“A BOOK TO BE PONDERED,
to be talked about with friends and family, and to be reread at different times in our lives … By motivating us to think of the ‘holy’ rather than the ‘how-to’ of rituals, Fulghum frees us to look at all the patterns of our lives and give them meaning. With From Beginning to End he helps us perceive the sacred in the simple, providing a lasting message that we can turn to for inspiration over a lifetime.”
—The Pilot
“Fulghum explores the broad range of our behavior, the talismans we collect to help us remember, and the events we celebrate. They include insignificant events such as that last squint in the mirror before bedtime and meaningful ones such as dealing with regret, attending reunions, or getting married.”
—The Seattle Times
“[Fulghum] explores the rituals—public, private, and secret—that mark the passage of human life, everything from teeth-brushing and saying grace at meals to the more momentous social rituals connected to birth, adolescence, marriage, death.”
—The Houston Chronicle
“From Beginning to End is about the natural patterns of life and the rituals that develop around key events such as births, anniversaries, and funerals.”
—The Boston Globe
BOOKS BY ROBERT FULGHUM
All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten
It Was on Fire When I Lay Down on It
Uh-Oh:
Some Observations from Both Sides of the Refrigerator Door
Maybe (Maybe Not):
Second Thoughts from a Secret Life
From Beginning to End:
The Rituals of Our Lives
A Fawcett Columbine Book
Published by Ballantine Books
Copyright © 1995 by Robert Fulghum
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
http://www.randomhouse.com
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 97-90329
eISBN: 978-0-307-77597-9
This edition published by arrangement with Villard Books, a division of Random House, Inc. Villard Books is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc.
v3.1
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Within
Beginning
Chapter 1
Propositions
Chapter 2
A Cemetery View
Chapter 3
Once
Chapter 4
Reunion
Chapter 5
Union
Chapter 6
Born
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Dead
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Revival
Chapter 13
Coda
Chapter 14
References and Resources
Chapter 15
About the Author
From beginning to end,
the rituals of our lives shape each hour, day, and year.
Everyone leads a ritualized life:
Rituals are repeated patterns of meaningful acts.
If you are mindful of your actions, you will see the ritual patterns.
If you see the patterns, you may understand them.
If you understand them, you may enrich them.
In this way, the habits of a lifetime become sacred.
Is this so?
If you and I had sat on a park bench for an afternoon a couple of years ago, catching up, talking of this and that, and you had asked me the “what-are-you-thinking-and-writing-about-these-days?” kind of question, I would have answered, “Rituals.” And I would have added, “If that surprises you, it surprises me, as well.”
Why “rituals”? It’s a formal topic, most likely addressed by theologians and anthropologists. My interests are not usually so academic. The commonplace and daily aspects of life attract me most. And the anecdotal essay is my style of reporting what I notice.
So why “rituals”?
My thinking was set in motion by those who, knowing I was a parish minister for many years, have asked me for advice about ceremonies and celebrations. They wanted words to use at graduations, funerals, and the welcoming of children. They inquired about grace at family meals, the reaffirmation of wedding vows, and ways to heal wounds suffered in personal conflict. People requested help with the rituals of solitude, such as meditation, prayer, and contemplation.
I’m supposed to know about such things. But the truth is that while I’ve performed and participated in such rituals for many years, I’ve never given the subject the careful thought it deserves.
While seeking ways of responding to those requests, I began seeing much of my life and the life around me as ritualized. I realized that the important rituals were not stored in books and service manuals but were being lived daily by all of us.
If the topic of “rituals” were a building, its appearance would be imposingly serious—like the antique administration building of a small college. If you went into the main entrance and on into the foyer, the intimidating formality would continue.
If you asked at the main desk for information about the college, you’d receive the official brochures and handbooks that are idealized maps about the activities of an institution. That’s one way to look at information and learning.
If, instead, you went around back, entered through the kitchen door of the cafeteria in the basement, and talked with the cooks and janitors, and then went on into the lunchroom to sit down and chat with the staff and students, you might feel more at ease, and would likely get a friendlier view of the college.
I prefer this informal, backstage view of life.
It is there I have looked for the raw materials out of which rituals are made.
Following my nose and intuition, I’ve found myself in unexpected places thinking unanticipated thoughts. It’s always gratifying to see something familiar in a new light, and to realize that what I am looking for is close by. It’s like finding my “lost” glasses perched on the end of my nose. So has it been with this search for an understanding of rituals. Right there in front of my face all along.
If you and I ate lunch together regularly over a period of time, I’d tell you what I know now about rituals, expecting you would add what you know. And my guess is that you’d be as surprised as I was by how much you know about rituals, and by how much ritual behavior goes on in your life.
My confidence in the nature of our discussions comes from two experiences in the summer of 1994. After I had put my thinking about rituals on paper, I asked eighteen friends to read the manuscript while we were on a rafting trip together on the Rogue River in Oregon. Two weeks later, I took a revised manuscript to a summer family conference where 180 adults read it. On the river or in camp, the result was the same: intense and lengthy dialogue of the sort that keeps people talking way into the night about things that matter to them.
When we have this richness of contact with one another, we use the language of personal intimacy—the language of informal conversation rather than the formal language of the college lecture hall. We speak out of our own experience—from what we know firsthand—and illustrate our convictions with anecdotes out of our lives or the lives we observe. Such is the style of this book.
–
To follow these comments with the conventional form of a Table of Contents doesn’t quite work. The summer river tr
ip I mentioned suggests a solution. Each morning at breakfast we were given a preview of the day on the water. Our boatman had the uncanny ability to give us both enough information about the character of the day’s stretch of river to relieve our anxiety and at the same time not to tell us so much that there was nothing left for us to discover on our own. He understood the need for the right mix of useful information and adventure.
Typically, he’d tell us there were three put-your-life-jackets-on rapids in the first two miles, some long and easy slack water when we could swim and have water fights or whatever, then a late lunch stop alongside a falls where boats had to be portaged, and then a long afternoon stretch of easy water broken up occasionally by riffles and “fun stuff”—surprises such as a rope swing or slimy mud or a side canyon.
Instead of a Table of Contents, then, here’s information you may find useful—in the spirit of a boatman’s view of the river.
Within
While the actual passages of life may follow in consequential order: birth, adolescence, marriage, retirement, and death, the actual lives we live are seldom so orderly. And we don’t give consideration to these life events as they happen to us. Reflection comes later—when we observe what happens to someone else. You don’t consider your own birth at birth, but later, when you have children or someone close to you does. You don’t think about death much until you get real close to it, at a funeral perhaps, and that can happen at any time during your life. The ritual aspects of life might be considered in any order. Here’s my approach—feel free to follow your own.
Beginning this page
The rituals of the first hour of the day, as seen through a window in the life of one person. As the Holy is made out of the Daily, the Simple becomes Sacred.
Propositions this page
The premises on which the discussion of rituals depends, illustrated with anecdotes. The differences between ritual and rite of passage, and how these ideas affect the public, private, and secret levels of life.
A Cemetery View this page
An answer to the question “If you knew you had a limited amount of time to live, what would you do?”
Once this page
Stories that come from asking people to continue this sentence: “I never will forget the first time I …” The ritual of remembering.
Reunion this page
The rituals of returning and the rites of reconciliation—with people, things, experiences, and feelings—as pertaining to high school, family, adoption, communion, talismans, conventions, and God.
Union this page
The public observance of a wedding as a model of the ways in which all public rituals are observed and reformed. First, the actual wedding, then a backstage view of how the ceremony came about.
Born this page
A celebration of the welcoming of a child into a neighborhood and the welcoming of a neighborhood into the life of a child.
Dead this page
The private observance of a funeral as a model of the ways in which dying and death are addressed. First, the actual graveside ceremony, then a backstage view of how the service came to be.
Revival this page
Stories about the little deaths and little rebirths that occur lifelong on every level of existence—daily, weekly, annually. The rituals of restoration and renewal.
Coda this page
One final ritual.
References and Resources this page
Annotated bibliography, with supplemental information.
BEGINNING
The seeds of the day are best planted in the first hour.
DUTCH PROVERB
My friend Alice seems to have arrived at the threshold of living one day at a time. It’s calming to be in her unhurried, gentle presence. She used to be as manic and driven as anyone I knew. But not now. Something’s different. She says it has to do with the way she begins her day. Her morning ritual. “I’ve got the first hour going pretty well; maybe the rest of the day will follow in time.”
As is often the case, good news is not very dramatic. No sudden violence or crisis shaped what Alice does each day—she lived her way into it little by little. I share her story because it has health and sanity in it. In looking at rituals, I’ve tried to stay away from the illness models of life—away from what’s wrong—and have sought the company and testimony of people whose lives seem to be working well. We’re all too familiar with toxic habit patterns. Better to consider healthy models. It’s like shifting from a focus on divorced couples to studying successful marriages. Everybody knows what can go wrong. My question is, “What can go right?”
Alice has an answer.
I’ll deliberately leave what she looks like to your imagination. You’ll get enough information about her as we go along to bring her to life in your mind. You know someone like her already—you may even be someone like her.
One spring the women in Alice’s office were passing around self-improvement books. About dieting, exercise, and spirituality. Creating a “you-could-do-better” atmosphere. Alice thought “could-do-better” was as often a curse as an encouragement. She thumbed through the books out of courtesy, not personal interest.
Though she couldn’t remember exactly when the line was crossed from the restless discontent of her thirties to her present state of mind, she was, in her forties, reasonably content with her life. Maybe someday she would get back to “could-do-better,” but she was now in a “this-will-do” phase of her life, and she found it unexpectedly satisfying.
Though she was not as thin, attractive, smart, healthy, or happy as she might have been, she was thin enough, attractive enough, smart enough, healthy enough, and happy enough. An outsider might see room for improvement, and some expert might show her ways in which further ambition might pay off in the long run. And she supposed that the urge for change would rise up again out of unforeseen circumstances. Still, it pleased her to realize for the time being it was a just being time. Life was fine, especially when she considered it one day at a time, and one morning at a time.
–
This understanding came to her one afternoon, riding the bus home from work. As she fell into that meditative trance-state bus travel induces, she thought about her life and realized her daily routine was composed of habits so carefully observed she might call them sacred—because she honored them as surely as if she had joined a religious order. They had become that important to her.
Some might think she was lonely—her son was away at college, her daughter working in Portland, and her husband, a field geologist, was gone a good deal of the time. She wasn’t lonely, though. She realized she was accepting, even welcoming, of the unplanned solitude—especially the solitude after daybreak each day. This regular, reliable morning stillness had become a cherished part of her life.
She had often wondered exactly why the Lord’s Prayer had the line in it “Give us this day, our daily bread.” Now, on these mornings in the middle years of her life, she thought she had it figured out. Perhaps it meant, “Let this day suffice—let it be.”
–
Just before six A.M., she began waking—floating up out of the night world—aware that somehow her mind was alert, though her eyes were not open and her body wasn’t moving. Though she hadn’t needed an alarm clock in several years, she often set the timer in the stereo in the living room to play music at six. When the music began, she began to rise. Without conscious effort or intention, her eyes would open, and she would roll over, sit on the edge of the bed, and stand in one easy motion.
“Good morning, Alice,” she greeted herself.
Determined not to begin the morning with a sense of urgency, she stretched and yawned and stood still, looking out the window. She didn’t turn on the lights right away—the artificial light was too jarring—so she was content moving about in the soft half-light of daybreak, or else, in winter, with candlelight, putting on this new day as comfortably as she put on her robe.
Her robes were seasonal.
She hadn’t exactly planned it that way, but that’s how it evolved. In winter there was a long, warm deep purple terry-cloth robe her mother gave her for Christmas. It was beginning to fade, but she liked the connection with her mother and her childhood. The robe, like her relationship with her mother, had softened with age.
In spring she changed to a new blue-and-white cotton kimono given to her by a Japanese exchange student she had befriended. It made her think of faraway places where she had never been.
In summer there was a white chenille bathrobe with a pattern on it that reminded her of the spread on her grandmother’s bed. She found it at a neighborhood garage sale. Instant nostalgia. And she was childishly amused by the patterns it left on her skin when she lay down on the couch in it. It was the closest she would come to having tattoos.
And in the fall she wore a cotton robe her husband had brought her as a surprise gift from a business trip somewhere. Printed with flowers—mostly orange and yellow and red—like the colors of leaves in autumn. She wore this robe at other times, as well—when he was away and she missed him, and when he came home—to please him.
These robes were not part of some conscious fashion scheme—not purchased by her or acquired all at once. They had accumulated and been made important by use and association. She changed robes by some unconscious prompting from weather and daylight. They were useful, practical garments, but when she thought about it, she realized she wore them as much for the feelings and memories they evoked as for their physical comfort. When I told her I thought her robes had become like temple garments, she smiled and replied, “Yes.”
The habits of her morning had acquired value in the same way as the robes. Only when she began taking notice of her morning routines did she realize how important these habits had become—how they were rituals of rightness and not just routine. The word “sacred” could be honestly applied. What had changed about her life was her becoming mindful of what already existed.
From Beginning to End Page 1
