A Case for Ritual > Routine
A simple(r) way to balance productivity and pleasure
I can’t stop dreaming of cows and open pasture
I spent the second half of this summer in Montana where my grandma, parents, and aunt and uncle own cabins on a glass-clear, secluded and quiet little lake I’ll call, simply, ‘The Lake.’ We’re in the very northwestern part of the state, just south of Canada and just east of Idaho, in an area teeming with deer, rabbits, bears, moose, and mountain lions (all of which I’ve seen traipsing through our yard on my mom’s Ring Light in video recordings or, to my excitement and fear, in person).
I’ve been visiting The Lake since my first year alive; my grandma’s mother and father, Ivan and Inez, had built the original cabin in the 1950s on a few hundred feet of lakefront property that they’d purchased for $200 (!), growing a garden of blueberries, grape tomatoes, and snap peas, fishing for dinner in a nearby river system, and hunting elk with which to make jerky. (My great-grandpa, Ivan, was the first person I’d ever met, apparently, to not only have drank kombucha but also make it from a SCOBY he kept on a shelf at home, decades before you’d ever see it on a shelf at Erewhon. He and Inez were beyond cool and ahead of their time in that regard, and many others.)
This summer was the first time I visited, though, that I remember being fully and honestly present since my early childhood — 13 years old or so. I left my phone, unchecked, in my bedroom most days, opening it up only before bed and even then, only to make sure nothing needed my immediate attention. I’d deleted Instagram and Twitter the month prior, logged out of my Discord, and unsubscribed from most of my regular notifications. (And since we’re connected only via wifi, I can’t get non-iPhone calls anyway, which makes my job disconnecting even easier.)
This visit was unusual for other reasons, too, though, other than having been fully and noticeably present — not all of them so light.
My family — immediate and extended , on my mother’s side, including my grandma, aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends — had gathered to celebrate the life of Papa, my grandpa Wayne, who’d passed from Lewy Body Dementia in January of this year (a journey I’d wish on nobody I love, nor my worst enemy). It was the first time I saw some of my cousins since I was 15 years old, some of whom had gotten married and nearly all of whom are now raising children and babies of their own.
For the first time in decades, we cried together, about something more heartbreaking than even a brand new Fashion Polly lost to the bottom of The Lake — something I think we all needed to feel so that we could celebrate my Papa for the first time, more than even mourn his dying.
I felt closure. I felt clarity. I felt like I could breathe fully, finally, for the first time in a while.
I was fully aware of my thoughts, aware of my joy, aware of my bliss. Aware of my sorrow. Aware of my significance and my smallness, spending nights on the dock with my mom and sisters watching for shooting stars and signs of alien life. Thinking about them; thinking about us. Thinking about living. Thinking about dying.
(We wouldn’t be the first to watch for UFOs on The Lake, by the way; a journal entry of my grandma’s acquaintance, of which she has a copy, annotates the writer’s experience seeing a UFO while canoeing with his wife one night in the mid-1900s.)
Of course, in a place like Montana, under open skies safe from pollution by debris and light, surrounded by my family, eating tomatoes that grow from the ground we own, it’s easier to find clarity — answers to those existential questions.
Or, at the very least, it’s easier to find the space to ask them.
To what things in life, exactly, are worth holding ourselves accountable?
It was when my middle sister, Emma, who we call Pie, and I were sunbathing on the dock one quiet afternoon, that we found ourselves thinking, again, about life, wondering about how to actually do it well. Not in an annoying and ambiguous way (“happiness is a choice,” “just ~manifest~ it, b*tch,”) but in a way that would actually take effect in our lives, for the betterment of ourselves and others — to fully live out our days for ultimate, maxed-out, everything-left-on-the-court productivity and pleasure, effectiveness and enjoyment; intent and impact.
(Is it really true we can’t have our cake and eat it, too?)
To put it another way: How do we do all the things we want to do — build businesses, marry well, mother children, travel often, make lots of money, have a day of complete and utter quiet just ONCE, without having to give up on a life fulfilled spiritually, emotionally, and relationally — rich in beauty, joy, and peace?
(For a little extra context, we’re both inspired by personal development and work to cultivate internal discipline, but sometimes struggle with application of those ideals and systems that we know would be good for us. I think this is what prompted our conversation on the dock in the first place.)
Our question, applicably and actionably, came down to this: Is the key to a life fulfilled, rich in beauty joy, and peace, to stick to your routine — taking the same route to the grocery store (because the other way has two more stoplights), ordering the same 12-oz whole milk latte from your closest Starbucks, plunking down onto the couch after a long day as “mom” or “Mr.” or “Dr.” or “VP of Marketing” to peruse Netflix and scroll Instagram and respond to emails and call your mother-in-law to ask about Sunday’s dinner plans simultaneously? Is it in your best interest to fully optimize everything about your life so that no minute goes by unallocated — or worse…wasted?
Or is the key to a life fulfilled, rich in beauty, joy, and peace, to cast all routine to the wind and say: “ehh, calendar shmalendar!” because in a day and age marked by digital dysmorphia, aesthetic sterility, cookie-cutter structure, and addiction of all kinds, non-routine is the only way out — the only true and righteous way to subvert The Man, to disrupt the societal status quo?
I love this question, and I love that Pie had the same one, too, because we both have a tendency toward extremes — we’re varied examples of an all-or-nothing type of girl. It’s proven to be a blessing, often, in that if I’m doing something, you can put money on the fact that I probably care about it, deeply, whether its fruit returns to me or not. But it’s proven to be a curse, too, in that I’ve suffered a near-ruptured disc squatting too much weight, too often, for no reason at all, in my early twenties. When I go in, I go all in.
Thankfully, though, I’m not in my early twenties anymore and therefore, I’ve discovered the sweet and tender value of balance. (A little bit, done just a little better, can go a long way. I can be some of this and some of that, for example. I am a woman that flows like water, I say to myself often, and that adapts, always, always, always toward evolution.)
Which means, against my all-or-nothing nature of existence, that maybe something toward the middle of the spectrum of structure is a pretty good way to live. Some things should be done with discipline, consistency, do-or-die type of commitment…but not everything. You know? (This revelation almost makes me laugh with its simplicity. But it’s stuck with me. Moderation is usually the answer, regardless of the question.)
Structure is good, but leave room for serendipity, too
Since returning from Montana, I’ve been mulling this over, trying to integrate my new learnings: What about my day is absolutely necessary? I’m not talking about administrative work, but posing the question: What must I do, even if it seems insignificant or ridiculous to others, that day by day, carves out of this uncut gem of my existence a kinder, gentler, wiser, more wildly inspiring and magnetic and thoughtful and creative and impactful human being? Even if I spend the rest of my day just absolutely flopping about, what can I do so that I wake up tomorrow just .1% better than I woke up today?
Contrary to what I imagine is popular belief in modern, especially Western, society, I don’t think the answer is to remain cuffed to the demands of routine, optimizing my minutes and packing out my schedule, looking to fill time with tasks sometimes even tedious and unnecessary.
Instead, I’m learning how to emphasize and prioritize my growth through ritual, investing my time and energy and, dare I say, intention, into the sacredness of living — opening myself up to experience transcendent healing, creativity, and communion with our Universal Creator in the details of my day. And from there, allowing for as much space and insight and boredom and creative impulse as I can. Of course, Mondays look very different than Saturdays, as is probably true for you, too, but there’s benefit to the mindset shift itself.
(+ Side note: In case you’re wondering what I mean by ‘ritual,’ I’m working on what works best for me, and in what order, through trial and error — right now, it might include meditation, breathwork, practices in self-mastery and Satori, binaural beats, etc. Similarly, my bedtime ritual is becoming lengthier (facial and scalp massage, lavender oil on my temples, low lights if any at all, iPhone on “Do Not Disturb,” etc.) but the more I keep it up, the more I feel at peace, and that I can distinguish one day from another. I’ll be writing more about this, especially after some continued self-testing and analysis. Keep you posted.)
With that in mind, one man’s ritual will look wildly different from that of another, but I’ll share one of my favorite examples, particularly for those who call themselves artists and creators. This comes from Steven Pressfield’s The War of Art, which I highly recommend and refer to often.
It reads, starting on page 1:
“I get up, take a shower, have breakfast. I read the paper, brush my teeth. If I have phone calls to make, I make them. I’ve got my coffee now. I put on my lucky work boots and stitch up the lucky laces that my niece Meredith gave me. I head back to my office, crank up the computer. My lucky hooded sweatshirt is draped over the chair…
On my thesaurus is my lucky cannon that my friend Bob Versandi gave me from Morro Castle, Cuba. I point it toward my chair, so it can fire inspiration into me. I say my prayer, which is the Invocation of the Muse from Homer’s Odyssey, translation by T.E. Lawrence, Lawrence of Arabia, which my dear mate Paul Rink gave me and which sits near my shelf with the cuff links that belonged to my father and my lucky acorn from the battlefield at Thermopylae. It’s about ten-thirty now. I sit down and plunge in. When I start making typos, I know I’m getting tired. That’s four hours or so. I’ve hit the point of diminishing returns. I wrap for the day. Copy whatever I’ve done to disk and stash the disk in the glove compartment of my truck in case there’s a fire and I have to run for it. I power down. It’s three, three-thirty.
The office is closed. How many pages have I produced? I don’t care. Are they any good? I don’t even think about it. All that matters is I’ve put in my time and hit it with all I’ve got. All that counts is that, for this day, for this session, I have overcome Resistance.”
Ah! I get goosebumps and butterflies every time I read this introduction. There’s something in this passage that speaks to the value of ritual — that practice that speaks to the spiritual, emphasizes the present, and becomes more than its makeup in the presence of God; Source, Universe, Alpha, Omega.
Routine is about efficiency, the reduction of friction. It’s about convenience, about productivity, about systems. (Which are good things, by the way. I’m just helping us find a happy balance.) Note Pressfield’s use of the word lucky throughout this passage, though, because it’s important. Instead of doing what is most convenient, or most efficient, or most timely, his ritual is what paves the way for exceptional creativity; he prepares to be a vessel for the highest creative power, trusting, too, in that luck is merely the alignment of preparation and opportunity — and invites this force right into his office by giving it space to move.
It also makes me think of all the seemingly cheeky ways we’re glamorizing efficiency and snuffing out the chance for luck, or serendipity, altogether — and not just in our artistic endeavors. I picked up a coffee the other day while walking downtown and the bright pink paper cup handed to me read: “Wait in line for coffee? That’s so 2019” as an advertisement for the shop’s app to place online orders. It was cute, and cheeky, and I kind of smiled when I read it. It also made me a little bit sad. Because I think about this one particularly memorable moment of my life, a few years back, in which I was at a Safeway in downtown Seattle, comparing spaghetti sauce ingredients in the pasta aisle. After a minute or two, I was approached by a guy who asked me about my sauce preferences, which provoked a laugh from both of us, and led to a first date. We didn’t have a second — I was moving out of the city at the time — but I had a wonderful time and have always appreciated the surprise that was otherwise just a very regular trip to the grocery store.
There’s something, I’m learning, about being present, practicing patience, and letting the natural ~flow~ of it all guide us gently, as opposed to hacking the algorithm of our daily life like machines. Perfection is the enemy of peace, and these days, peace is calling my name — I may get a little less done, I may not have the #1 most optimized life of all time, but I’m actually enjoying it more. Which, actually, is making me more effective in the time I do spend getting things done. Whew. I love when things work out like that.
I think that, if we let ourselves be here — really, really, here — and if we create space for ritual, open to something bigger than us, we’ll find ourselves empowered, and even accelerated, by that thing. (I also think we’ll have a little more fun here, too.)
My Papa was good at that. He was an excellent listener. He was patient in how he observed, slow to speak so that, when he did, his deep voice reverberated long after he’d spoken. He was curious and exploratory — my mom tells me of her early teenage years in which Papa took her and her siblings spelunking, throwing pennies down cave passageways to determine their depth — which was probably one of the reasons he was so smart, the first person I ever considered a “walking encyclopedia.” If I needed to know something — Why is this bug bite swelling? Can I do anything for my dog to help stop his seizures? What kind of berry is this? Is it edible? Are you sure? — Papa was the guy. He was our guy. Since he’s passed, I’ve thought to myself a few times: “Oh, I have to remember to ask Papa about this. He’ll know what to do…” only to remember that he’s gone, in that capacity. That part has been the most difficult for me.
I think about him when I reflect on how I want to live: grounded, centered, steady, sure. To do so, though, requires of me sincere discipline — in my daily habits, those things that make up my ritual, compounded in effect by my own consistency but accelerated in growth by those forces beyond and greater than me.
It requires of me, too, then, that I am 100% open, humble, and receptive — fully expectant that The Muse, as Steven Pressfield says, will accept an invitation to meet me in my office, too.
If you don’t know me, hi. I’m Sophie, a Chicago-based artist and writer.
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