As I sip my first cup of coffee this morning, I'm struck by how much of our lives are defined by ritual. Our morning routines are actually rituals in casual clothing, and without them our day is a goner already.
When I was a child, Sunday morning was the best ritual of all. Mom would start frying bacon on our gas stove around 9 o'clock or so. By the time I rolled out of bed, it would reach the gurgling and splattering stage. The sun would be streaming through our dining room window, and the air felt different than other days. As the bacon continued to fry, my mother would start boiling hot tea in a dented aluminum pot set aside for such a purpose. There was rarely any sense of urgency on Sunday morning- things were going to happen organically, and we understood that.
The bacon would eventually become these burnt stalks of unidentifiable pork, but I looked forward to each and every piece. Mom would scramble some eggs and fry them in the remaining bacon grease. Our breakfasts consisted of cholesterol, sodium and caffeine, but I wouldn't have traded them for the world. It was a ritual that held us together until it was time for church. To this day, I still ask for burnt bacon wherever I go.
So this morning I drank my coffee, watched a little news and made my way to my new church, in my new life as a grown-up. I realize now that we are all responsible for our own rituals, even if they no longer involve cartoons, dented aluminum tea pots or those who made them possible.
