Ritual as a way of living
A small white tray with elaborate blue trim holds 3 pinecones, a small lit tealight candle, and a sprig from a conifer tree. The background is most visible to the right side, and is dark
In the northern hemisphere, we’re so close to winter solstice, and the darkness grows for one more day. Traditions and rituals are swirling through the air - some ancient, some that we’re creating from scratch. You may be diving into your traditions, or forgoing them this year to honor the suffering of others. The twice-a-year solstices speak to so many of us as a meaningful time to gather, notice, and mark in some way.
What I wonder is - how can we make of our lives a ritual? Can we make ritual of our embrace of tradition, and even of the turning away? And what does ritual actually do for us anyway?
What ritual is, and does, and why it matters are questions I’ve danced with for many years. There is something to ritual - something that seems to have spoken to the human heart, mind, body, and spirit for as long as we’ve been human. There is a need (conscious or not) for spaces and times that are held in special focus, held sacred.
Rituals can serve as markers, as thresholds, and portals. They help us mark and celebrate, honor and mourn. They can be vehicles to another way of being in and experiencing the world. Through ritual, we may gain access to information, relationships, and wisdom we can’t otherwise.
And so, if we wish to, how do we create ritual in our lives? I believe that each breath, each gentle touch, each embrace, each candle lit, tea brewed, bread baked, each chant raised for liberation - they can all be a ritual. Within each of these moments, the mundane and the sacred weave together.
As we step toward a tree and say hello - we make of our lives a ritual. When we put our hands on the ground to introduce ourselves - this too can be a ritual. When we carry a sign reminding us that our lives and liberation are intimately interwoven - that too.
Often these moments feel strange, silly, or even dangerous - and that’s kind of the point. It’s much more comfortable to stay inside, to believe (for example) that our non-human kin are inanimate objects for our use or disinterest. Our routines may make us feel safer, and they may also keep our lives small and disconnected. Acknowledging a tree (or a person in a far away land) as an autonomous being, with their own desires, hopes, needs, and fears shakes us up, creates more questions than answers, and blurs some edges while sharpening others.
This willingness to step into question, the unknown, the uncomfortable and the unfamiliar can be, in itself, the ritual. So can a kiss for your beloved - beloved human, furry one, land, plant, stone. So can your body in community with others saying no business as usual during a genocide.
Our grief and holy rage, our joy and solidarity - they can all be a ritual. They can be a blessing. One that repairs that which has been broken and torn. Written deep across all of our hearts, and across the lands on which we walk, is this brokenness. But over that, and all through it, glimmer the threads of repair, the weaving that brings us together. When we allow ourselves to see and feel and hold close the pain and sorrow, we create of our lives true joy, true connection. We tie ourselves into those threads weaving forward through time.
I believe that our ancestors, those that came before, are asking us to continue, to keep going. And those to come look back to us and say - “and how did you live? How did you care for this precious world, my precious life?”
My hope for you is that you may find during this time a little space for ritual. It doesn’t have to be complicated, or time-consuming, or contrived. It’s simple, but not necessarily easy: we take a moment to really be with, to pay attention to what surrounds us (seen or unseen). We greet, we acknowledge, we offer care. We can do this in the forest, in our homes, or on the street as we pass another being. It’s simple, and it can make the world anew.
