to everything there is a season

On a day like today, when the autumn colors are vivid and the pace peaceful enough to allow for a sense of awe before them, I long to mark the moment with a gesture.

Living with my little ones has made me more sensitive to the fragile, startling beauty of the natural world. It has also helped me to recognize my own longing for rituals to connect and affirm our place in all this superfluous wonder. Sitting today on a neighbor's lawn, watching Gabriel and his friend Megan run down the sidewalk after an empty stroller in the sunshine, I felt like an honored guest. Not just of our gracious neighbors, but of the whole world. And what a lavish spread is set before us!

So what kind of hostess gift does one give the world? A poem, a song, a story. A ritual!

Children get this. They understand intuitively that in living life fully, formal gestures to mark the days and nights, the seasons, the love that binds us, and all those other most essential things just makes sense. But as adults, we can get squeamish, self-consicous. This is why monastic life has always fascinated me. I imagine a day organized by rituals enacted communally, balancing work, study, prayer, song, silence. Plentiful, diverse opportunities to formally express the gratitude that bubbles up in quiet moments.

But as I will not be joining cloistered life any time soon, I am very grateful to my children. They have given Mike and me the opportunity to collaboratively create many daily rituals, and the small gestures we exuberantly perform together have only whetted my appetite for more.

Routine is one thing. And believe me, I like routines. Sticking to them gives my kids a way to feel some competence and mastery in their world. There is a time for everything: naptime, bathtime, lunchtime. It's all very orderly and satisfying. Dinner's over? Why, it must be time for two stories snuggled on the couch together, selected from the library book basket! I feel certain that there's a lot less resistance in our small daily transitions because of the pleasure the children feel in correctly anticipating exactly what's going to happen next. 

But ritual is different. It's the same way every time, but it points to something greater than itself. Rituals make meaning and connections between us and all that extends beyond. A shuttle going back and forth, back and forth on a loom, slowly weaving a beautiful fabric as it endlessly repeats itself.

One of my favorite family rituals is A Gabriel Story in the Chair. After Gabriel says goodnight to Papa and Frances, I walk with him up to his bedroom. We turn on the light, prepare his little bed, and then I wait by the door until he has settled himself on one side of the big chair. When he is ready, he looks up at me very solemnly and says: Come. As I approach, he grins and tells me, See, I made some space for you! Always the same words and gestures, every night. It is the signal that our ritual has formally begun.

We snuggle side by side. I begin to tell a Gabriel Story. It changes every time, but it always begins Once upon a time, there was a little boy... Then it goes on to describe the little boy, including such details as: this little boy could jump very high, he loved his family and they loved him, he had big brown eyes, he liked to climb on the twisty ladder at the playground and he liked to read stories with his Mama. When the protagonist has been properly sketched, we come to the most exciting moment. Every night Gabriel squishes down into his side of the chair, clasping his hands together in happy anticipation, waiting with bated breath.

...and he had light up shoes, and he liked the library....and his name. was. GABRIEL!

We say his name in unison. When we say GABRIEL, he is downright joyful. He looks up at me triumphantly with an expression that says: this story really is about me, Mama!!! I'm the boy!!

Then I talk about how much the little boy named Gabriel loved diggers and excavators and rocketships. This also sends him. He squirms and smiles in such a way that suggests his little body simply can't contain the enormous happiness he's feeling inside.

Finally I do a quick recap of our day, sticking to the third person perspective. He corrects me when I get something wrong or forget an important detail. The story ends with the present moment, and not long after that, Gabriel is under the covers clutching whatever small vehicle is his Sleeping Toy for the evening, ready for sleep.

This thing we do together every night is beautiful. It marks the closing of another day, honoring each moment that mattered. It gives Gabriel to himself, connecting his day to the person he is becoming. It makes his life into a fantastic story that he is utterly thrilled to star in. His identity and sense of his own path stretching out before him are just beginning to take shape.

So yes, I think the Gabriel Story is a befitting hostess gift for us to humbly offer. So are Gabriel's irrespresible bouts of jumping, dancing, singing, and zooming rocketship stickers all over the house. There are spontaneous acts of joy and gratitude, yes! But daily rituals provide a foundation.

When Gabriel is engaged body, heart, and mind during the Story, I imagine him as a little seedling, sending his roots down and his shoots up and out. And with every rollicking rendition of the Johnny Appleseed grace that we sing before dinner, all our roots entwine as they plunge down a tiny bit deeper. What a strange and sometimes bittersweet pleasure, to watch our seedlings grow from this tangled rootedness.