The morning ritual

A helicopter hovers high above me, the buzzing dot juxtaposed against the clouds edged with sunlight, reminiscent of the Ascension. I am not Catholic, but even I am surprised when I recognise this term and share it with my husband all those years ago. I am even more surprised to find that - as we attend a friend’s wedding - my responses are automatic. “Peace be with you,” he chants, “and also with you” I reply without hesitation. A suburban chick in the country, we pile into the car with his endless siblings, off to the early morning mass, my first foray into ritual and ceremony, my own family devoid of such things. I watch The Virgin, the pressed robes of the priest, take in the smells of humanity and incense, the shuffling as he genuflects in the aisle. I absorb more than I know.

© Sandy Millar - available on Unsplash


Back in the moment, I watch the helicopter, framed with heavenly light, I wonder about their rituals, these pilots. Getting the call, the adrenalin starts pumping through their bodies, drawing air to the lungs, blood to muscles. Automatic responses are crucial right now, instinct and training overriding the need to think through every detail. But it is not the physical I’m interested in: it is the psychological ritual, the spiritual. Do they have a taonga, an amulet, a prayer or a mantra, as the bird takes them high, high into the sky? Or is the ritual reserved for the end of the mission, once the heart has returned to its normal beat? Once their feet are firmly on the ground.

I scan old photos for my sons, now tall and hairy-legged, gorgeous girlfriends sharing their lives and their futures. There are photos of babies, of toddlers, of new entrants, long before I became a photographer, before digital possessed me. I reflect on the rituals we shared as a family, and struggle to find any. Only one comes to mind, the nightly storytelling that I maintained with religious fervour. Hard-covered Mrs Wishy Washy and Dr Seuss’ Foot Book, chewable and chewed, wiped and reshelved. Picture books, jungles full of animals, zoos and aquariums, me learning to voice the perfect pig for farmyard tales. And at the end, as we came to the final page, their pajama-ed warmth beside me, snuggling under the blankets, I would whisper: “And that’s the end of the story.” My eyes prickle as I write this, the simplicity of sleep, the pain and passion of being a parent.

I question why I am a celebrant, when my life has so little ritual in it. Am I a fraud, a phoney, a celebrant in name only? But - in a stab of clarity on a Tuesday morning, harvesting my own insights - I realise that this makes me open to the values and beliefs of others; a mirror, able to reflect their stories, without muddying the water.

Deep in a pile of papers I find what I’m looking for: a pale yellow post-it, and there, written in a careful, measured script the quote, its origin a mystery: “Rituals lessen the demand for self-discipline.” 

I’ll take that.

~

Post-script: for more on self-control and the power of rituals, check out this article in Scientific American: Try a Simple Ritual

 

 

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