Even my instant coffee is a rite.
It may not hold to the form or the function of its predecessors, in its spirit or in its mass. But there it is, plain as day to those who would look to see it.
First, the water.
First, the water.
We are afloat in thoughts, in non-thoughts. We cannot move our limbs to swim, to climb.
First, the water.
I grip the kettle and I lift it to the faucet. There is a button on the grip to open the lid, but I use two hands because I know it gets stuck halfway up. I know because this is ritual, too.
I count while the kettle fills. There is no need to count. I can feel by the weight in my hand, see by the window in the side. I count because this is ritual, too.
Rites return me to the earth when I am lifted, powerless, directionless, into nothing. I am grounded in the coffee, in the water, in the kettle-lid, in the counting.
Halting sour gives way to filling fat, coughing bitter to sighing sweet. Steps, and acts, and meaning behind acts, and meaning beyond meaning. What is the ritual but act given meaning? The body learns the steps, and eventually it in turn becomes disciple of the meaning.
The body learns the steps, muscle memory takes over, and the mind can turn from the acts - to wander elsewhere, to glorify, to ponder, to question, to tomorrow - and back, to the sensations of the acts themselves. The moment. The body begets the moment, and the rite begets the body, and the mind begets the rite, and the moment begets the mind.
She is here with me as I pour, she is the pourer and the cup she made. I am the act. I am the ritual. I am the meaning. I am here, with my body, with the mass, with the spirit.
The coffee is ready.