We all have them. Rituals, I mean.
To this day I almost always put my left shoe on first because, back when I was twelve, I read that the British aristocrats always pulled their left riding boot on first for luck before getting on their horses to ride to the hounds across the fields and forests of Britain.
And they needed that luck.
Fox hunting is an inherently dangerous sport, galloping your 1000-pound steed for miles at break-neck pace, fording rivers, sliding down muddy escarpments, leaping stone walls and fences and whatever else stands in the way of getting to the kill first … which sounds gruesomely competitive and cruel to me now. But back in my equine-mad teen years I didn’t know any better. My world revolved around my Thoroughbred horses and horsey events, which, in the Old Dominion region of Virginia where I grew up (basically Downton Abbey transplanted to America), constituted show jumping in summer and lots of fox hunting in fall and winter.
Back then, I always pulled my elegant black leather boots on left-foot first before heading down to the stables. But now, what started for me as a conscious “ritual for a reason” has, over the years, devolved into unconscious habit.
Plus, I haven’t ridden to the hounds in decades.
Patterns
Little rituals—consciously putting things in a special place or order that looks pretty, straightening your tie before walking into an important meeting, a ritual signature at the end of a Substack article, like: Much love and aloha ~ Cate
These things start off meaning something. There’s significance. Which is a great word that comes from the Latin verb “significare,” meaning “to make known.”
We initially create rituals because something invisible wants to make itself known. Some inchoate prompting stirs us and we speak, gesture, dance, bow, say a word or two, evoking something from the spirit realms into the world of matter.
That tie straightening gesture, for example. If we take ourselves off autopilot and think about it, the move reflects a straightening of the spine prior to a purposeful presentation and emphatic delivery.
It says: Something of import is about to happen and I’m ready.
When I started writing on this platform, I wanted a different sign-off signature—something meaningful to end my columns with. And I came up with “Much love and aloha.”
I do my best to always write from love. And aloha—ahhhh … aloha! It means so many things! Yes, it translates as farewell—as in goodbye and also “do well in life until we meet again.” It also means hello. But it also means love, affection, compassion, mercy and grace, and similar deliciously-nuanced words.
It’s a prayer.
Some might scream “cultural appropriation!” and start frothing at the mouth in indignation at its use by a hoale, (pronounced “how-lee”) a Hawai’ian term for individuals who are not Native Hawai’ian—primarily people of white European ancestry like me.
But I live in Hawai’i. I was called here seven years ago. And genuine Native Hawai’ians are rare. Most people born here are polyglot blends of Japanese, Samoan, Tahitian, Chinese and, yes, somewhere back there in time, Hawai’ian.
Still, I’ve been on the receiving end of the epithet …. “fuckin’ hoale!” a few times. Mostly shouted out the windows of passing trucks by angry, wounded, dark-skinned men. And when this happens it saddens me greatly. For I love the island of Maui as I have loved no other place on this Earth since I was child living on that big farm in the rolling hills of Virginia.
In the past, the Hawai’ian kahunas granted the privilege of being called “Hawai’ian” to any who were called by the islands who deeply respected and clearly loved the aina—the lands here. Color of skin meant nothing. Ancestry meant nothing. Uhane—the spirit of the person—was everything.
What saddens me most is the lack of uhane in the persons cursing me for my white skin. They may have had the privilege of being born here. Their skin may be darker than mine. But I can’t help but wonder what the old kahunas would have said about them being truly Hawai’ian …
But back to significance.
Rituals flow from meaning. They start out as “ceremony,” a word which comes from the Proto-Indo-European root “ker” which means to do or to make—the same root that gives us the word “create.”
Spirit prompts us to do something—to create a response to something that uplifts us, that inspires us. And then time passes and the initial creation becomes emptier and emptier of meaning until only the gestures and words are left.
A quick copy and paste at the end of a Substack article and then … movin’ on …
Empty symbolism
When this happens—when we edge away from conscious ceremony into the lands of empty ritual, we move into symbolic territory. The words and gestures stand for something. We know that. But we’ve lost touch with what … we’ve moved away from significance and creation into habit.
We’ve lost the spirit—the indwelling inspirer. Which means, we’re basically automatons hitting the “repeat” button.
I think back to the hours spent sitting in church as a kid, listening to the adults around me monotonously drone “I am not worthy to pick up the crumbs from underneath Thy table Lord, and the burden of my sins is intolerable.” And it literally gives me the creeps.
Two hundred souls—two hundred creator spirits—ritually performing together an incantation calling forth powerlessness and shame every Sunday, week in week out, month after month, year after year.
Heavens to Murgatroyd Boo-Boo! What a terrible thing to do to one’s divine self!
And the rote acceptance of symbolically drinking Christ’s blood while kneeling before an alter depicting crucifixion and blood sacrifice?
Who thought that up? A vampire?
Okay—maybe in the spirit of the moment, Yeshua Ben Joseph was inspired to raise his wine glass at that last supper and say something like “Remember me and raise a glass occasionally, guys. For we are all one body in spirit. Drink in remembrance of that union.”
And then, as so often happens on this planet, the words and the meaning were deliberately twisted so that the spirit was removed and something less pleasant—even demonic—was substituted for us to imbibe.
Why?
To lower our light.
Which is exactly what can happen when we go on autopilot and just do and say ritualistic stuff without any consciousness behind what we’re doing and saying.
When our attention is oblivious to spiritual meaning, our intention can be harnessed through thoughts, words, actions to end up empowering something demeaning, debilitating and destructive—thoughts, words, actions that trigger lower emotions like shame, guilt, self-judgment, self-hatred, and remorse.
And who wants us to wallow in those lower emotions?
Hmmmmm. Good question.
A surprising lesson
I can’t tell you how many times in the early days of my 40-year spiritual pursuit somebody in a meditation group or some sort of ceremony would say: “Would anybody like to say a prayer? Or make an offering?” Just hearing those words, everything in me would freeze. About the only prayer I could have conjured in such moments was, “Please God! Don’t let them look at me!”
Even something as simple as saying grace at Thanksgiving dinner paralyzed me. Mind racing, hyperventilating, I’d think What should I say? What should I say? Then, habit would kick in and I’d find myself prattling “God is great. God is good. And we thank Him for our food. Amen.” Just like I did in early childhood.
This didn’t change until after I wrote my first book, Unearthing Venus, and found myself doing speaking engagements. I remember the moment the shift from self-consciousness to attention and presence occurred. I was seated in the vestry of a Unity Church one Sunday, preparing to talk. The minister came in along with the choir leader. We joined hands and he asked me to lead the prayer before services began.
All nervousness fled as it hit me like a bolt of lightning:
This isn’t about me.
It was about surrendering to spirit and allowing the grace of the moment itself to have its say through me. To allow the larger field of spirit to move and bestow the message required to most effectively uplift and open those present—including me—to receive what life was offering.
It was a transcendent moment the impact of which has lasted to this day.
Nature’s confirmation
I may have gotten over my self-consciousness around public speaking and prayer. But I still had one more obstacle to overcome. And that was the inheritance of thousands of years of ingrained belief that nature demands ritual to appropriately approach and appease her.
One had to bring offerings. The nature spirits and devas had to be propitiated. The words had to be the right words. The ceremonial offerings sufficient. The hand gestures and respectful bows to the mountain spirits and guardians of the high places, the valleys and the rivers, had to be “just so.”
This belief was solidly affirmed during the years I traveled through South and Central America. Working with the jungle and mountain shamans, ritual abounded. And I loved the ceremonies and the rich living heritage I was privileged to witness and participate in. But at a certain level, it was intimidating as hell.
When I moved to Maui in 2018, my first act was to drive to the summit of Haleakalā, the massive shield volcano that forms 75 percent of the island, to give an offering. And don’t you know I was filled with angst over what to offer.
Knowing the fragility of the high-altitude ecosystem, I settled on dried bread and olive oil … safely traditional (at least in Mediterranean regions) and definitely ecologically benign. I hiked into the hot, arid crater for about a mile. When a place a little off the trail called me, I stopped. Kneeling, I respectfully said prayers and, even though I’d clearly been called, asked to be accepted on the island. Then I made my offering.
It wasn’t until I was almost back at the parking lot that a puff of wind swirled around me, kicking up a bit of volcanic dust, and I sensed laughter. Deeply kind yet no-nonsense laughter. And I caught the message: “Daughter, you need offer nothing but your naked self to me. That is all I ask for and desire.”
I hesitate exposing this very private moment and communiqué. And yet the message itself still carries an energetic edge that says, “Share this!” So, I am. Because what I learned in that moment is Earth is a powerful, intelligent, spirit being of love—like us. And she is asking for partners, not worshippers and mendicants.
Earth is calling for companions, human beings—spirit beings of love—dedicated to embodying the purity of Who/What We Really Are, ready to stand with Her during these times of momentous upheaval and transformation, helping her to usher in the changes.
The days of being and playing small are over. The time of forgetfulness is over. We’re no longer frightened children, intimidated by the forces of life. We are life.
It’s time to remember that.
The human heart’s pure song is prayer. Stillness of mind, vulnerable openness, and a fierce willingness to stand up for life and all living things on this planet are our offerings.
Nature is our nature.
Nakedness is our ultimate gift.
No baggage. Just pure being.
No guilt. Just alignment.
No groveling. Just humbleness.
Ahhhhh … what grace awaits us.