Routines, Rites, and Rituals

I write every morning. Well, okay, not Every morning, but nearly. My husband is my witness. Well, okay, not nearly every morning, but nearly every day. Why does it matter that I tell you exactly how often I write? Because it is one of my routines. My writing routine is a way for me to burn off the dross from my creative gold and to get my thoughts and ideas in a semblance of order. Writing helps me to remember. Despite the jokes about memory getting worse as we get older, I have always had a hard time remembering flashes of insight or ideas that merit further play. By writing thoughts down, I get to keep them to look at for a while longer. Writing is my witness. I can see on the page what I am unwilling to look at if it just floats through my day out there.

This routine of writing daily (or very nearly so) has become a source of stability in my rapidly evolving life. I have written through growth spurts and through stuck spots that felt like year-months. In the pen, page, or word processor, I have come to find a reliable spot where I can rest my whizzing gears and idle meaningfully.

Others bicycle, or run, or bake. The what of the routine isn’t as important as having the routine. When we move, if we can’t find our old routine, we’ll find a new one to replace it. Why not be deliberate about that? Why not embrace our routines and choose them mindfully so that they provide us with what we need?

In my teen years, I looked down on habits, routines, and rituals. They struck me as silliness, voodoo, and a way to stay stuck. They can certainly become that. In my utter contempt for rites of passage, I skipped my high school graduation ceremony. However, it felt like a cupboard door was left open to have exited high school and made no mark of the event on my psyche. Not until I graduated from college (and went to the graduation) did I feel like I finally finished school. Since then, I have let go of my haughty estimation of the value of primitive behaviors... I hope.

Now I am working on deliberately developing my own rites and rituals. I have thought of most transitions and changes in my life as good/bad. Now, I want to think of them as simply transitions and changes, to mark them, to give nod to the what-was, and greet the what’s-coming. In fact, I can see developing a ritual for just about anything. Books now are packed with ideas. I seek to find what seems authentic to my experiences. I want to be sure to allow the changes that are passing through my life some recognition. If my arthritis gets painful to the point that I can no longer knit or crochet, I will want to have a letting-go ritual with yarns and who-knows-what so that I can kiss this love goodbye and find a way to visit the old friend in the following days. That feels kind to my self and respectful of a craft I have loved.

The changes that time brings to our bodies has become increasingly apparent in me. I am knocking on that mid-life door that is so feared by many in our society. My body chemistry is changing. As I pondered this a few days ago, I realized that I wanted a ritual to celebrate the letting go of the fullness of youth and to mark the embracing of full maturity. I am aging... will I flip the switch to bummer or choose party? Just the idea of celebrating the changes made me excited about them. I love a party! I thought about a full moon something. Maybe drumming. Then I decided that the new moon made more sense in its darker presence, largely unseen, but full of potential for light. That evening a friend invited me to a drumming circle. Surrounded by the stirred air, thick with the scent of sage and joy, one woman commented during our talk time that it was wonderful to drum on a new moon night... and I knew then that if I am willing to move through each change with an open heart, the world will celebrate with me.

Survival of the Moderate

Whenever I observe our peak athletes, I think along the lines of the fit getting fitter and the flabby getting flabbier. But I don’t really think we’ve lost the middle ground on fitness. It’s more like fitness is an exotic state that each of us visits at various times in our lives. Yes, some folks live in that state, and others never get to see it, but many of us have tasted its fruits and like it in spite of ourselves.
A runner described how when she runs her legs never get tired, but her breathing gets increasingly difficult. I could relate, but boasted instead, “Actually, my legs never get tired, nor my breathing. But the minute I start to run, then I have trouble with both.” I have thought about doing marathons before. Star Trek has some back-to-back series marathons that especially appeal to me. All silliness aside, I’m not likely going to run for fitness. I might run to get an ice cream cone, especially if it involves haupia or chocolate. I will also walk, however, and for long periods of time on end. Same with swimming. For others, it’s biking, or hiking, or a sport, or even running.
What makes the difference is having a good reason to be active. I’m motivated by the idea of fun. Deliberate exercise falls outside of my field of fun. In high school cross-country, I never could reconcile that we would run out five miles solely so that we could run back. My idea was to stay put and just talk about running, since it would all end at the same place. Fitness for fitness’s sake is as bad a reason for me to do something as eating Lima beans and Brussels sprouts for vitamins. Fun includes enjoyment, discovery, moderation and purpose in the activity.
I walk in order to think. I swim for venting anger, viewing wildlife, and floating out at sea for a bit. I bike to be able to feel like I’m flying, with the air rushing past me faster than it normally does. All of these activities give me the bonus of fitness.
Dieting and our ideas of nutrition still smack of snake oil and elixirs to me. If I eat when I am hungry, and stop when I am full, I am able to maintain a reasonable weight. Also, I let myself be hungry for what I am hungry for, without insisting that I eat a “balanced meal” before I allow myself the desired ice cream cone. The meal is just extra calories that I don’t want: I’ll eat the balanced parts later, when I’m hungry for them. Believe it or not, eating this way does lead to an eventual hunger for salads (it took me a year, after a lifetime of dieting and mountains of salads, but I did in fact crave a salad after that year). Whereas hunger is usually interpreted as dangerous or something to be avoided, eating in this way makes hunger a welcome friend. This friend gives me a very clear message that it’s time to eat. I ignore the message of hunger less at the expense of my health than ignoring the signals for full. Overeating is what kills Americans more than hunger. And overeating on salads or the latest healthy thing is still overeating.
How about the next time we middle-grounders see the chiseled forms of athletes, we stop seeing ourselves as a potential flabolanch? Instead, we can focus on what we already do. What we focus on grows. Doing stairs at home counts, as do hoisting laundry, gardening, hauling groceries and trash, and dancing. Maybe the key is to find the fun and to let that grow. When at last our activities bear fruit, we won’t look like triathletes, but we will be reasonably fit.