Rituals, Not Routine

"When you notice something clearly and see it vividly, it then becomes sacred." — Allen Ginsberg

The first thing I do in the morning is check whether I have rested enough. I don’t wake up to an alarm, and my phone stays downstairs during the night to prevent unnecessary guilt about sleeping "too much", which could consequently result in getting out of bed too early. I wake when my body is ready. Before anything else, I look outside the window. The way the trees move, the color of the sky, the stillness or the stirring of the world—it gives me the first glimpse of the day. The forecast is usually off for this remote place, and I tend to ignore it anyway, so I often wake up to surprises—snow covering the land, thick fog rolling in.

Then I reach for the cat. She’s usually close, curled in some warm spot. When I place my hand on her, she makes the softest noises—half protest, half invitation—then stretches and kneads me with her paws, a slow, rhythmic pressing, as if she’s giving me a gentle morning massage. We linger there for a while, sharing affection in our own ways—her with purrs and gentle licks, me with my hand moving across her fur.

Downstairs, my dog is already waiting. A few cuddles with him, and off we go outside. I only have a compost toilet, which might seem inconvenient in winter, but I love stepping outside into the crisp morning air. The air is the first thing I take in—I notice the temperature, the scent of the earth, whether the air is moist or dry, and how the light moves across the valley. This gives me a clearer sense of what the day will be like. My plans, movements, and tasks all adjust to the weather and the energies of the land.

Back inside, it’s time to start the fire. I clean the fireplace, remove the ashes, load the wood, and light it, watching as the first small flames catch and begin to grow. By now, I know the feel of it well—it rarely takes me more than a few minutes. While the fire gathers itself, I put the kettle on and do my “facial”—I splash fresh spring water on my face. I don’t have a spring at the cabin, so I make a weekly trip to a nearby farmhouse to collect it.

Before the water boils, I slice ginger into it. When the tea is ready, I stir in a spoonful of honey, squeeze in a few drops of lemon. The fire is steady now, warm. I add more wood to keep it going, then settle into my armchair, sharing a few biscuits and pieces of fruit with my dog while waiting for the tea to cool. He always makes the funniest face when a fruit is sour, scrunching his nose before coming back for another bite. I dip a biscuit into my tea—half for him, the softened half for me. Only then do I turn on my phone, checking for messages from my dear friends. I let the day take shape in my mind.

Beyond this short morning routine, life off-grid itself is a ritual. Everything takes time. Washing dishes, washing my body—these are not rushed tasks but important events, woven into the rhythm of the day. Daily activities here are shaped by the elements, by the pace of the seasons, by the simplest needs of living close to the land. The way I move through my days is not separate from the world around me but an extension of it. And in that, rituals arise naturally—not as something to be scheduled or performed, but as the shape life takes when lived with presence.

If it’s a day to bathe, I remind myself in the morning to place a pan of rainwater on the stove so it can slowly warm for the evening. As night falls, I prepare my little bathing space near the fire—I lay down a carpet, the same snow-white one that used to be in my city bathroom. Slowly, the ash from the stove is beginning to leave its trace on it.

I pour the warm water into a bowl, adding a few dried herb leaves and drops of essential oil. I soak a soft cotton cloth—the kind we once used for swaddling children—and wipe my body gently. Face, neck, chest, arms, back, armpits, legs, genitals. The cloth cools as I move across my skin, and the water on my body dries in the warmth of the stove. The scent lingers in the air. I melt shea butter near the fire, mixing in a few drops of geranium essential oil. Sitting in front of the stove, I spread the fragrant oil over my skin. Geranium drifts up, mingling with the scent of glowing wood.

I don’t particularly remember any of my showers back in the city, but I will forever remember the washing of my body in the Cosmos’s Cabin. It’s rare, but sacred to me.

I see rituals as an expression of an already present sacredness—my body, this land, the beings residing here, the universe, life itself. They arise from joy, gratitude, awe, aliveness—not as a means to achieve those feelings, not as a tool to "get" connected. Ritual is not a grand event after which life is transformed; it is an act woven seamlessly into the ordinary. I believe rituals should be done in the most natural, spontaneous way possible. As Robin Wall Kimmerer writes: "That, I think, is the power of ceremony. It marries the mundane to the sacred. The water turns to wine; the coffee to a prayer."

Rituals are not something separate from life—they are life, a natural extension of it. A mere participation and devotion to what is already present. To wash my body as an act of care, respect, and love toward myself. To wash the dishes as an act of homekeeping and cleanliness—clean home, clear head. To light a bonfire in honor of Mother Earth and the sacred life she holds. And to gather together—not to create connection, but to honor the connection that has always been between us.