What to Do Tomorrow Morning
Seven lines to be carried out in a single day. They need no special conditions and no going off alone:
| The action | The time | The sign that tells you you did it |
|---|---|---|
| Look at your house the way a traveller looks at a station | On waking | Nothing lacking in it annoyed you today |
| Name three blessings and trace them to the One who gave them | After the dawn prayer | You felt ashamed of a complaint you were about to make |
| Pick one comfort and hold back from it by choice | Before noon | You felt that you own the tool and it does not own you |
| Spend something from your tool that nobody sees | During the day | You mentioned it to no one by evening |
| Do well one thing you are used to rushing | At its time | You did it again because you saw a fault in it |
| When things crowd, put first what helps you after the paper is taken | At the clash | You lost something small and did not regret it |
| Take account of yourself in two lines: a blessing and a hardship | Before sleep | You knew which paper you were on |
If you do this for seven days running, you will find the hall exactly as it was: the desk polished, the window open, the clock above the board. The furniture has not changed at all. What has changed is that you have started to write.
- 1Look at what is in your hand once a day the way a traveller looks at his luggage, and call it a temporary tool and not a certificate of distinction.
- 2Examine your ease as you examine your hardship: name one blessing exactly, trace it to the One who gave it, and spend something of it that nobody sees.
- 3Say the word of submission in the first moment of the affliction, before the news goes cold and before breaking down gets there first.
- 4Each month cut back one door of comfort by choice and not because you have to, so you learn which of the two of you owns the other.
- 5Put your presence right in one deed you repeat with no heart in it, for a whole week, before you add a new deed.
- 6When the two times crowd each other, put first what stays after the paper is taken; then take account of yourself in two lines before sleep: a blessing and a hardship.
The hall of this world is fitted out by deliberate calculation: a polished desk, a window, one cushioned seat and another that is hard; and none of it is a prize that counts, but material for a question to be answered. Revelation calls these belongings a furnishing, and rain that pleases and then becomes broken straw; so the tool is not called to account — the holding of it is. Then two papers are given out one after the other: ease, whose answer is gratitude in the heart, on the tongue, and in spending the blessing where it belongs; and hardship, whose answer is contentment and steadiness without anger; and the more hidden danger is the first, because the man holding it counts it as a rest. And this understanding comes down from the head to the hand by five instructions: sitting as someone passing through, taking what is allowed as provisions for the road, taking account of yourself before the paper is taken, doing one thing well instead of piling up numbers, and choosing what stays when times crowd one another; then seven actions for a single day, each with a sign that confirms it. All the tools are permitted, but they are collected at the door, and the paper alone goes up.