Richuals…


The Little Ball Of Rituals…

My skin might someday burst for all of the rituals which are packed within me, waiting, not always patiently, to be carried out each day.  From the moment I get out of bed, everything I do that matters, I do ritualistically. Every action has a purpose and must be executed at the right time and in just the right way.  To live a day in my shoes, is to extend one ritual right into another, connecting them end-to-end to form a completed day.

Turn on the coffee pot.  Shower.  Stretch.  Check my electronics. Text my daughter.  Walk my dog.  Hike.  Eat.  Work with clients.  Workout.  Write.  Share time with friends.  Listen.  Wherever I am and whatever I am doing, I own it as if that is exactly where I should be and exactly what I should be doing.  I savor these times, these actions, and each conversation.  I think this is a good way to be.

What makes all of these things rituals to me, and not habits, is that as I am doing them with reverence and appreciation.  Turning on the coffee pot, as I my finger directs the lighted button from left to right, is the only thing which matters at that moment.  We are one, me and Mr. Coffee.  Nothing in my life is as important as watching my dog call our walks to a halt as he pauses to sniff the underside of weed’s middle leaf.  The picture I take of a tree or a bird or teaspoon of peanut butter each morning, and text to my daughter, is always the most important text I will ever send.

When the earliest of my morning rituals have been completed though, and I feel confident that the day will come off okay, then it’s time for the ritual which matters most in my life; my phone call to Miss Trudy.

A Song In Her Voice…

Though we are no longer married, Trudy remains the most important person in my life – tied for 1st place with the daughter we share.  Most mornings, and most evenings I call her or she calls me – just to check in and say hello, and to ensure the other is okay.  So imbedded is this ritual, that very often, as I am preparing to dial the phone, her number shows up on my caller ID, and vice-versa.

My day officially becomes official when I utter the words,

“Good morning, Miss Trudy!”

And she reciprocates,

“Good morning, Mista Roy!”

I think her voice might be what a flower would sounds like if flowers spoke.

flower

What a voice might look like…

Here’s the thing, nothing big happens – especially with our morning phone calls.  You see, our evening phone calls generally take place right before we go to bed.  Not much latitude there to expand on.  It’s simply light conversation inquiring to about how well each other slept, and about how well our dogs slept.

We might dig a little and inquire about each other’s impeding workday.  Perhaps catch up or discuss any major news that broke overnight.  Talk about the weather.  We may even talk about what we plan to have for lunch.  Occasionally we’ll ask each other about a YouTube link to a song we felt like sharing the day prior.

I lied when I said nothing big happens.  You see, the biggest thing of all happens when I hear Miss Trudy’s voice; I know for certain that I have a true friend and a compadre in my corner.  There is a song in her voice.  Maybe the song is more like a medicine which soothes the stresses of life which often get the better of me.  There is a joy in the simplicity of innocent conversations with her.

When I reflect on all my rituals, and the ones which mean the most to me, and when I consider all we available in the form of vices to help us feel better, I well appreciate that what soothes a confused mind or an aching soul isn’t alcohol, sex, entertainment, or even money.  It is hearing the voice of my dearest friend each morning, and again each night.  May you all hear such sweet music in your own lives.  Be well… rc

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