I
have come to realize that I am a creature of rituals. By 'rituals'
I
am referring to the non-theological interpretation of the word ... as
in:
an action arising
from convention or habit, that can be practiced daily, weekly,
monthly or yearly. I think of rituals as something between a habit
and a tradition ... though, the case could be made that they, often,
splash over on both of these entities. A habit can become a ritual.
And a tradition, may be made up of several rituals. Well really,
traditions can be made up of many things.
Rituals
... good rituals ... can be likened to lovely little arbors of
serenity in the busy brouhaha of any given day. Rituals provide a
measure of order. They give tacit permission to stop ... to take a
break ... when workload or timeline would seem to promote continuing
on, relentlessly. Thus a daily cup of coffee at three ... is less
negotiable, because it is a ritual. Rituals encourage good lifelong
habits .... such as the ritual of a bedtime story ... or the ritual
of family board games on Wednesday nights. A simple proclamation
such as, ending all telephone conversations to loved one with the
words, "Love ya" can be an enduring family legacy ... that
does not get lost ... in the drama between newborn to
forty-something. It does not cause family members to question: 'what's-going-on' , as, I suspect, it does when it is seldom said. It
is a ritual that has endured because ... in the vagaries of human
comings-and-goings it is better said ... than left unsaid.
Rituals
have a way of adorning the years. Fondue and a much loved holiday
movie every Christmas Eve ... conjure forth a nostalgic
retrospective of dozens of previous evenings ... similarly enjoyed: the very essence of an awesome ritual. The miniature marshmallow
and canned mandarin salad that must make it to the holiday table may
not ... in itself ... be a ritual ... but the the round of mockery
casting jocular aspersions on the family's epicurean standards ...
definitely, qualifies as 'ritualistic'.
Rituals
provide explanations for actions. Dropping off a box of homemade
cookies to a friend going through a tough time, requires no words. For that matter, when there are no words ... as is the case when a
family is grieving ... the ritual of food brought to their door ...
speaks volumes.
Rituals
can bestow a measure of peace and well being ... such as daily
meditation ... daily reading and writing ... a daily walk, run or
workout ... and, for some, a daily observance of faith.
Beverages,
it seems to me, are replete with ritual and meaning ... coffee to
kick off a morning ... the celebratory toast ... the consolatory
drink ... the romance of wine and roses ... hot chocolate after a day
on the slopes .... and so on. Tea, I believe ... in its preparation
... serving ... accepting and imbibing ... is probably the most
universal ritualized activity of all the rituals. The making and
sharing of tea ... so ritualized ... it is often done with elaborate
and purposeful ceremony.
My
favorite tea ritual is my after-supper lemon balm tea ... as I make it
tonight, thoughts of the girl with the sky blue bag ... beaded with
butterflies ... comes to me.
Several
years ago, my back went into spasm ... that, by way of explanation,
is how I ended up in a hospital emergency ward ... sitting next to
the girl with the beautiful hand stitched purse.
I
noticed her breathing ... great spasmatic gasps ... before I put it
together that she was in an agony far beyond mine.
When
she caught my sideways glance, she shrugged and ... wiping her eyes
... whispered ... "Life."
I
nodded ... my spirit: deeply sympatico ... having,
myself ... not entirely, been spared ... the hard blows of anguish
and despair. Silently, I wished I could make her a cup of lemon balm
tea ... or, possibly, chamomile would better suit for drying tears.
The sharing of tea ... as I mentioned ... is filled with ritual, and
infused with serenity ... custom made for contingencies, such at
this.
~
~ ~
There
is the whistle of the kettle, which is an expression of cheer,
in-and-of itself … there is the pouring of hot water over leaves
… creating fragrant steam ... wafts of transportive magic in the
enchanted still.
Then,
of course, there is the cuppa ... the cozy warmth that it
imparts cradled in hands ... the aromatic tendrils of vapour
that have wisped round more tears-and-hugs and heart-to-heart
conversations than anything else under heaven.
And
finally ... the finale-of-the-sips, that are said-by-some to restore
the harshest day and soothe the jaggedest of nerves ... a reputation
I subscribe to with single-minded resolve ... lest questioning, diminish
the potency of assuaging properties.
~
~ ~
"I
wish I could make you tea." I spoke gently, by way of
acknowledging her pain.
She
smiled a wet smile, then, and said: "Do you think it would
help?"
"Sometimes
little rituals like sharing tea do help ... if only just a little
bit," I responded ... my finger alighting accidentally upon
one of her butterflies, perched on the arm of the chair between us.
"And a little bit is better than nothing."
She
tilted her head slightly ... thoughtfully, it seemed, and sighed
... '"Yes ... I think so, too … A little
ritual ... is probably ... better than nothing."
'So
I have found ... having navigated my way over many choppy waters. I
think that, rituals are really just go-to-places ... good
go-to-places ... when we need ... or want ... a good place to go-to.
It
is in vain to say human beings ought to be satisfied with
tranquility:
they
must have action; and they will make it if they cannot find it.
- Charlotte
Bronte (Poet) 1816 - 1855
note:
I have been working on adding some prose pieces to an upcoming book
and in several cases, such as this one, I have taken short flash
fiction stories and pinned them to larger themes ... so if some of
this looks a tad familiar ... you aren't imagining things. The
meeting with the girl in emergency comes from an actual experience -
which I wrote about, a few years back.
Photo:
Warmth and Tea – W. Bourke
©
2020 Wendy Bourke