Rituals

Grief makes you do strange things. Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance. Somewhere between stages 4 and 5, now. So far, I’ve distracted myself by:

• Swimming one mile

• Donating 2 units of red blood cells

• Mountain biking after giving blood to see how far I could push myself

• Cooking an awesome aged prime strip steak dinner

• Weightlifting and breaking a personal record

• Saving an Eastern Gray Tree Frog and an Eastern Box Turtle from certain death

I was raised Catholic, so the grief is my fault, and I must perform penance. The frog was hiding under the grill cover on a hundred-degree day, and I put them in a shady spot. The turtle nearly became a trail pancake, and I moved them beneath a tree.

Turkle and Frawg

I am also Italian-American, so the 5 stages of grief are cavatelli, mozzarella, parmigiana, ravioli, and prosciutto. I signed up to donate blood on the day after we put Louie down, because I’ve been meaning to, and kept forgetting. I drove to a VFW Hall on lunch break and found the Red Cross was there, but the hallmaster was not expected for another half hour. I rescheduled for the next morning, and managed to get a hike in at Blueberry Hill, which is next to an active radar station with a resident raven. “Edgar” was not around, though I have heard him and his mate’s calls before. Next to the station is the town’s community garden, which includes a Pollinator Path where I was greeted by a hummingbird.

Then I walked along the active sand quarry where a small wetland has been allowed to form. Birds love this spot, because it gives them water and peace, and they can see any predators coming. I met a birder couple who told me they were watching Blue Grosbeaks, and I managed to see both the dark blue male and the dun, orange-striped female. I walked further, and the Merlin birdsong app alerted me of an uncommon bird in the area: an Orchard Oriole. I’d never heard of them, but I watched the small fliers darting between the pitch pine forest and the quarry, and sure enough: a tiny black-winged bird with a rusty stripe and belly landed on a branch just long enough for me to focus. They’re pretty little things.

I had to hike double-time in the hot sun and humid air to get me to the church on time, as David Bowie sings. No confessions. No religion.

They were waiting for me, and the phlebotomist asked if I wanted to give red blood cells. It would take 35 minutes. I wasn’t going anywhere, so I said yes.

On the Hidden Brain podcast, they were talking about the dangers of your inner voice. They told the story of a major league pitcher whose critical inner voice rose up while he was on the mound, and not only ruined his game, but his entire career. One of the ways that people afflicted by this voice work through its barrage is by using little rituals. A tennis player who always bounces the ball three times before a serve. A public speaker who recites affirmations to himself in the second person.

I wonder which came first, the rituals or the religion.

One ritual I am enjoying is the modern revival of the Olympic games. The variety of human athleticism is a wonder. The mountain biking competition was not as exciting to watch as I imagined, but the runners, wrestlers, rock climbers, martial artists and boxers, pole vaulters, discus throwers, shotputters, gymnasts, swimmers, skateboarders, weightlifters… the commercialism is easy to mock and should be, but it’s difficult not to be caught up in the competition, especially the competitors who celebrate each others’ victories and record-breaking. The ones who understand that the only real competition is with yourself.

Here’s something you probably didn’t know: I have a trophy in Track and Field, for the Freshman Shotput Relay. My partner in that was a natural athlete who had never thrown the shot before and did most of the lifting in achieving that school record. I never improved, and lost interest in sports, in favor of computers. In my thirties, I started training in Kachin Bando and Thaing, Burmese kickboxing and wrestling. It took me months to master the straight arm bar. The “10,000 hours” mantra may be bullshit, but it certainly applies to me for physical activity.

At the Olympic games in ancient Greece, the athletes rubbed themselves with olive oil, which was then scraped off with the grime. The gloios, as it was known, was believed to have healing properties. The fans believed that ingesting it would give them some of the athletes’ vitality. I mean, they are damn sexy, but you can have your gloios and I’ll stick to Wheaties as the Breakfast of Champions.

I don’t ride or lift thinking that I’m in the league of any serious athlete. A co-worker’s son is off riding one of the toughest mountain bike rides in the United States, with ten thousand feet of elevation change; good for him. I’m out there to enjoy myself and the trail. I push myself, and I’m now within ten pounds of my lowest adult weight—which was back when I was 35 and training in mixed martial arts three times a week—but I do this because I like it, and it gets me outside. A morning walk or bike ride is part of my morning ritual, and the birds greet me. And I appreciate their song.

Another ritual I take part in is visiting bookstores. When I visit a new place, I look for a bookshop. Keep the receipt inside, and you’ve got a memorable souvenir. We were lucky enough to see a new bookstore open nearby, Ren’s Coffee and Books. They happen to be next the public library and not far from my favorite biking trail. We visited on Sunday, and I’m happy to say they make a great cup of coffee, and have good taste in books. I picked up James by Percival Everett, an author I’ve been meaning to read. It’s a friendly place and I’m going to do my best to help them stay in business.

Speaking of books, I recently finished The Lincoln Highway by Amor Towles, and loved it. A great story with just enough stakes; characters I really enjoyed being with. If you liked Winter’s Tale by Mark Helprin or Boy’s Life by Robert McCammon, it has a similar soul. Now that I’m done with that one, I’m reading Giovanni’s Room by James Baldwin, because… I’ve never read any James Baldwin. Which seems to me, a terrible oversight. And from what I’ve read so far, I am glad I am rectifying it.

After that, I was going to read How to Do Nothing by Jenny Odell… but look what arrived from Fact & Fiction Bookshop:

Sorry to make you follow James Baldwin,

Chris La Tray

… but I think you’ll hold up just fine. I can’t tell you all how excited I am to read this. If you don’t subscribe to

An Irritable Métis

, get over there and read some. If that don’t make you want to order your own copy of Becoming Little Shell, I can’t help you.

My rituals remain books, birds, and biking.

What are yours?