THE BLESSINGS IN RITUAL

Today, like most days, I wake up with body shaking, tears flooding my cheeks. I know to root in my breath and body before I rise, before hearing any news. I feel the world’s grief yet know to look for places of gratitude. So, I offer love to the breath of life. Eyes still closed, I deepen the inhale, and whisper, “thank you, inbreath.” 

Eyes open, I exhale, “thank you, God, universe, nature, for gifting us this dawn.” Before standing, I sit in bed for a bit in meditation to savor the silence of sunrise. With this ritual, gratefulness grows and I gain the humility to know that waking up is a privilege.

Ritual, according to Wikipedia, is a repeated, structured sequence of actions or behaviors that alters the internal or external state of an individual, group, or environment.  

I’m thinking how rituals are universal and vary from person to person, culture to culture, religion to religion. Muslims, for example, kneel and place their foreheads on the ground five times a day in prayer. And yet, “There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground,” wrote thirteenth century Sufi mystic Rumi. He meant we are free to create our own or adopt cultural or religious rituals. This permission allows us to find our own way to root into reverence, when violence uproots our streets, when law enforcement fills with lawlessness, when reverence seems scarce in the world.

I’m thinking of the ancient Himalayan greeting of “Namaste,” (pronounced nah-mah-stay) palms together, thumbs grazing the heart, with a bow, which says, “I see the goodness in you. I honor your spirit.” Children namaste to teachers, shopkeepers bow to customers, people meet each other on the street with this gentle ritual of hello. 

I’m remembering the rhythm of my Aunt Josephine’s frail fingers as she “said her beads,” the Catholic Rosary, each morning and night and in troubled moments. That sacred ritual calmed her frazzled nerves. She died with her beads wrapped around her hands. When fear invades our being, and our shoulders tighten against our ears, rituals can soothe anxiety.

I’m thinking of my French-speaking immigrant friend, who starts his day in devotional thanks to his God, then drinks a quiet cup of tea before leaving for his louder English-speaking work. He says his ritual gives meaning to life. 

I’m thinking of life-giving death rituals that support loved ones, that honor loss:

• My friend from Tunisia remembers a gesture of putting one hand on the heart to acknowledge pain and suffering.  
• My friend from Mexico says, at school and at home in Puebla, she paid homage to the dead with Rito, cultural ceremonies from indigenous people. She made ofrendas, multitiered altars, for the dead.
• My friend from India tells me, “We bathe the dead body, dress it in new, unstitched attire as a symbol of freedom from ‘stitches’ of life, to symbolize detachment.” 

I’m thinking how rituals can be medicine, especially when we need healing. Some rituals ground us when we feel no ground, when American soil feels unsafe, or when our feet don’t dare to walk around, into and out of Church. These rituals can offer refuge, a break from the chaos of ICE grabbing our brothers from their cars, or following our sisters to work. Rituals repeated and practiced over time, can bolster us against global uncertainty and the local uncertainty of, “will I be detained? Will my neighbor be deported?”

Today, when we can’t rely on compassion from strangers or the government, we can count on our daily prayer, our favorite greeting, this smile, or that breath. There are hundreds of ways rituals care for us, carry us. Our personal rituals say, “here I am. I remember myself.” Our larger, communal rituals connect us to one another as we bow, even metaphorically, to neighbors, friends, family. We learn, “I am not alone. You are not alone. We are not alone.” And certain rituals help us reach for and touch into powers greater and beyond ourselves. 

I’m also thinking of the rituals that sap our energy. How I grab chocolate every time my heartbeat quickens as I read the lies of our leaders. How my mom smoked her cigarettes after every meal. Maybe these routines help in the short term. Maybe. But not long term. Skillful and unskillful rituals affect us differently. Everywhere, people recovering from addiction know this truth, as they end their meetings with a ritual prayer and its plea to “grant us the wisdom to know the difference.” Which rituals fill us, anchor us, nourish us?  And which rituals don’t feed us at all?

As a psychotherapist, I worked with clients to create ordinary nurturing rituals:

• A grandmother, grieving for her deceased husband, decided to rest mid-afternoon in her favorite chair and look out her window at the birds, sipping her decaf, the porcelain mug warming her hands. 
• A minister decided to pray on his wooden bench and recite Bible verses before comforting others.
• One couple decided to end their early morning ritual of moaning about the weather and to replace complaining with speaking phrases of gratefulness for each other. 
• A mother decided to stop nagging her teenage daughter at breakfast and rather to say, “good morning.” 

I am thinking now of the ritual of protesting, how we meet, mobilize, cry, and sing or chant side by side the same way rallies helped the Civil Rights movement in this country, and how protests spark human rights movements in countries around the globe. A holy host of others congregate, bond through the common purpose to raise voices for peace with the intention to march forward collectively. Protests as ritual can evoke a sense of community.

Practicing positive rituals offers many blessings: Reverence. Stability. Stress buffering. Gratitude. Life-giving space. Connection. Meaning. And the deep bow of supporting self, of celebrating culture, and stepping into the unreliable world from more reliable ground.