoid a potential unthinkable half‑cock scenario while on the throne. Life may stop. How will I be a historian today? A writer, a thinker? Renew? So one is usually prudent in planning the stat and finish of the daily ritual.

This small, private ritual teaches the oldest truth to each one of us daily: life moves cleanly only when we take responsibility for what we carry and what we must let go.

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Inspiration on 3/27/2026