There is a section of the day that slips away if you do not greet it on purpose. Noon does not insist on itself. It waits, a hinge that only turns when you touch it. If you practice a small ritual there, the rest of the day learns to gather around it.
Choose something modest. Stand outside for three slow breaths. Write two sentences to mark what has happened and one to say what matters next. Make tea and hold the cup long enough to feel its warmth settle into your hands. The action is not the point. The point is the boundary it draws between what came before and what follows.
You will skip it sometimes. That is fine. The ritual will be patient. When you return, it will be the same size as before, ready to do its quiet work. You may notice that the afternoon feels longer, not because there is more time but because you are spending it with more attention.
This is how calm is kept: not by a single choice made forever, but by many small choices made again, kindly, in the middle of ordinary days.