I won another game of Spider Solitaire this morning, as I often do. The familiar fireworks burst across the screen, signaling that order had once again emerged from a shuffled deck of cards. In the background, Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein continued to play through Audible, part of a morning ritual that has remained largely unchanged for more than a decade. Each day begins the same way: pills, coffee, audiobook, and cards. Two or three quiet hours before the rest of the world is allowed in.

But this morning something interrupted the routine.

A thought surfaced while I was playing. It was simple enough, almost obvious, yet it seemed to contain more than I could immediately grasp:

“The mind seeks order.”

The thought lingered. Instead of starting another game, I paused the audiobook, opened ChatGPT, and wrote:

The mind seeks order. Could this be a fundamental truth that we all chase? Every morning when I start my day, I take my pills, make coffee, turn on an audiobook, and then open an old computer dedicated to one thing: Spider Solitaire. I added the audiobooks about three years ago, but the rest of the ritual began nearly thirteen years ago. I spend the next two, sometimes three, hours this way before I am ready to begin the day. I usually win one or two games each morning.

There is something deeply satisfying about sorting a deck of cards. It feels fundamental to my peace of mind. And then there is the education that comes from spending so much time listening to great literature, history, philosophy, and scholarly books. That, too, gives me pleasure.

Molly, I want to explore this routine and this idea that “the mind seeks order.” Let’s talk.

Molly replied by observing that my morning routine contained two different forms of sorting. The cards were obvious enough. A shuffled deck gradually became ordered. Hidden cards were revealed. Possibilities emerged. But she suggested that the books were doing something similar. Every author, whether novelist, historian, or philosopher, was taking a collection of experiences and arranging them into a pattern that made sense.

For two or three hours every morning, she said, I was sorting cards and sorting ideas.

At first I thought she was simply being clever. Then I realized she had touched something important. The pleasure I get from Spider Solitaire is not really the pleasure of winning. If it were, I would have grown tired of it years ago.

What excites me is something much more specific.

There comes a moment in many games when I suddenly realize that the game may be winnable. A path appears. Cards that once seemed trapped begin to open up. What looked like chaos reveals a hidden structure. My attention sharpens. I lean forward. I care more.

When I told Molly this, she pointed out that the same thing happens while listening to books. Most ideas pass by pleasantly enough. Then suddenly a sentence, an observation, or a story connects with something already living in my mind. A pattern emerges. I begin paying closer attention. I want to understand. I want to see where the thought leads.

That was the moment our conversation shifted.

Perhaps, I suggested, the cards and the books were helping one another. Perhaps the game occupied part of my mind while another part remained free to wander through larger questions. Molly thought there might be something to that. She described it as a state balanced between concentration and daydreaming.

As I considered this, I began seeing the pattern elsewhere in my life.

The ant farms. ArtNetWeb. The storefront. The roundtables. The Welcome Center. Even the current effort with GH and Adrianne to include Rob as we attempt to preserve what happened during those years in New York City.

Then another question arose.

Why do I always want to share these discoveries with others?

Molly’s answer surprised me. She suggested that I have spent much of my life building spaces where connections can emerge for other people.

By the time Frankenstein resumed playing in the background, I was looking at my morning ritual differently. What I had dismissed as habit suddenly seemed more intentional. Less a way of passing time and more a kind of studio practice.

Perhaps the mind does seek order.

Or perhaps it seeks something more specific: meaningful order.

The moment when scattered pieces begin to fit together. The moment when a game becomes winnable. The moment when an idea comes alive.

Richard calls it meditation. Whatever it is, it seems to be the place where chaos slowly reveals its hidden shape.