Reflecting on Rituals

One of the ways that I keep my life ordered and organized is through the use of small, regular rituals. Not the extreme OCD variety of continual hand washing, touching a certain object, or scrubbing the shower stall daily with bleach. But rather, its milder cousin involving particular gestures to start the day.

When I lived in Seattle, I had fixed locations for morning coffee. In the 80’s it was the long gone, quirky “raison d’etre” on Virginia Street near First Avenue. Straight out of the left bank in Paris, at the time, some partons would smoke between taking sips and bites into freshly baked croissants. I was such a regular early morning customer that my wife at the time reached me there by the shop’s phone to tell me her water broke. Sure enough, the owner knew where to find me.

Unfortunately, the coffee shop eventually failed from being premature and had few patrons; Seattle’s espresso cafe craze was still years off.

After raison d’etre closed, I relocated my morning ritual to the Trattoria Mitchelli in Pioneer Square. I almost always sat on the same stool at the counter. A colleague passing by the big glass storefront on his morning run would remark that he could set his watch by my consistent presence.

My other morning ritual was making the bed, an act that I still swiftly do every single day immediately upon rising. I recall the time shortly after remarrying when I was vigorously tucking the sheets in. I heard my new wife yelp. “Hey! I’m still IN here!”

Before moving to Italy, I expected that I would carry the morning ritual of ordering my morning caffe latte to Italy, since I have several choices within a leisurely five-minute stroll just in the village. Not so. Instead, I have my morning drink made in our dependable Bialetti Moka Pot on the rooftop terrace, while gazing at the serene, verdant hillsides, a handful of other hilltop towns, and the blue-green Adriatic Sea in the distance. Flocks of small Swifts careen about overhead with their non-stop screeches and rapidly beating wings alternating with gliding on the updrafts from the valley below. Often, an unseen tractor in the valley is thrumming away — planting or harvesting something.  

One of my new emerging rituals is shopping for lunch at 11:30. I know that if I do not do it then I will be out of luck, as shops start closing around 12:30 for the Italy-wide ritual of a mid-day pausa (a long break for lunch and maybe a nap). I took me years to firmly get it in in my head that I could do no local shopping between 1 and 4 in the afternoon. Ever.  So, I have adopted that Italian pausa ritual as one of my own.

During my morning coffee, there are sounds of other daily routines. They include the backing-up beepers of trucks that are working at construction sites around the village. Pallets of materials are noisily dropped off. The quietude is shattered by sounds of drills, hammers, and saws. A massive, steel construction crane makes mechanical clicking sounds as it swings around by an operator on the street using a remote control. I now see the genius of the pausa. Peace returns, at least for a few hours.

Although the noises are jarring, I am happy to hear them.  A number of buildings that were damaged a decade ago by an earthquake have finally received government grants for their restoration. These projects have been funded by the European Union as part of a disbursement of 200 billion euros to implement the National Recovery and Resilience Plan that was enacted following the pandemic.

I have discovered neighbors with their own rituals. Until he recently passed away, every morning an older gentleman who rarely spoke to anyone, tended to a diminutive garden flanking the door to his house. It was always lush and bright with colorful flowers. The garden is now barren and I miss his ritual daily tending.

Another elderly gentleman walked the streets of the village throughout the day and evenings. I could be assured that if I stepped outside at any time I would soon see him. We would greet each other. I learned that he had a nickname used by townspeople – squalo (shark) — as he was always in motion. I miss his ritual walks.  A month before his death, he came to the house and wanted to buy four of my sketches, all framed. Then he came again and bought two more. I knew he didn’t live on much of a pension, so I was worried about his extravagant purchases. Turns out, days before he passed, he gave them to friends as parting gifts. I was quite touched.  

Recently I observed a new ritual. We look down onto a valley floor 100 feet below our house, situated on the outer edge of the village atop the high city wall.  The town cemetary is visibly prominent, with its mausoleums and crypts. There is also a modest, grassy graveyard. Several new graves have been freshly dug and covered over.

Every morning at 9:00 sharp, a man drives up to within thirty feet of one of the new mounds. He is far enough away that he looks like a black stick figure. I can make out broad movements but no details. He sometimes stands at the foot of one grave, bent forward slightly. Sometimes he walks around the grave. Other times he kneels. He is clearly doing something deliberate — just unseen to me.

My mind has created possible stories around this routine. The grave is for a beloved wife whom the husband cannot bring himself to part with every day on the way to work. He is a devoted son whose mother passed away at age 95 and is planting a garden for her on the mound. Or, perhaps, the mourning man was the clandestine lover of the person now in the ground. Regardless, his daily, almost choreographed, movements suggest he is experiencing deeply felt grief.    

It has occurred to me that one day I will be found in that posthumous part of the town. It would be splendid to have someone circumnavigate me from time to time while shedding a tear or two. Dancing would be optional.