Habits. . .
The thud of the back door
as it swings shut, the sound of keys
clinking to their place on the stairs,
tell me even in my sleep, that you are home.
Small things noted,
giving rise to habits observed,
a sense of ritual to a life filled with them.
We continue rituals,
for without them is lost our practice of life.
We continue to do those things over and over,
for if we miss once, we may lose us
whom only we know.
And we do not trust ourselves enough
to know when a thing is good.
People differ in thought about rituals. Many, who lean toward independence, prefer the spontaneity of their lives. For me, whose head wanders worlds uncharted with no clock or linear times to claim my intentions, rituals are necessary to navigate a particular world. It is good for me to note the changing seasons, as it is to follow what the inhabitants are doing as the saying goes, in whatever world.
For some, rituals are compulsive and for those, they are an anchor. Habits show customs and rules for where I am. Rituals begin my day and close it. And allows my head the freedom to explore what piques my interest without boundaries. Rituals have helped me be at home where I find myself. And by adhering to them, I find myself welcomed.