I often wonder how I got here. Every morning, around the same time (though I cannot see a clock), I am placed in a basket.
I am then filled up with my ritual powder.
How do I know it is mine? No other place gets to experience the ritual powder, other than its original special bag home (on the counter or in the cupboard.
Pouring the heat. It’s like a rain that soaks the soil.
I am the soil, propagating the ground water down after capturing the extra grains of powder.
I am the key to the source of the ritual morning liquid.
I feel myself buzz the second time and I let a little less through. The ritual drink should be respected, and not drunk too frequently, and only in emergencies in the afternoon.
But I am often a party to the disrespect of multiple rituals. Overdoing it. And I am the soil nonetheless.
Pour through me, for I am neither the beginning nor the end. I am the middle way, through which all things flow.
At least this is what I tell myself when I’m feeling pious.
And so I extract meaning as I support the extraction of the ritual beverage. See me, feel me, understand me. And your ritual will give you strength. The strength to see the stories of the things around you, and write them down.
Roman Ryan 