Each night, before I go to sleep, I open the windows in my bedroom, pless play on the MP3-player connected to the speakers on either side of my bed, and then slide between sheets that are soft and cool against my skin. There are times I will light a candle and fall asleep to the flickering shadows it casts on the walls of my room.
Rituals. We all have them. Morning coffee with the newspaper. Solitary masturbation in the shower before you sleep. Sopranos on Sunday night. The cigarette before you head through across the bridge on your way home from work. They comfort us, these acts, these devotions to every day living. We endeavor to turn them into moments of zen, a place of peace. Sanity amidst the confusion of our lives. They darken the line between what is routine and what is deliberate intent.
Recently, I purchased a tradional Japanese tea set. Cast-iron green metal tea-pot with the symbol for ‘memory’ etched into it, a pale wooden lacquered tray, two small tea cups with leaf holders to sit upon, and a couple hundred dollars in expensive tea: English Morning, Irish Morning, Golden Monkey Oolong, Meadow Mint.
That night I made some tea and sipped it while watching TV. Rituals are best when they are about the simple pleasures in life. Cloves. A glass of port. An hour of good reading. Being on your knees, answering only when spoken to, addressing someone as Master. Practiced ease in giving in to that touch on your throat.
What are the rituals in your life?
—
It starts with a look – a question in your eyes that asks:
Shall we dance?
The touch of my will, like silk steel, gives my answer:
I’ll take the lead.