Quotes About Ritual

I remember my grandmother drying wild coffee berries in the sun, then hulling and roasting them for her own cup of coffee each morning.

I'm only superstitious on the tennis court.

Right before I go out, we usually put on some Lauryn Hill or Fugees, and I'll do a shot of tequila just to calm my nerves.

I love high tea, but I think it's very repetitive in terms of what's on the stand.

It's a song that we sing after we win a Test match. We sing it after every one-day series win. It's been passed down through the generations. It's the culture of the Australian team.

She bowed. A long, slow, stiff bow from the waist. The bow of a Prussian officer in a social setting with civilians, feeling uncomfortable, waiting to leave.

When peace returned, the Janus was closed; this happened only ten times in more than a thousand years.

These Manes were present in the house through the images of the ancestors, or in the tutelary powers of the Lares. They mysteriously survived in order to help the living, provided that on their death they had received the justa, or ritual honours that were their due;

Their hands bathed in purifying water, the family members gathered up the calcined bones in the folds of their black garments, then sprinkled them with wine and milk, dried them with fine linen before enclosing them in a marble urn (Tib., 3, 2, 16-22). In memory of the time when burial was performed, a finger severed before the body was burnt was buried separately, and a handful of earth was thrown three times on this os resectum.

If, for example, you bought a piece of land in which a dead person was interred, you had to pay him suitable homage every year: by doing so you were guaranteed his protection - always useful (Mart., Ep., 10, 61, 5).

The flaminica, a devotee of the cult of Juno, never went out unless wearing a long garment of purple wool. A veil similar to the flammeum of a young bride shrouded her hair, which was braided and dressed high to form a (conical?) tutulus. Her shoes were made from the leather of sacrificed animals.

As it recurred again and again, it set me thinking of what my architect's books say about the custom in early times to consecrate the choir as soon as it was built, and that the nave, being finished sometimes half a century later, often did not get any blessing at all: I

Like wine, coffee offers a path to sophistication.

The Chukchee, a people indigenous to Siberia, had their own special way of dealing with unruly winds. A Chukchee man would chant, "Western Wind, look here! Look down on my buttocks. We are going to give you some fat. Cease blowing!" The nineteenth-century European visitor who reported this ritual described it as follows: "The man pronouncing the incantation lets his breeches fall down, and bucks leeward, exposing his bare buttocks to the wind. At every word he claps his hands.

prefiero el ritual de la nada.

Every construction is temporary, including the fire altar. It is not a fixed object, but a vehicle. Once the voyage is complete, the vehicle can be destroyed. Thus the Vedic ritualists did not develop the idea of the temple. If such care was given to constructing a bird, it was to make it fly. What remained on earth was an inert shell of dust, dry mud, and bricks. It could be left behind, like a carcass.

Y?jñavalkya immediately separated out the two essential points in every sacrificial act: substitution and the transposition from the visible to the realm of the mind.

Some would sing as they killed the bear, so that the bear, while dying, could say: "I like that song.

Passed through fire and plunged through salt water and offered to the winds of the air; thus were names sealed to these chosen children.

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.

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. The material and the spiritual mingle like grounds mingled with humus, transformed like steam rising from a mug into the morning mist.

Ceremony focuses attention so that attention becomes intention.

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. The material and the spiritual mingle like grounds mingled with humus, transformed like steam rising from a mug into the morning mist. What else can you offer the earth, which has everything? What else can you give but something of yourself? A homemade ceremony, a ceremony that makes a home.

My mother had her own more pragmatic ritual of respect: the translation of reverence and intention into action.