I am always amused that, when I walk into my bedroom after returning home, my first thought is, "Who in the world made my bed for me?" I guess it must be such a routine morning habit (and done in such a stupor) that my mind blocks any recollection of it.
It seems to me that living is in itself an artistic endeavor. Certainly there are aspects that are due to chance or beyond our control (and recognizing them as such is a key factor to maximizing happiness, according to Epictetus); yet the choices we can make on a day-to-day basis--even the smallest--define our experiences. What time to wake up, what to eat, what to do with our spare time, where to live and work, how to get from one place to another, with whom to interact, in whom to find inspiration. Small decisions, perhaps, yet when combined together they allow life to be crafted, explored, molded, and not just passively lived.
This morning was highlighted by a) the realization that my office door has a lock and b) a canine participant in our client conference call (some dog kept barking his approval in the background). Two great things to start off the week.