"Practice what you preach," they always say. So I decided to devote my January newsletter to something I suggest near the end of my book, The Heart of a Family, something I've never actually done. A Ritual Inventory, that is. You're welcome to do one of your own, and I'd love to hear how yours turns out, too.

Looking back over the year that just ended, what rituals stand out? What "worked" and what did not? What would I do differently? Here goes:

Starting back last January, one of our favorite rituals remains our Pooh party to celebrate the birth of author A.A. Milne on January 18. As usual, we baked honey cookies and had an indoor picnic on a quilt on the family room floor, surrounded by all Max's stuffed animals from the Hundred Acre Wood. We read some of the poems we love from Milne's "Now We Are Six." As he gets older, Max is only now realizing that nobody he knows celebrates this occasion, and it's becoming even more special. I still predict he'll outgrow it between now and teenhood-- but who knows?

I'm not in love with our Valentine's Day rituals. Basically, we don't have any. We usually have special treats in the house and give Max a small gift, and sometimes my husband and I go out for a "romantic" dinner, but that's about it. One year, when my son was two or three, I made a huge poster that said at the top "Some of the Reasons Mom and Dad are Proud of Max," and I glued paper hearts up and down, writing on each one some quality or accomplishment of his. Inside each heart, like a pocket, was one small piece of Valentine candy. It was cute enough but somehow the ritual didn't "take." Since this is a commercial holiday, I'd love to find a more profound way to proclaim and clarify the specifics and depth of my love. Maybe something with a humorous twist to it, an antidote to the prevailing sentimentality; any suggestions?

Another ritual that works is our annual "Easter tree." I gather a bunch of the stunning forsythia that has usually just bloomed in the front yard, and stuff it into a vase, and Max and I decorate it with tiny, darling ornaments-- pastel-colored eggs and birds and bunnies. We also usually have a modest egg hunt in the front yard, but this is one of those rituals that loses it's adrenalin punch with an only child. My wish: to find a more overtly religious ritual to add onto what we already do. Death and resurrection are tough topics for a first-grader, but the message of rebirth is a good one.

There's no contest for what was the best new ritual of 2001 for me: the Women I Love Lunch that I hosted for six friends in Manhattan in mid-May. I'll spare the details, as I've discussed it in this newsletter before, but I threw this bash because I was in an awful funk over my father's death six months before. Gathering my friends around me and declaring my love to them (with humor and souvenirs) was one of the most fulfilling gestures of my adult life. It's definitely on for this May.

My wedding anniversary in June is also often the first day of summer and I don't feel I adequately celebrate either. My husband and I usually have a lovely dinner out, and write a short poem to each other. That's cool, but somehow I feel like there should be more. This year will be our 10th anniversary, not big enough for a blowout party or trip, but deserving something special. I'd sure love to hear what other people have done to mark this event.

I do wonder what the Fourth of July will be like this year, the first Independence Day after the terrorist attacks. Will we be tired of waving the flag? I think we shortchange this important day, like most Americans. It's hard to find a local parade anymore. Fireworks are too late for our son. We always have a barbecue, and we read aloud from the Declaration of Independence, but I feel the need for something more. Something that will connect us to a larger community, something that really celebrates the basic rights and principles of this nation . . .

Max loves Halloween, though he's not as big on dress-up as many kids. He still hasn't figured out that the Good Witch of Halloween only stops at our house, and I hope it doesn't mess him up when that clicks. This was a ritual I invented basically to get rid of his Halloween candy, the first year he went trick-or-treating. I decided to have him leave his plastic pumpkin full of treats outside his bedroom door on the night before his birthday in November (two weeks after Halloween). The myth I invented is that the aforementioned Good Witch will come, take the rest of the candy for children who got none, and leave a few small token birthday gifts in the pumpkin in exchange. Now, my husband hates this ritual because Max wakes up at the crack of dawn to check the pumpkin, and it turns out he really doesn't care much about candy and probably didn't "need" the ritual to keep him from eating too much. But there's no stopping now-- Max loves it. This year, he left little signs all over the second floor so the Good Witch could find his room easily.

Speaking of his birthday, this year brought the return of one of my most successful rituals. When Max turned three, I wanted to mark the birthday as a special milestone in his development, so I created a "birthday sheet." I painted a simple white sheet with symbols of "big boyness" (like underwear, since he'd just been potty-trained), and cut a big slit in the sheet. He had to go through the sheet, like a threshold, to get to his gifts. He loved it then and I did another when he turned five. I wasn't planning on doing it again until 10, but this year he actually begged. "Daddy said seven is a milestone year too," he said. "I'm learning to read, write and swim." He was right, so I did it, and also wrote an essay about the sheets for the "My Great Idea" column of Family Fun-- it's supposed to be the April issue. But still--I'm firm about waiting for 10 to do it again.

Finally, there was Christmas, and I have to say this year it went much better than last year. I simply took myself out of the rat race, as much as possible. My husband and I agreed in advance we were spending less and buying fewer presents, and emphasizing other things more. Every night after the tree was decorated, Max and I spent a short while sitting on the living room sofa just quietly enjoying it's sparkle, recalling all the special ornaments. We took him to see the local production of "A Christmas Carol," his first play. On Christmas Eve, I had nothing left to wrap and could actually enjoy the anticipation and go to bed early. I even talked my husband into coming to the Sunday service at church the weekend before, and as we sat there as a family singing carols that I've loved since childhood, tears sprang to my eyes. I was as full of Christmas spirit as I've ever been.

I begin a new year knowing that there are many things I'd like to do better. I have never managed a good back-to-school ritual, or known what to do on Mother's Day and Father's Day. Grownup birthday celebrations still feel weird to me, except for the year my husband's ex-wife said she didn't want to feel old, so I threw her a kid's party, complete with crayons and goodie bags (I still have photos with all of us wearing plastic dinosaurs on our noses).

I learned once again that family traditions are, by necessity, a work-in-progress, and that there is always another chance to try something new, or tinker with the old.

I also had a thrilling reminder this year about the whole point of the exercise. We were eating the Thanksgiving feast at someone else's house and it would have been rude for me to run around proposing rituals of gratitude, though believe me, I was full of ideas. I felt a little bereft about this. But suddenly, shortly before dinner was served, my little boy took me by the hand, and said, simply, "Mom, let's go outside, and tell God what we're thankful for."

We stepped onto the back deck, in the frosty dark, and snuggled together on a patio lounge chair, and took turns looking up at the stars and reciting the things for which we were grateful. (He was grateful for Legos, but even more thankful for his parents, and life itself.) I felt all those overpowering emotions that are part of any successful ritual: I felt purely present, incredibly close to my son, and lovingly embraced by something larger than any earthbound holiday.

And I thought to myself: yep, it's not just about this day, it's about teaching our kids the very essence of ritual, of giving them the tools to celebrate life in their own way, and feel it through every pore of their beings.

May 2002 be a year you remember forever for the richness of its ritual.
With love, Meg

QUOTE OF THE DAY:
Sorry it's so long, but this excerpt from a "Christmas Greeting" written in the 16th century seems timely:

There is nothing I can give you which you do not have
But there is much that while I cannot give it,
You can take.

No heaven can come to us
Unless our hearts find rest in today.
Take heaven.

No peace lies in the future
Which is not hidden in this present moment.
Take peace.

The gloom of this world is but a shadow;
Behind it yet within each is joy: there is radiance and glory
In the darkness could we but see, and to see
We have only to look. I beseech you to look.

To subscribe to Meg's Ritual Newsletter, send an email to MegMaxC@aol.com

March 2002

I'm a big believer in wholeheartedly celebrating each new season, and the beginning of spring is a special favorite. March 20 is the date this year. My son and I always fill the house on that day with bright-colored flowers, usually bunches of daffodils picked up at the local supermarket, and then we always plant seeds indoors in big ceramic pots. (Nasturtiums are great for kids because they're almost as big as peas.) This seems like such a hopeful gesture, not just welcoming new growth and new life, but helping to create it.

Last year we added to our tradition, since it was a sunny day, by taking paper cups full of (washable) paint and fat paintbrushes outdoors. There are enormous rocks scattered around our property, and we decorated each one with pictures and words. What a glorious, liberating feeling it was to splash wide swatches of red and blue and yellow paint on the gray and brown landscape. There was a shocking gaiety in the gesture; a defiant flinging of hot color that stood out boldly against the cold, still-bare trees. I'm really looking forward to it this year.

But recently I've begun to expand my philosophy of seasonal celebration, trying to find ways to mark not just the first day of a new season, but the whole three months. I started to think about times when life is heightened by joy or tragedy, and how everything about that time stands out.

Remember the season when you first fell in love? How vividly that colored everything, and how, later, you can still conjure up not just what you wore, but what you ate, and the movies you saw, and how the landscape looked in the places you always walked as a couple.

We can't always be falling in love or enduring grief, or otherwise feeling a heightened state of emotion (thank heavens). But I think it's possible to experience ordinary life more vividly and profoundly, to really grasp it and hold it and know it, better than we do now. And one way to do that is to pay more attention to each season as it comes, to welcome it and single it out for special treatment. How?

For starters, I've begun an experiment of undertaking one new venture or learning experience for each new season. I'm not talking about abandoning all your old habits and duties and hobbies, but finding a new skill or activity or field about which you think you might be passionate, and giving it a whirl.

You can't become fluent in a new language in three months, or become a marathon runner if you've never jogged. But you can build onto something you already love, or stick a toe in a new category of endeavor.

For example, a couple summers back I decided that rather than reading randomly whatever caught my fancy, I would devote the season primarily to the works of one author, someone I felt I'd unjustly neglected. I chose Saul Bellow and I took off, through "The Adventures of Augie March," "Henderson the Rain King" and "Humboldt's Gift." As a result, I gained a much stronger sense of Bellow's writing style. It seemed like I hadn't just read a book, but entered an author's world. I found the experience exhilarating: it felt like an accomplishment.

Recalling how satisfying that had been, I started thinking last fall about how to mark the coming winter, my least favorite season. Although I've become a better-than-decent cook in the past decade, I rarely if ever bake and I decided it would be worthwhile to tackle one category of baking pies. Frankly, I was terrified of pie making: it seemed so anal/Martha Stewarty. But it seemed a hurdle worth jumping, especially since I like to eat pie. So I went out and bought a pie-only cookbook, and went to town, trying all sorts of recipes and learning, finally, how to make a decent pastry pie crust. (Though my favorite is a mocha cream pie in a crust of smashed chocolate cookies.)

Now as winter ends, I'm feeling a warm sense of fulfillment. Nobody's going to hire me as a pastry chef, but I conquered a longstanding phobia and earned bonus mommy points. I added something positive to my life that isn't a material object, but a skill that adds to the pleasure I take and the pleasure I give in life. And this will now be remembered as the "winter of pies."

I don't mean to get ridiculous about all this, and try to fill every season with what will start to feel like a PhD-level course-load. I just believe that in mid-life we can start to become a little stuck in our habitual daily grinds, and forget that we can still start new, learn more, get better, be fresh, and feel passionate about how we occupy our days. Haven't we all had periods of our life where the weeks drift by formlessly, and the months shoot by, and six months later you think, gee, the fall is gone. And though you recall being busy, you can't conjure up except in the fuzziest way how you actually used up all that luscious time. That's what I'm trying to avoid.

I'm still contemplating what themes I'll choose for the spring and beyond, but I have some general thoughts. I'd love to try a season where I take a walk every single day, some short and others hours long. Maybe one season I'll devote to eating at every ethnic restaurant in town that I've never tried. And another I'll dedicate to exploring museums within an hour of my house. I've never taken a cooking class: that's another option. How about a letter-writing season, where I systematically go through my address book and send a card or note to every person that normally only hears from me at Christmas? And I'd love to corral my husband into taking swing dance lessons: we could have the "Fred and Ginger season."

I'm also reminded of how the local public library gets kids excited about reading during the summer. For every book they read, they color in a box. The boxes pile up on a pretty chart. At the end of the summer, if they've read a certain number of books, they can get free bookmarks and eventually, a free sundae. They celebrate their seasonal feats and feel proud of their accomplishments. We grownups should do the same!

Tell me how you'll be celebrating this spring and summer.

Which reminds me. A friend just sent me a clipping about how hot the new Macintosh iMac computer is (he knows I've got one on order). Computer nerds are so psyched about this new computer-- it's the one with the "floating" screen that looks like it's perched on a half-grapefruit-- that they're holding box-opening ceremonies. They actually invite friends over and serve drinks, and take pictures of the box being opened. I'm a technophobe, so there's no way I'll be conducting an iMac-opening ritual, but I was fascinated by this story.

So tell me, what's the most unusual, idiosyncratic event or milestone you ever celebrated?

Finally, I've always used this newsletter to tell readers about upcoming articles and I'm happy to report that my work will be appearing in three different magazines coming out later this month. You can find me in the April issues of Good Housekeeping, Family Fun and Cooking Light. I'm proudest of the writing in the Cooking Light essay, which is about why I returned to modern dance in my 40s. The other two articles are about family rituals. The article in Family Fun is about the "birthday sheets" I make for my son on milestone birthdays: it's the "My Great Idea" column. Good Housekeeping is finally running my story on fun ideas to liven up family dinners.

Have a glorious spring!
Love, Meg

QUOTE OF THE DAY:

Sometimes I wonder why we all go through our lives without touching one another very much. Everyone I know who's died I know I haven't touched enough, no matter how much I have - or been touched enough by them.
--Edward Albee, playwright

To subscribe to Meg's Ritual Newsletter, send an email to MegMaxC@aol.com