Everyday Rituals
As I left my final chemotherapy appointment the nurses at the front desk rang a bell, the patients applauded. I'd participated in this ritual as a patient but was unprepared for how it felt to have the end of this part of my cancer journey celebrated. I was a "real girl" again: allowed to participate in society unworried that my toxicity would rub off on someone (literally, chemo is no joke.) I was released from the drudgery of showing up to be hooked to a machine. And, I, unlike many others, made it to my final appointment, and expected to keep on living. A bell and applause were fitting to mark that transition.
Transitions are great opportunities for ritual. Rituals don't have to be, and shouldn't be, restricted to high holy days and major milestones. They can be mundane, everyday, instead of full of effort, smells, bells, incantations, and large grouops of people.
A friend wrote out several Mary Oliver poems on pretty paper. She glued the small squares to birch twigs and hung the resulting scrolls next to doorways in her home. Each time we entered, back door, front door, garage door... we were greeted by a small, cheerful, reflection. Another friend wrote mantras of encouragement and pasted them in doorframes. Each time she passed through a doorway in her home she was reminded to connect to her best self, her joy, or what she held holy.
Rituals can be craft projects or a part of boring everyday tasks. They are probably a part of your life already: moments that are made sacred by repetition or meaning or circumstance.
How many of us remove our shoes as we enter a home? Perhaps a craft project to make the shoe area inviting and more meaningful would make that act of entering more intentional. How many of us sleepwalk through a morning routine? A very small shift of attention and intention would change brushing your teeth and washing your face into a ritual of self care blessing, grounding, centering, and intention-setting for the day.
Another friend would make the sign of the cross every time she heard sirens or passed by a car accident or incident. I've adapted that practice to take a moment of prayer and blessing. If it is not my place to run up and provide first aid, it is always my place to offer care and reset intention within myself. I remind myself that every life is whole, holy and worthy, and that we are loved and lovable. And I rededicate myself to living my life in the light of that conviction.
Altars are a place of ritual as well. They are often centered upon stillness, rather than transtion. Most of us have 1 or more altars, many that we don't recognize as altars until they are pointed out.
A friend had a ritual of walking through the house before bed. She would neaten and tidy, and touch furniture, but she would also pause at favorite places in the room: the bouquet on the dining table, the pictures above the fireplace, the brochures by the front door (for her business). These were altar spaces that she paused at.
In my office I work over the internet, moving from appointment to appointment throughout the day. I've set up objects that are meaningful to me on the shelves. I pause before each appointment to notice the wooden labyrinth or the stuffed bear in a witch hat, great great aunt Adelaide's jet hairpiece or the batik of Shiva. This ritual grounds and centers me for the coming appointement.
Our ancestor altar covers the walls of the house, especially the hallway to the bedroom.
Other rituals may have meaning because they connect to family or community history, or to stories. In summer and fall, my daily trip to the garden is made into a ritual by picking up the wicker basket. I'll put weeds in the basket to carry to the compost. I'll put the harvest in the basket to bring into the house. That basket makes me think of all the old stories of witches (and children) carrying herbs or picnic lunches and it adds meaning to a mundane task.
I truly believe that all places are holy, and a place is made holy by noticing, however, some places it is easier to notice. There's a 1,000 year plus old Carob tree in our yard. I have a ritual of touching her bark or at least pausing to notice her whenever she's in view. It isn't a regular thing. But just standing there taking in her massive trunk, gnarled branches, green leaves and ancient presence is ritual enough to shift my internal landscape.
I had a friend who had a love affair with sunsets. She almost never missed a sunset. Rain or shine she'd be outside, usually on a hill somewhere, during the hour of sunset. Sometimes she invited others to be with her, but she had a standing date with the sun, regardless of others.
I don't have that level of dedication but did appreciate the years I cared for free range chickens. I had to notice golden hour, that hour before sunset, and make sure to find the chickens, and make sure they were in their coop. If the coop door blew shut and they could not get in, they'd "turn off" at sunset wherever they were... tall grasses, low branches, wherever... and it would be a huge project to find them and make them safe. This ritual of care for other beings helped me connect more deeply with the end of the day.
Acts of care as ritual became a lifesaver for me as I cared for my aging father. Routine was necessary for his comfort. Including a joke, a song, and a hug with the process of transfering from wheelchair to easy chair added love and joy. Participating with him in his youtube physical therapy routine, and setting the intention to rembmer every body is sacred in whatever condition it is in, elevated mundane repetition to sacred ritual.
What everyday rituals are you already engaged in? What routines might be elevated to rituals? What mundane transitions can be made holy? What acts of care can become sacred?
