I first watched Jim Jarmusch’s Paterson back when it premiered in 2016, when I was in my mid-twenties and convinced that my life would never become a boring plod. But that was over six years ago, and time changes everything. I’m in my thirties now, I’m caught in the tumble cycle of work-sleep-repeat, and life is starting to resemble that dreaded plod—there’s no denying it.

They say that routine gives life structure, that it makes existence more than just a shapeless void, and I’ve reached a point in my life where I can start to agree, but the idea of getting too deep into routine still fills me with apprehension. I worry that days/weeks/months/years defined by routine—by regimented and therefor expected tasks and rhythms—will inevitably have a sort of numbing effect on the brain. I worry that adhering to predictable schedules, and the predictable “breaks” from those schedules, will naturally come to lull me into a state of mental autopilot. Think about it: If we know what to expect from all seven days of the week, then why think cognitively? Critically? Why think creatively? Why think?? Your routine has you by the cerebellum, so why not just turn the lights off upstairs and let routine pull you from one obligation to the next?

At this stage in my life, having now a not insubstantial amount of life behind me, one of my most pervasive fears is loss of time. And so it follows that I fear routine, as routine is what I blame for putting me in the states of automatism that make time slip by faster. Like Adam Driver’s titular character in Paterson, a man somewhere in his thirties who works as a bus driver in Paterson, New Jersey, I look down at my watch and sometimes see time behaving abnormally, minutes spinning by more rapidly than normal. Like Paterson, I look out the window of a moving bus and I sometimes see sidewalks and storefronts blurring together. This fills me with a deep, deep existential dread. It makes me feel helpless. And so I will tell myself, regularly, that today will be the day I break free from routine, reclaim my life, and finally do the outrageously unexpected. 

But then, a film like Paterson also makes me consider the other way of conceptualizing routine. For Paterson, an ex-Marine (like the real life Driver), routine defines a large part of who he is. Routine is his lifeline. Routine gives him purpose, a reason to get up every morning, and routine keeps his mind off past traumas, thereby keeping him mentally balanced. Routine even helps Paterson to continue exploring his interest in poetry. Paterson doesn’t have any grand plans for his poetry—no intention of entering poetry competitions, doing slam nights, or publishing his work (his promise to his partner that he will photocopy his poems seems to be a move to appease her more than anything)—but he continues his writing all the same, because it fills him with an inner light, and also because it represents a vital component of his routine. 

What’s more, Paterson’s poetry facilitates an observance of the world his routine would otherwise render blurry. Paterson’s poetry allows him to put thought—real, considered thought—into his world, and shape his world in a way he finds meaningful. Just look at how he evolves simple observations about Ohio Blue Tip matches into ruminations on love, and how love ignites his soul. Days that become a bricolage of the mundane—of matches, bowls of cheerios, and bus chatter—do not make for a life that should be defined the same way. Through art like poetry, one finds the ability to transform their surroundings, make fantastic the everyday, and uncover the revelations hidden in their very being.

As Paterson patiently illustrates across seven days in the life of its namesake, these revelations come when they’re meant to, when deliberate and sensitive approaches to life, no matter how taxing, foster in one feelings of completeness, and when that completeness nourishes the mind. This completeness can come from feelings of oneness shared with a partner, a place, or a profession (Paterson can attest to all three), and it can be fostered and maintained by routine. A freewheeling life of impulsive decisions, that can yield epiphanies too; but that kind of life is not for everyone, and it is certainly not for everyone in any stage of life. 

Funnily enough, it is Paterson’s wife, Laura (Golshifteh Farahani), who ascribes to the more unpredictable lifestyle. While Paterson’s days are uniform, and always composed of the same activities—eating cereal for breakfast, driving a bus route, walking the dog in the evening, and stopping for a beer at the bar—Laura’s days each seem to involve a different project, from painting on clothing to learning guitar. Compared to her resolute husband, Laura is practically bursting at the seams with creative vigour. Her eyes are always re-envisioning her world—as evidenced by the various household items and furniture pieces that showcase her distinct white and black patterns. These designs evoke the concept of yin and yang, which you could use to conceptualize Paterson and Laura. 

But even though they are representative of a dichotomy, both Paterson and Laura are equally indebted to art, and both have a considerable amount to say with their craft. Their philosophical approaches to art may differ—Laura’s is energetic and anything-goes, while Paterson’s is methodical and private—but they both commit to their art on a daily basis, and they both weave their practices through their ways of living and being. (They are also genuinely supportive of each others’ undertakings, and this helps them fuel further creating.)

At present, I like to imagine myself somewhere in between the philosophies represented by Paterson and Laura. A major part of me is still involved with spontaneously creating and experimenting, and excitedly sharing my creating with the world, but another, increasingly pragmatic part of me is learning to appreciate a life of quiet routine, where simple, life affirming practices like journalling can be sustained. Other times, I feel as if I can explore the symbiotic relationship that can be born of yin and yang approaches. This piece of writing, for example, started as one of my journal entries. Had it not been for my regular journalling, I may have never found the impetus to take up and share this exploration. 

This is all to say, it has been through Jarmusch’s Paterson that I have come to embrace the current direction my life is taking; that I have come to see the value in routine. Now appreciating Paterson, I feel more comfortable with the mundane repetitions that allow my writing and my other forms of expression to continue. I feel less “stuck” in routine, and more cozy with my recognized patterns. And what’s more, I am routinely creating—like Paterson, routinely refining a craft through regularity and persistence. I am also feeling the small but wondrous power in my creating, even when that creating isn’t shared with anyone else. I like to think this is because of the holistic healing potential in a structured but also stimulating lifestyle.

Jarmusch’s Paterson is all about this small power. In its story depicting seven days of duty and diligence, a man finds fulfillment in the familiar, and in his fulfillment finds the grace with which to compose himself, the empathy and acuity with which to construct his world. Naturally, we come to feel content watching it. You could even go so far as to say that watching Paterson works as meditation. When coming home from work and feeling downtrodden, I can think of no better film I might want to lean on and let inspire me.

But what about time? Paterson has helped me see the integrity in the art I persist with in my routine, but does it examine the effects of routine on time? Like any film, it works to find the poetry that is sculpting with time—much like Paterson looks to find the poetry in his everyday—but Paterson does not explode one’s perception of time. The film depicts a fairly innocuous week in a human’s life, and it doesn’t rely on the usual dramatic thrusts in doing so. If anything, the film presents time in a more straightforward manner than most other films do. In Paterson, time passes just like water falls. 

“Water Falls” is the name of the poem that a young girl recites to Paterson (she clarifies that the title is “two words, though”). It is a short, free verse poem written by Jim Jarmusch himself, recited to Paterson towards the end of the film by a girl who is later revealed to be a twin—a recurring motif in the film. Each appearance of a pair of twins recalls the film’s beginning, which sees Laura tell Paterson about a dream she had upon waking, a dream of her and him having twins together. I interpret this as Jarmusch teasing at a potential sea change on the horizon of Paterson’s life.  Maybe children are the next step for Paterson and Laura—they would both be more than capable parents—and maybe Paterson repeatedly seeing twins means his mind (or fate?) is telling him this. If so, maybe the film is telling us that we need to trust the changes that life brings, just as we should be trusting the established rhythms of our routines.

Signs will always be revealed to us along the road of life, but it is imperative that we trust the passage of time in order to reach them. Some passages become a plod, but this isn’t to say they are any less enlightening; if anything, this indicates they are more productive, more fruitful, and they offer more space for reflection. These passages can also bring harmony and healing, and so for some of us, they might be our best options. For Paterson, these passages shape time and reveal to him a life he can be proud of: a life full of love, inspiration, and dignity; a plod with purpose. A routine that allows him time to sit and watch the water fall.