I like a certain amount of ritual. Ritual is comforting. It unites people in purpose, allows them to celebrate their commonality even in the midst of diversity, and all but eliminates the sometimes nasty surprises that punctuate the rest of our lives.
I remember pointing this out to a young woman at a party when I was in college many years ago. She had just handed me a joint, which was traveling around the room from person to person. I saw it coming. I knew what to do with it. It dawned on me in the midst of it—it was not my first toke at this particular party—that the familiarity of the process was as comforting as the drug itself.
“Don't you think it's interesting,” I asked, “how ceremonial this is?”
“Ceremonial? You mean smoking dope?”
“Yes. It's practically sacramental. Everyone does it the same way. There are conventions. Differences are just variations on a theme. Deviation is frowned upon.”
At this point I realized that, not only was the young woman already beyond understanding my insight, the fellow next to me was studiously frowning upon my deviation from accepted practice. I was waving the joint around in the air while I tried to explain myself when I should already have passed it along to him.
He may also have been thinking that I was trying to leverage high-toned philosophy into a romantic dalliance with the young woman in question. Possibly it was lost on him that my philosophy was lost on her. In any event, I passed the reefer along and quit talking for the duration of the party. No dalliance happened.
Some years later, when I had given up marijuana as the idle pursuit of the young and stupid, the senior partner of the CPA firm I was working for invited me to his church for Easter services. His church was a brand new structure of glass and steel nestled into several thousand acres of reclaimed Florida orange grove. It was huge and imposing and had attracted a large flock of faithful contributors.
By this time I was already a devout practicing Catholic, and so I was reluctant to spend any time in a Protestant church where I was sure to hear something that would offend my papist inclinations. The senior partner was trying to be persuasive.
“It's really going to be impressive,” he said. “There will be a complete orchestra, and a guy is going to come up out of the floor of the sanctuary on a white horse—just like the second coming in Revelations.”
“Sounds spectacular,” I said. “but it also sounds a lot like pageantry. I actually prefer something a little more liturgical.”
The senior partner never treated me quite the same way after that exchange. In retrospect, I probably should have tried to sound a little less superior, a little less judgmental. I had managed to denigrate the man's religious sensibilities, which were at least sincere if somewhat misguided.
My preference was for the familiarity of ritual—in this case a remembrance of and celebration of Christ's Resurrection from the tomb and the cementing of the Paschal sacrifice. The partner's preference was for a spectacle that embraced the Apocalypse as well as the Resurrection. Nothing says triumph quite like a guy on a white horse.
On the other hand, nothing turns religion into a circus quite like bringing animals into church. I think it's just asking for a surprise calculated to test your faith beyond its endurance. A horse in church is just one step removed from poisonous serpents, and vipers in church are just one step past full-on crazy.
I bring all this up because I have been thinking about rituals (again) lately—since my wife pointed out that I have made a ritual of preparing my morning latte and my evening martini. She said that I seem to enjoy the process as much as the resulting beverages. She is exactly right. Each one has assumed the Zen aspect of a Japanese Tea Ceremony for me. There are precise steps in a precise order, and if I'm somehow forced to diverge from the established way of things I get flummoxed.
|first time out with my new|
espresso machine. aficionados
will note that I didn't know
what I was doing yet.
I fully understand that for most people this is one hell of a lot of work to go to to get one simple cup of coffee. My response is: 1) it's not a simple cup of coffee, and 2) if you don't enjoy the process you're missing the point.
A proper martini at my house only requires six vessels, and the process goes a lot faster than the construction of a latte, but it is somehow more ethereal and satisfying in the end. I don't think this is solely because 'spirits' are involved.
I've written elsewhere on my blog about how I make a martini. You can read more about it HERE if you're interested. What's important to know is this: I swear to you that I can stand next to another person making martinis, and even though we both use exactly the same ingredients in exactly the same proportions, added in exactly the same order, our martinis will taste different. I like to think that mine will be better, but that is probably just a matter of personal preference.
I think that there is a fourth ingredient to a proper martini, beyond gin, vermouth, and garnish, that is not measurable nor discernible. That ingredient is where the ethereal comes into play. I don't even know what it is. It may be love. It may be purity of heart. It may be reverence for the ritual. I don't know, but I do know that whatever it is, it makes a difference, and that difference shapes a lot of my life.
I'm not about to abandon the rituals I've embraced, and at my age I'm probably not going to embrace any new ones either. This doesn't mean I won't change. I certainly will. Change for me has its own attendant rituals, which, practiced with sufficient reverence, render it more charming than surprising, more celebratory than fearsome. I'm happy to change, but I still don't like nasty surprises. Whatever changes I make, you can be certain that I won't be riding a white horse or bringing any vipers to church.