They seem to be different sides of the same coin — while routine aims to make the chaos of everyday life more containable and controllable, ritual aims to imbue the mundane with an element of the magical. The structure of routine comforts us, and the specialness of ritual vitalizes us. A full life calls for both — too much control, and we become mummified; too little excitement and pleasurable discombobulation, and we become numb.
Still, structure and repetition are what keeps us whole: You have to keep taking the next necessary stitch, and the next one, and the next. Without stitches, you just have rags. And we are not rags. But the true purpose of discipline — for this is the practice at the heart of routine — is to make room for the magical in the mundane.
The miracle is that we are here, that no matter how undone we’ve been the night before, we wake up every morning and are still here. It is phenomenal just to be. This idea overwhelms some people. I have found that the wonder of life is often most easily recognizable through habits and routines.
Order and discipline are important to meaning for me. Discipline, I have learned, leads to freedom, and there is meaning in freedom. If you don’t do ritual things in order, the paper doesn’t read as well, and you’ll be thrown off the whole day.
More than a pleasurable rhythm for everyday life, rituals cast an anchor of stability during turbulent times: Daily rituals, especially walks, even forced marches around the neighborhood, and schedules, whether work or meals with non-awful people, can be the knots you hold on to when you’ve run out of rope.
And yet the most magical moments happen when life’s soft living body shakes free of the confining exoskeleton our routines impose.
Beauty is a miracle of things going together imperfectly.