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  • The Year of Magical Thinking

    Later after I married and had a child, I learned to find equal meaning in the repeated rituals of domestic life.  Setting the table.  Lighting the candles.  Building the fire.  Cooking.  All those souffles, all that creme caramel, all those daubes and albondigas and gumbos.  Clean sheets, stacks of clean towels, hurricane lamps for storms, enough water and food to see us through whatever geological event came our way.  These fragments I have shared against my ruins were the words that came to mind then.  These fragments mattered to me.  I believed in them.

    What rituals of domestic life do you find meaning in?

    4 Responses to “The Year of Magical Thinking”

    1. Maryanne says:

      I find meaning in the rituals that restore order – washing dishes, doing laundry, folding it, putting it where it goes. Some people complain that those tasks are never ending, but it soothes my mind to repeatedly bring things back to order.
      On the other hand, I haven’t found the meaning in rituals like cooking. I mean, I KNOW the meaning, but I don’t feel it, if that makes sense.

    2. Hilary says:

      Maryanne, yes that makes sense. I still have trouble with ‘feeling’ the meaning in cleaning the bath tub! I find meaning in similar things; laundry, dishes, anything that makes thing more orderly. I often think to myself as I’m doing it that this will help bring the spirit into our home more abundantly and that it is my little effort in creating a “house of order, a house of God”.

    3. Maryanne says:

      Exactly, Hil. I feel like if I “felt” the meaning of cooking (nurturing my family in spirit and body) I would embrace and enjoy it more, instead of it being slightly scary and feeling like a chore. But I don’t quite know how to get there.

    4. Carolyn says:

      For me, comfort foods – especially when someone is sick (even me) provide meaning. Usually simple things, but they’re different for everybody. For me, even plain pasta – no sauce – gives a feeling of, well, comfort when I don’t feel well. Brandy’s not feeling well now, and I don’t even know what her comfort foods are.

      When I was growing up, we usually had something very simple for supper on Sunday nights. My Dad usually seemed to be in charge of this meal – more of å snack, really. Bread and milk, bits of leftover roast beef on bread with mayonnaise and mustard. These meals felt more like a ritual to me than many meals which took more preparation.