I think I’m closest to ritual in the moments between consciousness and waking. How long I abide these moments changes with the weather, the seasons, looming deadlines, last night’s whiskey. They shape the day, whether I mean for them to or not.
Here is one.
There are spider-silk threads of dreams sticking to the corners of my mind. I keep my eyes closed, pushing out the creaking floorboards as the cats pad to their breakfast. Breathe, focus. I know that I repeated three things over and over like an incantation as I was falling asleep (a moose-skull necklace, Peter Pan, the Königssee), but dreams are fickle and defiant, and I can almost recall something… a semicircle? A ring with a cross?
These don’t glance my adrenaline with recognition, and as fast as I grab for it, the thread snaps. It’s gone.
I give up. Se lever.
It’s further gone now, as the hours pass, as I walk the dog on garbage day and look at the crooked evergreens and think, I’ve grown more palatable with time.
Maybe I don’t need to hold so tight.
