Pass me the Ruhepol
I am all about rituals. Spells, if you will, that make even the simplest forms of self-care just that little bit more magical. So, if I’m about to pour myself a special blend of tea – a ritual all in itself – the setting needs to be just right. I’m not just going to plonk my trusted teapot down on a table full of crumbs and stains of smeared sweet potato, courtesy of the daughter. What am I, a savage? I mean, I’m not a lunatic – the table doesn’t need to be polished to the point in which I can see my tired reflection on its surface. But it should be acceptably clean, clear of clutter, and inviting, otherwise, it would defeat the whole purpose of the cherished teaxperience.
The same goes for my reading and writing materials. OK so, I always have a book or two on my bedside table, ready to grab at any moment of the day or night. Those special reads, however, those bound pages of literary treasures, they deserve so much more than smelly sheets and mismatched pyjamas, an untidy living room and a side-table unidentifiable for the piles of papers and broken pens and coasters and burnt-out candles littering it. They warrant an undistracted environment, the kind of Zen that allows me to immerse myself fully and solely into their worlds. I cannot and will not be lured back into my reality by my own sleepy aromatics, the mess that is my mind echoed on my side-table. No. These books merit clean pyjamas, a scented candle to light up my chosen world of the evening, a pristine side-table that’ll allow me to set my tea down between sips and paragraphs without having to look up from the pages.
When it comes to writing, the ritual reaches a whole other level. When working on something personal, it often – who am I kidding? It always – involved copious amounts of weed. Nowadays, the sheer will to stay awake. It calls for the very careful and often intensely frustrating selection of the session’s soundtrack and, believe you me, it has to be just the right tuneage, or else the whole feeling and flow of things can quickly go to shit. What works to the emo melodies of Death Cab for Cutie, certainly won’t work to the wailing woes of Pat the Bunny; the vibe drawn from Ween’s upbeat jams will inspire the polar opposite to any kind of Lo-Fi playlist. If it is to be a writing session of the manual kind – yes, that’s still a thing in our house – it leads to the next big question: which notebook is this for? Are these going to be everyday musings or milestone carvings? A frantic scribble of ideas for past, present and/or future projects or a solid slur of words that will transcribe easily?
Oh, what a luxury it was to have time to spend on all these insignificantly significant details. To create these pristine environments that rarely reflected reality – not our household, nor my emotional or mental landscape. As much as I relished getting lost in these details – and still do when everything genuinely aligns – I have come to realize that, often, they were just a luxurious form of procrastination. Getting body and mind to simply switch off and dive into relaxation, intellectual or creative stimulation, or, honestly – just sitting still and quiet enough to truly appreciate a cuppa fucking tea, is a painful battle. Because for the real daredevils out there, it means turning down the exterior noise and sitting with yourself in (Lo-Fi) silence.
If you let yourself dive into it deeply enough, it’s a bit like the tea, steeping in the heat of the water, drawing out all the aromatic flavours. Only in our case, our brain is steeping in the silence we are so careful to avoid, drawing out all the toxic shit we desperately try to keep so tightly packaged and releasing it into the air. And there we are, confronted with the steam of our existential crises, floating before us in all their petty shapes and diffident sizes, encouraging us to join them for a dance. To stomp them to shreds to the dramatic rhythms of howling flamenco; to shudder and flail them forth, and clown them out. To embrace what it means to dance with yourself.
But who really wants to go there? I do.
Now that my time is limited in the most beautiful way possible, I crave the unrushed preparation of these moments that feel so vital to my sanity. The quiet build-up to the main event – be it a good read undisturbed by the depths of my cognizance and the pit of my stomach, or the profound stewing and intense brewing of an emotional shitstorm ahead. And yet, I’ve also come to realize, it’s not necessary; it’s much more a privilege that gives you the space to surf the dangerous territory of flight before fight. While I miss the option, I feel that, perhaps, I do much better without it. It forces me straight into the deep end instead of faffing around, wading the shallow waters, risking a change of tides before I’ve reached the juicy bits.
Sure, at times the forceful measures backfire too, and I find myself working too hard at finding that inner peace – whatever it may look like that day. Which is kind of like having to work at an orgasm. It’s anti-climactic. On days like this, when all else fails, I steep my tired limbs in Kneipp’s relaxing purple, lavender foam-fest and hope my soul will follow. Because if I am to be my girl’s haven of peace and tranquillity, I’m going to have to be my own first. So instead of wasting time on the impossible matching of exterior and interior environments and beautifying moments that hold their own charm without staging, from here on out, I’ll just say, fuck it. Pass me the Ruhepol. And I suggest you do too.