ritual.

I feel like each of us engage in micro-rituals every day, whether we recognize them or not. Making morning coffee can be a form of ceremony. The daily commute to work can give us opportunities to disconnect and be present in the world around us. A nightly walk around the block in your neighborhood can be a habitual ritual. Folding towels or washing dishes can even feel like a form of catharsis at times for an overthinking mind. In the desert, a micro-ritual I had upon waking was to examine the ancient chaparral plants, the soil, and the landscape. I would watch the leaves move in the wind, the fuzzy seeds bristling softly in the wall of sound that seemed to surround me like a protective barrier of white noise, and I knew no better ritual than to exist in that moment alive and whole.

I believe rituals do not always have to be religious or widespread. Sometimes, in those tiny—seeming insignificant— moments, we can engage meaningfully in the universe. There is an inherent mythology in repetitive engagement, to make movement in the world. This is a symbiotic relationship between us and the natural world. We create rituals as a means of some sense of control for quantifiable space in any given period of time.

One of the earliest forms of ritual likely had its origins in Totemism. Across cultures as far back as we can realistically fathom, the idea of maintaining some emblematic kinship to the natural world offered a profound mythos for ancient peoples. Rituals are interesting in the sense that often the activities force us to disconnect from the present while connecting to something more infinite.

But when we think about the spaces we inhabit, we begin to solidify connections between liminal and tangible rituals. In essence, our rituals exist somewhere on the periphery between what we have perceived as absolute and the more nebulous existential void of the unknown outliers. The ritual itself is singular in nature, but our view casts a much wider net on the world surrounding us. This is why, for example, brewing tea can become a spiritual connection to the divine— a visual practice that connects art and spirit; sacred and profane. Repetitive processes are less about the tangible articulation of the physical act and more about how they promote mindfulness. This is why often arbitrary, mindless tasks provide some degree of comfort— often inexplicably.

The idea of natural mythology in general is very fascinating to me. The concept that every aspect of our natural world has a structure— creation myths and cyclical paths— Like rituals, we each encounter natural mythologies every day and these inform our lives in surprising ways. Some of those mythologies are so interwoven that they become a part of the tapestry of who we are. This causal perception can be very illuminating as it compels us to hold a more omniscient, detached view of our lives and the lives of those around us. The act of ritual can be simple in nature, but its impacts on our natural mythologies can be lasting. What mythos do we attribute to ourselves? What stories do we tell about our origins, about our pasts, and about our futures?

And no every ritual needs to be exceptionally significant. A unconscious ritual I had for a while was that every season, I would go hike up to Black Balsam Knob alone. I would run my fingers along chartreuse mossy rocks, feel the dry grasses as the wind blew them against my bare skin, and lay down in the endless fabric of tall balsam firs that seemed to stretch into a semi-dark oblivion. I have always felt this strange sense of peace around things that feel ancient— as if they, like me, are something otherworldly out of time. Although I love exploring the world with others, some of the most significant moments in my life have been experienced fundamentally alone, and I feel I am able to live more presently in the absence of distraction. For whatever reason I feel less fear around nature than I do around people.

I would wake up early driving on the Blue Ridge Parkway, climb the rugged paths and scale the slick rocks of Black Balsam, until I would reach the top of the mountaintop where you could look around in all directions. Some seasons, of course, were foggy and rainy. I spent part of my birthday in 2019 up on that mountain with cold October rain and mist blanketing me. I likened it to the many seasons of my life—some sunlit and some stormy— but it would force me to take pause in the chaotic bustle of my existence. I wept that time, my tears mingling with the cool mist, unsure of why, although now I know it was simply in response of change that was inevitably to come. I always came across more aloof and disconnected than anything else, but inside of me there was a tumultuous ocean of emotions and an everlasting forest fire heart that burned. I wear emotional masks for many occasions, but there is an inexhaustible complexity within me that being in nature tends to activate.

It was only a few years back that I expanded that practice to allow someone to engage in that ritual with me. I have since moved away, but the place will always hold a special place in my heart. It was a small pilgrimage in the most general sense, but it made me very aware of the value of living slowly and breathing in the simplicity of being.

There is a surprisingly delicate magic in the things that bind us to the world. As a descendant of several tribes of native peoples, I have always felt a strong connection to the land despite my soul feeling like it is partly tethered between water and sky. So small rituals may have much deeper, more genetically-bound meanings. That is partly why I am so drawn to gardening. Feeling my hands within the earth and helping to bring new life into the world, can be such a precious and dynamic process. It is the act of building something out of nothing that drives me as a person. In those moments I feel like the creator of worlds and I want to bring beautiful, positive elements into existence. I rarely ever work with gloves as my hands touch the dark soil, the sands of time and space, and I feel a connection with the infinite this way, too. The older I get, the more I am in tune with how important it is to continue these small rituals of being. At the end of the day, these rituals tell us more about who we are than any changeable habits we may have.