Every morning, I stand before the mirror, beard trimmer in hand, performing a delicate balancing act. There is stubble to be maintained. It should look “perfect”; not too long and not too short. Just the right length is, after all, the difference between deliberate and unkempt.

It recently struck me that, over time, this routine of meticulous upkeep has become a form of meditation.

There was a time when I was always clean-shaven. The routine was a sharp razor, rich lather, and a face as smooth as a fresh page. There was something reassuring about the orderliness, precision and sense of control. It was a habit drilled into me early: Be presentable. Look sharp. A clean-shaven face meant discipline.

Every morning, I stand before the mirror, beard trimmer in hand, performing a delicate balancing act. There is stubble to be maintained. It should look “perfect”; not too long and not too short. Just the right length is, after all, the difference between deliberate and unkempt.

It recently struck me that, over time, this routine of meticulous upkeep has become a form of meditation.

There was a time when I was always clean-shaven. The routine was a sharp razor, rich lather, and a face as smooth as a fresh page. There was something reassuring about the orderliness, precision and sense of control. It was a habit drilled into me early: Be presentable. Look sharp. A clean-shaven face meant discipline.

For years, I didn’t question the approach.

Then, at some point, the stubble made its appearance. I grew it out and liked the way it looked. It’s been a while since then, and the preference has stuck. I like to think my family would miss it if it were gone.

But maintaining the perfect stubble is no casual affair. It requires daily care. The right guard setting on the trimmer. A steady hand to ensure symmetry. A moment’s pause to decide on sidelocks. I take my time with it. Some mornings, it feels like a chore. But on most days, this routine has become something else: a ritual, an oasis of me-time, a quiet moment before the noise of the world takes over.

Every once in a while, I am carried away and shave it all off again. If I’m being honest, I think I do this because the ritual of a clean shave is equally satisfying. Working up the foam, feeling the lather settle, guiding the slow glide of the razor; there’s something about it that resets the mind. In those moments, the only thing that matters is the rhythm of the blade.

This calls to mind something I read many years ago: “There is much in every shave”. I take this to mean that even the simple act can have greater significance. It can help one frame one’s identity, and can lead to self-reflection.

Interestingly, I have found it is also in these moments of quiet meditation — engaged in a task that requires just enough focus to keep the mind from fretting, but not so much focus that it cannot wander — that some of the best ideas arrive.

I’ve stopped questioning it or trying to engineer it. It just happens. My guess is it’s the sense of ease, the solitude and the enforced stillness.

I have found that something similar happens at the gym, once one moves past that initial phase of locker-room self-judgement.

I am, without a doubt, one of the portliest people at most gyms. For a long time, I watched others move about with a grace I couldn’t quite manage and felt like I was losing some unstated competition. It took about a year for this feeling to ease, but I persisted, and it did.

Meanwhile, I found my own rhythm and began to revel in the newfound dexterity of my movements. I started to enjoy the sense of ease within effort. I even began to look at myself in the mirror with an inward smile.

I recognise a different kind of beauty in the way my grip has strengthened, how my fingers wrap around a barbell, and how my shoulders now move with more control. It is a subtle beauty, barely perceptible to others. But I see it. And that feels like enough.

It’s odd how a little stillness can shift our perspective on so much.

It is also interesting to see how others seek out that stillness, in their own ways. A friend told me she finds her peace in washing the dishes. I loathe the chore, with its endless rut of scrubbing, rinsing and stacking. But to her, it is a daily reset. She spoke about the water and the slow, methodical nature of the task. She talked about how it allows her mind to wander, and how, when all is done, there is a small but tangible sense of achievement and of order restored.

Another friend finds their peace in ironing, with its careful pull of the fabric, hiss of steam, and gradual smoothing out of wrinkles. Someone else tells me folding fresh laundry is their interlude of calm, and speaks with affection of neat stacks and the quiet satisfaction of turning chaos to order.

What I’m trying to say is: perhaps meditation isn’t always about sitting still and breathing deeply. Maybe it can involve finding a simple task that allows the mind to settle, and allows the world to fade away until nothing else exists in that moment.

I suspect each of us, knowingly or unknowingly, has such a ritual.

What’s yours? Do write in. I’d love to know.

(Charles Assisi is co-founder of Founding Fuel. He can be reached on assisi@foundingfuel.com)