Ritual and Choephori

This last weekend I spent some time going through the Central Valley in California and some interesting thoughts came to my mind. It has been a very long while since I have taken that drive – generally I try to avoid that route, but this time it was, well, unavoidable.

One of the first things I noticed is how detached I had become from the earth itself. Particularly with where I live, you begin to forget that the world functions on seasons – everything is a cycle. It had never occurred to me that it was the height of spring and slowly devolving into summer. It should have, but it didn’t – where I live is so incredibly detached from these little things like changes in temperature, climate, or even the flowering of plants, that you begin to forget that the natural order is based on a four quarter system and the year itself flows into one large heap and mass. I truly miss that. I grew up in a place that had rain for spring, heat for summer, leaf piles for fall, and snow for winter. And now Christmas carols sound like false advertising and I have no idea why April showers bring May flowers.

The second thing I noticed somewhat went along with my feeling of becoming detached. I realized that the work of a farmer is a very thankless job. When I go to the grocery store, I expect to see selections of eggplant, bok-choi, and tomatoes out of season. I can find pineapple imported from miles away at any time of the year. When I purchase it or consume it, I rarely remember the work and time and effort that went into its production – I merely eat it. I expect it to always be there and I forget what an absolute miracle its birth and maturing and harvesting truly is.

All the talk these days is about how we are abusing the planet, which, in and of itself, would merit another blog post. For this, however, I will content myself with stating simply that the buffer system of our planet earth is absolutely amazing to me. To allow over six billion human inhabitants all eating, drinking, and being merry, and yet still existing, still cycling? It’s rather impressive and on the lines of the human body’s internal buffer system. Balance out the scales and it will never tip too far to one side.

I realized the other day, coming home from work, that broccoli had a smell. I don’t think I ever noticed that before. But a few weeks ago as I was driving home, I noticed some workers picking the crop from a field near my place – a field that I had mostly ignored both to and from my usual routines. I had noticed that it smelled, but I couldn’t really place the scent. When I saw the green miniature trees in their hands, however, it was obvious – broccoli had a smell. I am not sure why I never noticed this before. I’ve eaten broccoli millions of times. And yet it took until two weeks ago for me to notice that it had a smell.

Those little details are what make me rather sad about my life. How many of those little details do I miss about our earth, its produce, its cycles? I fail to appreciate how amazing rain is. I forget to spend a moment to enjoy the gentle caress of a small breeze on my cheek. And I don’t stand in mute amazement at the beach nearly often enough.

This, I think, runs me into my next thought. One of my favorite Greek words is Χοηφόροι, or “choephori”. Its literal translation is “the libation bearers”. Some might recognize it as the second part to Aeschylus’s The Orestia, the only surviving full Greek tragedy detailing the return of Agamemnon after the Trojan War. The word “choephori”, however, represents the idea of “remembering” – before meals, as part of their ritual, the Greeks would pour out a little of the wine in their cup on the floor below. This was both in remembrance to the gods as well as to those who were gone.

The reason why I love this word is because it represents so many things in my own life. Before I take sustenance to continue my own existence, I should take a moment to remember the powers that sustain my life as well as those mortals who have forever touched it – both those that are no longer in this world and those that, through circumstance, time, or other considerations, are no longer in my life. This, I think, is the greatest honor I can do for them, and only their just reward. So many hands have forever shaped the course of my own path and too often I forget to thank them, even if it is merely inward gratitude, for making me into the person that I am today. Half a moment to pour out a libation before I eat is the least I can do to honor the time they had spent shaping me and molding me.

We lose so many people in our life’s path along the way. Some are gone forever. Others are merely gone around the corner. And yet their touches are never forgotten. They never should be forgotten. In Ancient Greece, immortality wasn’t merely living forever – it was being remembered, beyond death, beyond time, forever having a place for your name in the legend and tale and song. If I spend a moment to remember those I loved, those I lost, those that have been a part of me from beginning to end, they will never die. They will never fall into oblivion or shadow. They will always exist and always be a part of me.

As I was driving along the highway I saw a small white cross on the side of the road. Someone had dressed it with a small wreath of flowers and a hand-written note underneath. In that moment, I cried – not because someone had left this world, but because someone had remembered that person who was taken. I realized just how remiss I had been in doing the same, in giving a libation to those who had once meant so much to me and had left me for so many terrible reasons. And I realized that my love for them ought to have brought me to that place, bringing small wreaths to their white crosses and writing notes of my life and how dearly I missed them and fondly I thought of them, every day.

This idea of ritual is repulsive to many Americans, I think, in particular. I know that years before in my Asian philosophy course, most of the other students hated the ideas of Confucianism – we do not like being told that our society ought to function on a prescribed basis. But it does. When you meet your friend on the street that you have not seen in a long time, you might be comfortable with hugging, maybe even a kiss, and definitely a big, bright, happy smile. When you meet your supervisor on the street you would certainly not kiss him or her! Although maybe that floats your boat; not really sure. But there are prescribed ways of meeting one’s friend versus meeting one’s supervisor.

That’s li. That’s the Confucianist ideal of “ritual” – it isn’t just this prescribed way of acting and behaving to keep one restricted and tied down. It’s a way to make society function appropriately between all our differences of position, opinion, and perspective. It’s a method that tells us how to say hello without giving offense, or how to return a phone call without looking too impatient. Society is a grouping of varying and extremely different members. Ritual is what allows us to function as one group by overlooking these differences and allowing smooth paths of communication and interaction.

“Choephori” is “li”. Neither ideas originated here in the States, but I think we would do well to consider both. I need to take more moments to consider what and where and how and why I live. Perhaps it would make me appreciate it just a bit more.