The need for ritual
We’ve long known about the imperative nature of rituals — weddings, funerals, namings, quinceañeras, bat mitzvahs and the like. It’s about the importance of marking notable events, of cementing their value in our minds. Those acts are vital to our continued human existence. Without them, what is sacred?
It has become apparent to me recently, though, that those events we have deemed the lesser of such are equally — or perhaps even more — important.
Take, for instance, coffee.
I have been using a Keurig ever since I met my wife. The coffee’s not great regardless of the pods I try, and those buggers are hideous for the environment, of course. But it was quick and easy, and we do not need yet another appliance on the counter. So, I took my caffeine like medicine every morning and ventured into town for Starbucks, another best of the worst options, when I couldn’t take it anymore. It was coffee.
Then I went to Italy. It was a wine trip through Abruzzo and Veneto. The hills rolled, and the water poured, and the pizza crisped. And the espresso dazzled. Oh, how it dazzled.
I didn’t drink it; I savored it. I ooohed and aaaahed. And I never asked for takeaway. I stood at the counter and nodded at my companions, and I drank my espresso and, in that moment, I was so very present. There was nothing but the rich taste of satisfaction and the promise of the day ahead.
It was ritual.
When I returned home, I returned to my zombie-like Keurig existence, and, I swear, it tasted worse than it did before. But I did little more than mourn the ending of my trip.
Then a few weeks ago, I was in Michigan leading at, working at and emceeing Women in Performance (WPI), a band camp for women, and Fern Fest, the recent reincarnation of Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival (Michfest) deep in the woods. At the first, my amazing friend Fawn was in attendance, and so I would hike half a mile every morning to her campsite, where she would make me a beautiful cup of French press coffee.
Our friend Darla would make pancakes or funnel cake for breakfast, and we would laugh and drink our coffee and talk about everything and nothing.
It was ritual.
The second week, I drank camp coffee that was only little more than hot and caffeinated. I was generally alone when I filled my barely-washed travel mug, which just the week before had been filled with Fawn’s delicious creations.
It was coffee.
One day, I was bemoaning the state of coffee with my friend, Annemarie, who recommended I try the Aeropress when I returned home. She said it was downright magical. It looked like a plastic and a plunging thingy. But I adore her, and so I said, “Ok! I’m in!”
I kept looking at the thing on Amazon and could not imagine how a couple of plastic tubes could produce some mythical elixir. But I finally hit order, and, 48 hours later, I was face-to-face with the gadget and the instructions, which were little more than “boil water, put in one round scoop of coffee, level, pour in water, stir and press.” I did it. And it was delicious.
No. It was divine. But more than that: It was ritual.
I loved the whole process. So much so that I added to it, steaming-up milk to gently pour on top and finishing it off with a sprinkle of my favorite thing, Penzy’s vanilla sugar. It was so good. And, unlike my Keurig coffee — which I would let cool and reheat and take all day to finish if I finished it at all — I sat at the counter and drank it. All of it. I enjoyed it. I took in the moment and looked to the day.
For a while I was a morning tea drinker. I blended the leaves and put them in the strainer and covered them with water and steeped them and added rock sugar for sweetness. It took time and energy, and I loved it.
It was ritual.
I have started making my bed every morning, carefully pulling the linens taut and placing the mountain of pillows just so.
It is ritual.
When my puppy wakes up every morning, she demands a certain amount of petting, batting at my hand if I don’t attend to her long enough. It is how she starts her day. It is how we start our day.
It is ritual.
We all need ritual. We need weddings and funerals and namings and quinceañeras and bat mitzvahs and the like. We also need carefully-made coffee and tidy beds and happy pets and the processes it takes to get those.
They set the tone. The mark the moment. They place us in time. They are the tone.
They are the moment. They are our time here on this wondrously confusing planet. And they are the things that remind us that the big things in life are wonderful. But the little things are life.
