Rituals That Save Us
There are people who believe life changes only in the big moments.
On the days we sign a contract.
When we fall in love.
When we fly to the other side of the world.
When something ends or begins.
But the longer I live, the more I notice that people are rarely saved by revolutions.
They are saved by small things that repeat themselves.
Small loyalties.
Quiet rituals.
Silent points on the map of chaos.
Here in the jungle, every morning from six until ten, an old hippie van stands waiting, serving the best coffee far and wide. Not overly modern. Not theatrical. Not with a logo bigger than its soul. Just honest coffee. The kind that tastes like someone decided to do one thing properly.
And it does not stand just anywhere.
It stands in a place I love.
In front of it, the whole coastline opens wide, the sea breathes all the way to the horizon, and the palm trees look as though they are in no hurry to be anywhere. Some places have a special gift … they say nothing, yet calm a person more than most people do.
And I have a coffee machine at home.
Perfectly functional.
Technically flawless.
Capable of producing caffeine without unnecessary emotion.
And yet, almost every morning, I get into the car or onto the motorbike, take my travel mug … sometimes two … and head there.
If someone watched me from the outside, they might say:
“I don’t know where that woman in pyjamas is going, but it is clearly urgent.”
Yes…
And many people have life at home … yet never go out to meet it.
That is the difference.
It is not about the coffee.
It never was about the coffee.
It is about the road to it.
About the morning air that has not yet had time to grow tired.
About roads that, at that hour, are quieter than the human mind.
About that moment when the world wants nothing yet, and a person can exist for a while without performance.
And also about the fact that we all gather there in the morning … all of us from the jungle.
Every community has its square.
We have a van with espresso.
Before a person has taken their first sip, they already know who is building what, whose dogs ran off, who bought new seedlings, who has guests in town, who broke up, who got back together, and who swears they will never drink again … while holding an iced latte in hand.
Local morning news.
No subscription required.
Just foam on top.
There are rituals that do not look important, yet hold our whole inner world together.
Some people light a candle in the morning.
Some run.
Some pray.
Some play music.
And some get on a motorbike and go for a cappuccino from a van among the palms.
Civilisation has its cathedrals.
The soul has its little cafés.
Perhaps that is where what truly matters takes place.
Because a person does not fall apart only through great tragedies.
They also fall apart when they lose rhythm.
When they stop having something of their own.
When days become interchangeable like office chairs.
When morning no longer opens anything … it simply continues yesterday.
And that is why we need rituals.
Not the grand ones.
The ordinary ones.
A mug in hand.
A familiar road.
The same smile behind the counter.
The sound of the grinder.
The feeling that the world has not entirely lost its human face.
Sometimes I take two mugs.
Sometimes it is simply because a day is waiting for me that deserves a double dose of patience.
There are mornings when one cup wakes the body.
And the second prevents a person from answering certain people more honestly than is socially acceptable.
That, by the way, is also a form of self-care.
And then there is one more thing.
That van stands there only until ten.
Then it disappears.
Like sunrise.
Like childhood.
Like certain chances.
Like people we thought would be there forever.
Perhaps that is exactly why it is so precious.
What is always available, we stop seeing.
What has its own time, we begin to value.
Some things are not beautiful despite their impermanence.
They are beautiful because of it.
And sometimes I wonder how many people wait for great miracles while small ones park beside them every day…
Perhaps in the shape of an old van.
Perhaps in the shape of morning light.
Perhaps in the shape of a habit that keeps you afloat more than you realise.
A person does not always need a new life.
Sometimes they need just one place they return to.
One taste.
One rhythm.
One small “good morning” repeated so many times that it begins to heal.
And perhaps adulthood is not about having everything solved.
Perhaps it is about recognising what keeps you together … and protecting it.
Even if it is only coffee in a travel mug.
Even if it is a journey that takes only a few minutes.
Even if others find it ridiculous.
Because what saves a person is often ridiculously small in the eyes of those who have never truly lost anything.
Some people search for the meaning of life in mountains, books, and distant lands.
I sometimes find it parked beneath a palm tree between six and ten in the morning … along with the freshest gossip from the jungle.
And if you have read this far, thank you.
Perhaps you, too, have a small ritual that holds you together more than you realise.
Protect it. In today’s world, such things are rarer than they seem…
Dedicated to all those who created small rituals in order to survive big things.
And to all those who understood that happiness rarely rings the doorbell.
More often, it simply starts quietly and waits for you by the road.
Yours , D.🤍✨
There is such depth and wisdom in your words. It is so very true — often the smallest rituals, when added up together over time, are what have saved me.
Oh Dora, yes. The truth of life.