Ritual Bath Quotes

A crowd of women around me doing the ocean of women’s work that never subsided and never changed and always swallowed whatever time you gave it and wanted more, another hungry body of water. I submerged into it like a ritual bath and let it close over my head gladly.

It’s more than a bath; it’s a transformative experience. You’re searching for buoyancy in the soul, and spring in your step.

In our deeds we can structure our lives so that the simple things that we do everyday, from bathing to cooking, have resonance and ritual. -Ilsa Crawford

Bathing is not just about a quick rinse. Taking care of your whole self is essential in maintaining balance and contentment. And rituals around bathing play their part - they provide time in the day when you can focus on yourself, and clear your mind and body.

He personally found the bathing ritual not just pointless but self-deceiving. Getting fresh for a fresh day, in which something new might happen! He thought it better to start the day by acknowledging that it was going to be just as dull as the days preceding it. That way, you wouldn’t be disappointed.

Getting ready like Cleopatra, doing one nice thing a day for yourself, taking baths, learning/tricking yourself to be comfortable in your body, collecting amulets, having a physical space to take yourself seriously, keeping your home as nice as you would for guests, nourishing yourself with food, avoiding substances that make you feel bad, seeking medical help if you need it—these are all ways we build the faith that we can lead the lives we want to lead, lives we are proud of, lives full of delight.

I am now the mother of a four-year-old daughter. Memories of my own childhood flash for a second as I’m combing my daughter’s hair or when I bathe her at night. What’s odder is that memories don’t come when I expect them summoned. Because my parents never read to me, I first felt a deficit of weight instead of being flooded with nostalgic memories when I began reading to my daughter at bedtime. There should be a word for this neurological sensation, this uncanny weightlessness, where a universally beloved ritual tricks your synapses to fire back to the past, but finding no reserve of memories, your mind gropes dumbly, like the feelers of a mollusk groping the empty ocean floor.

Wearing perfume can't be a substitute for bath. For a seeker, reading famous spiritual books, visiting some holy Gurus and places, doing some chanting and rituals is like wearing perfume. If you wish to take bath, throw yourself to the universe. It will make you do things that are not even remotely spiritual or religious. But they will bathe you clean.

The ice-cold ritual baths of the Jews and Brahmins; the vigils of Buddha's disciples and of the Christian ascetics; the torments of Indian fakirs to keep from falling asleep—these are all nothing but external, crystallized rituals, which like broken columns bear witness to the seeker: "Here, very long ago, stood a mysterious temple dedicated to awakening.

I take a bubble bath and do all my rituals: face mask, loofah, brown sugar-lavender scrub.

All the years of ritual—undressing and dressing, diaper changes, potty time, bath time, tooth brushing, reading, hugs and kisses—are so exhausting. If they don’t fall asleep beside him, whoever is on bedtime duty stumbles downstairs, announces wearily, “And that concludes today’s parenting.” Until the next day, and the next and the next. As if it were a curse and not a blessing. As if it really were forever.

Ritual abuse is highly organised and, obviously, secretive. It is often linked with other major crimes such as child pornography, child prostitution, the drugs industry, trafficking, and many other illegal and heinous activities. Ritual abuse is organised sexual, physical and psychological abuse, which can be systematic and sustained over a long period of time. It involves the use of rituals - things which the abusers 'need' to do, or 'need' to have in place - but it doesn't have to have a belief system. There doesn't have to be God or the Devil, or any other deity for it to be considered 'ritual'. It involves using patterns of learning and development to keep the abuse going and to make sure the child stays quiet. There has been, and still is a great deal of debate about whether or not such abuse exists anywhere in the world. There are many people who constantly deny that there is even such a thing as ritual abuse. All I can say is that I know there is. Not only have I been a victim of it myself, but I have been dealing with survivors of this type of abuse for almost 30 years. If there are survivors, there must be something that they have survived. The things is, most sexual abuse of children is ritualised in some way. Abusers use repetition, routine and ritual to forced children into the patterns of behaviour they require. Some abusers want their victims to wear certain clothing, to say certain things. They might bathe them or cut them, they might burn them or abuse them only on certain days of the week. They might do a hundred other things which are ritualistic, but aren't always called that - partly, I think because we have a terror of the word and of accepting just how premeditated abuse actually is. Abusers instill fear in their victims and ensure silence; they do all they can to avoid being caught. Sexual abuse of a child is rarely a random act. It involves thorough planning and preparation beforehand. They threaten the children with death, with being taken into care, with no one believing them, which physical violence or their favourite teddy being taken away. They are told that their mum will die, or their dad will hate them, the abusers say everyone will think it's their fault, that everyone already knows they are bad. Nothing is too big or small for an abuser to use as leverage. There is unmistakable proof that abusers do get together in order to share children, abuse more children, and even learn from each other. As more cases have come into the public eye in recent years, this has become increasingly obvious. More and more of this type of abuse is coming to light. I definitely think it is the word ritual which causes people to question, to feel uncomfortable, or even just disbelieve. It seems almost incredible that such things would happen, but too many of us know exactly how bad the lives of many children are. A great deal of child pornography shows children being abused in a ritualised setting, and many have now come forward to share their experiences, but there is a still tendency to say it just couldn't happen. p204-205

What a crock of bullshit, Decker thought. He felt guilty. Initially, she’d reacted with anger, which was healthy, and he’d quelled her fire. Now, she was internalizing the bad hand she’d been dealt. “Rina, none of this is your fault. And no one is after your kids. If they’re out of the way,

An atheist may, of course, also feel clean after taking a bath and dirty without one, but the mikveh ritual, associating outer hygiene with the recovery of a particular kind of inner purity, like so many other symbolic practices promoted by religions, manages to use a physical activity to support a spiritual lesson.

I confess that I felt something closer to exaltation than fear. Something inexplicable was happening. Forged in Jesuit logic and tempered in the cold bath of science. I nevertheless understood at that second the ancient obsession of the God-fearing for another kind of fear: the thrill of exorcism, the mindless whirl of Dervish possession, the puppet-dance ritual of Tarot, and the almost erotic surrender of séance, speaking in tongues, and Zen Gnostic trance. I realized at that instant just how surely the affirmation of demons or the summoning of Satan somehow can affirm the reality of their mystic antithesis – the God of Abraham.

{Wells discussing his experiences with Christianity} I realised as if for the first time, the menace of these queer shaven men in lace and petticoats who had been intoning, responding, and going through ritual gestures at me. I realised something dreadful about them. They were thrusting an incredible and ugly lie upon the world and the world was making no such resistance as I was disposed to make to this enthronement of cruelty. Either I had to come into this immense luminous coop and submit, or I had to declare the Catholic Church, the core and substance of Christendom with all its divines, sages, saints, and martyrs, with successive thousands of believers, age after age, wrong. ...I found my doubt of his essential integrity, and the shadow of contempt it cast, spreading out from him to the whole Church and religion of which he with his wild spoutings about the agonies of Hell, had become the symbol. I felt ashamed to be sitting there in such a bath of credulity.

The noble old synagogue had been profaned and turned into a stable by the Nazis, and left open to the elements by the Communists, at least after they had briefly employed it as a 'furniture facility.' It had then been vandalized and perhaps accidentally set aflame by incurious and callous local 'youths.' Only the well-crafted walls really stood, though a recent grant from the European Union had allowed a makeshift roof and some wooden scaffolding to hold up and enclose the shell until further notice. Adjacent were the remains of a mikvah bath for the ritual purification of women, and a kosher abattoir for the ritual slaughter of beasts: I had to feel that it was grotesque that these obscurantist relics were the only ones to have survived. In a corner of the yard lay a pile of smashed stones on which appeared inscriptions in Hebrew and sometimes Yiddish. These were all that remained of the gravestones. There wasn't a Jew left in the town, and there hadn't been one, said Mr. Kichler, since 1945.

Domestic hearth (kitchen) in a Hindu home was considered an area of high purity, even of sanctity. It had to be located far away from waste-disposal areas of all kinds, and demarcated from sitting, sleeping and visitor-receiving areas. Nor could pure and impure areas face each other. Before entering the cooking area, the cook was obliged to take a bath.

57. Omniscience and bliss, and mature wisdom, Remaining independent, limitless strength — Attaining all these, he shines ever, the Self without afflictions. With an immaculate body, he, as the Self, merges in Siva. 58. Japa of the name, worship, bathing in holy waters, ritual sacrifices, None of these or others are needed. The fruits of dharma and adharma, Water oblations to forefathers, None of these are for him. 59. No injunctions for observance, no fasts, Nothing required by way of getting into or out of (any action), No vows of celibacy for him, know this. 60. Not having any recourse to falling into the fire or water, Or falling from the mountain top, Enjoy the feast of the Knowledge of Siva, eternal and pure. Rid of the rules applying to all creation, move about as you please. 61. I tell you this is the Truth, the Truth, the Truth, thrice over. There is nothing greater than this, Nothing greater is there to be known, Nothing at all, nowhere ever.

I don’t think it’s a coincidence that so many religious rituals involve water. Christians wade into rivers for baptism, Catholics dip their fingers into holy water as they enter the church, Jews go to the mikvah for purifying baths, Muslims wash before the five daily prayers, Hindus go to the sacred Ganges. Immersing yourself in water is like praying. It’s a surrender, an elemental act that is the closest we humans can get to returning to where we started, curled up in our watery maternal bath, submerged in both safety and oblivion.

True, my boy. Only Hashem is omniscient, and until He decides we’re worthy of His communication via prophets or the Messiah, we mortals are forced to live in a state of ignorance. I’ve spent my whole life learning, Detective, acquiring knowledge not only from the scriptures of my belief, but from countless other sources—American law, philosophy, psychology, economics, political science: I have studied them all at great length. Yet, a madman can slip under my nose, and I realize I know nothing. I am still a meaningless speck of dust in the scheme of things. A most humbling experience.

It felt good to scrub my skin, as if I was removing everything that felt dead about me. I was the "queen of skin care." Who knew that simply exfoliating my skin until raw (which I knew better than to do but now couldn't resist) would one day be what was left of my skin care regimen? My daily cleansing and moisturizing, weekly hydrating and purifying masks, along with monthly photo facials, glycolic peels, or microdermabrasion, was down to "super-scrub Saturdays." Pampering was a thing of the past. No more sunscreen applications to guard against the "UVAging" rays that were out to get me 365 days a year. No more weekly Epsom salts hot baths to detox my body, or lathering up with my favorite vanilla-scented moisturizing cream. No more applications of extra virgin olive oil to the ends of my hair to prevent splitting. I didn't even treat myself to my bedtime chamomile tea. All that had been replaced by a new nightly ritual of passing out on the bed, face down, which went against my cardinal rule of youth maintenance. Before the deep hollow pain was born inside me, I slept on my back, at the perfect thirty-degree angle to ensure proper circulation and prevention of any unnecessary creasing or wrinkling.

Harvard psychologist Daniel Gilbert talks about this phenomenon in his 2006 book, Stumbling on Happiness. “The greatest achievement of the human brain is its ability to imagine objects and episodes that do not exist in the realm of the real,” he writes. “The frontal lobe—the last part of the human brain to evolve, the slowest to mature, and the first to deteriorate in old age—is a time machine that allows each of us to vacate the present and experience the future before it happens.” This time travel into the future—otherwise known as anticipation—accounts for a big chunk of the happiness gleaned from any event. As you look forward to something good that is about to happen, you experience some of the same joy you would in the moment. The major difference is that the joy can last much longer. Consider that ritual of opening presents on Christmas morning. The reality of it seldom takes more than an hour, but the anticipation of seeing the presents under the tree can stretch out the joy for weeks. One study by several Dutch researchers, published in the journal Applied Research in Quality of Life in 2010, found that vacationers were happier than people who didn’t take holiday trips. That finding is hardly surprising. What is surprising is the timing of the happiness boost. It didn’t come after the vacations, with tourists bathing in their post-trip glow. It didn’t even come through that strongly during the trips, as the joy of travel mingled with the stress of travel: jet lag, stomach woes, and train conductors giving garbled instructions over the loudspeaker. The happiness boost came before the trips, stretching out for as much as two months beforehand as the holiday goers imagined their excursions. A vision of little umbrella-sporting drinks can create the happiness rush of a mini vacation even in the midst of a rainy commute. On some level, people instinctively know this. In one study that Gilbert writes about, people were told they’d won a free dinner at a fancy French restaurant. When asked when they’d like to schedule the dinner, most people didn’t want to head over right then. They wanted to wait, on average, over a week—to savor the anticipation of their fine fare and to optimize their pleasure. The experiencing self seldom encounters pure bliss, but the anticipating self never has to go to the bathroom in the middle of a favorite band’s concert and is never cold from too much air conditioning in that theater showing the sequel to a favorite flick. Planning a few anchor events for a weekend guarantees you pleasure because—even if all goes wrong in the moment—you still will have derived some pleasure from the anticipation. I love spontaneity and embrace it when it happens, but I cannot bank my pleasure solely on it. If you wait until Saturday morning to make your plans for the weekend, you will spend a chunk of your Saturday working on such plans, rather than anticipating your fun. Hitting the weekend without a plan means you may not get to do what you want. You’ll use up energy in negotiations with other family members. You’ll start late and the museum will close when you’ve only been there an hour. Your favorite restaurant will be booked up—and even if, miraculously, you score a table, think of how much more you would have enjoyed the last few days knowing that you’d be eating those seared scallops on Saturday night!

•​Offering gratitude •​Recording and tending to dreams •​Fresh air and sunshine •​Smiling at a stranger •​Gardening •​Beauty, flowers, color, trees •​Sitting near a body of water, or immersing yourself in one •​Walking and talking with a close friend •​Taking the long way home •​Meandering •​Encountering a wild animal •​Pets •​Reading a poem, and writing one •​Drawing, painting, writing, dancing, singing, chanting •​Being in nature •​Autumn colors, snowfall, spring buds •​Walking in the rain •​Talking to the moon •​Looking at the stars •​Listening to crickets •​Candlelight •​Baths •​Stillness, silence, and solitude •​Doing less and being more •​Being in silence •​Meaningful rituals

In contrast to most cultures’ nurturing, peaceful take on childbirth, Aztecs viewed labour as a war. Pregnant women were warriors, readied to take on a bloody battle by their sergeants-at-arms, midwives, who prepared them for motherhood in a series of sweat bath rituals. This acceptance of, and preparation for, the visceral process of childbirth was a realistic view – these mothers didn’t bring a child into the world smilingly and serene, they fought hard to keep the baby and themselves alive and healthy. Some historians have even argued that motherhood was established as the blueprint for bravery before Meso-American society required fighters. Women who died during childbirth were considered to be casualties of combat and honoured accordingly.

The spiritual muscles I hadn't used for decades began to acquire some tone, and since they were Catholic muscles too, it was natural to look for a church to work out in. It was hard. Appalling though the predations exacted on the monastic liturgy were, they were nothing compared to the desecration exacted on the secular. Latin was gone entirely, replaced by dull, oppressive, anchorman English, slavishly translated from its sonorous source to be as plain and "direct" as possible. It didn't seem to have occurred to the well-meaning vandals who'd thrown out baby, bath, and bathwater that all ritual is a reaching out to the unknowable and can be accomplished only by the noncognitive: evocation, allusion, metaphor, incantation—the tools of the poet.

If you do not take baths or you tend to take more showers, you can use the same ritual in the shower. Set the water temperature so that it is cool but not cold (just below body temperature). Adjust the showerhead so the water hits you at the base of the skull and the water runs as evenly as possible over the back and front of your body. It is important to ensure that the water runs down the back of the neck because this is where many people tend to develop a lot of tension (in the shoulders). As the water flows, run your hands down your body to bring the excess Fire energy down to your feet. Use the same glowing heating coil visualization as with the bathtub ritual. See the excess Fire energies being soaked up by the water, and flowing with the water down the drain. At the same time, choose one of the litanies given previously and say it aloud with power and authority. Keep repeating the litany until you feel a change in your state. You may feel less physical pain, a lessening of anxiety, or a sense of peace in your mind. If you have a lot of mind chatter and you suddenly notice that your mind is quiet, then you know that the ritual has been effective. At this point, you may stop saying the litany and consider the ritual a success!

She picked through the bits of jewelry, the stud earrings and ruby ring that belonged to their mother, Shirin. There was something almost meditative about this ritual of hers, combing through the photos and small keepsakes, even if she touched on some painful memories. It was as if her fingers were actually tracing the milestones each piece represented. Her hand closed on a smooth, round object, something resembling a marble egg. It was a miniature bar of lotus soap, still in its wrapper, bought on their last trip to the 'hammam'. The public bathhouse had been a favorite spot of theirs, a place the three of them liked to go to on Thursdays, the day before the Iranian weekend. Marjan held the soap to her nose. She took a deep breath, inhaling the downy scent of mornings spent washing and scrubbing with rosewater and lotus products. All at once she heard the laughter once again, the giggles of women making the bathing ritual a party more than anything else. The 'hammam' they had attended those last years in Iran was situated near their apartment in central Tehran. Although not as palatial as the turquoise and golden-domed bathhouse of their childhood, it was still a grand building of hot pools and steamy balconies, a place of gossip and laughter. The women of the neighborhood would gather there weekly to untangle their long hair with tortoiseshell combs and lotus powder, a silky conditioner that left locks gleaming like onyx uncovered. For pocket change, a 'dalak' could be hired by the hour. These bathhouse attendants, matronly and humorous for all their years spent whispering local chatter, would scrub at tired limbs with loofahs and mitts of woven Caspian seaweed. Massages and palm readings accompanied platters of watermelon and hot jasmine tea, the afternoons whiled away with naps and dips in the perfumed aqueducts regulated according to their hot and cold properties.

More than putting another man on the moon, more than a New Year’s resolution of yogurt and yoga, we need the opportunity to dance with really exquisite strangers. A slow dance between the couch and dinning room table, at the end of the party, while the person we love has gone to bring the car around because it’s begun to rain and would break their heart if any part of us got wet. A slow dance to bring the evening home, to knock it out of the park. Two people rocking back and forth like a buoy. Nothing extravagant. A little music. An empty bottle of whiskey. It’s a little like cheating. Your head resting on his shoulder, your breath moving up his neck. Your hands along her spine. Her hips unfolding like a cotton napkin and you begin to think about how all the stars in the sky are dead. The my body is talking to your body slow dance. The Unchained Melody, Stairway to Heaven, power-cord slow dance. All my life I’ve made mistakes. Small and cruel. I made my plans. I never arrived. I ate my food. I drank my wine. The slow dance doesn’t care. It’s all kindness like children before they turn four. Like being held in the arms of my brother. The slow dance of siblings. Two men in the middle of the room. When I dance with him, one of my great loves, he is absolutely human, and when he turns to dip me or I step on his foot because we are both leading, I know that one of us will die first and the other will suffer. The slow dance of what’s to come and the slow dance of insomnia pouring across the floor like bath water. When the woman I’m sleeping with stands naked in the bathroom, brushing her teeth, the slow dance of ritual is being spit into the sink. There is no one to save us because there is no need to be saved. I’ve hurt you. I’ve loved you. I’ve mowed the front yard. When the stranger wearing a shear white dress covered in a million beads comes toward me like an over-sexed chandelier suddenly come to life, I take her hand in mine. I spin her out and bring her in. This is the almond grove in the dark slow dance. It is what we should be doing right now. Scrapping for joy. The haiku and honey. The orange and orangutan slow dance.

Stick to a sleep schedule. Go to bed and wake up at the same time each day. As creatures of habit, people have a hard time adjusting to changes in sleep patterns. Sleeping later on weekends won’t fully make up for a lack of sleep during the week and will make it harder to wake up early on Monday morning. Set an alarm for bedtime. Often we set an alarm for when it’s time to wake up but fail to do so for when it’s time to go to sleep. If there is only one piece of advice you remember and take from these twelve tips, this should be it. Exercise is great, but not too late in the day. Try to exercise at least thirty minutes on most days but not later than two to three hours before your bedtime. Avoid caffeine and nicotine. Coffee, colas, certain teas, and chocolate contain the stimulant caffeine, and its effects can take as long as eight hours to wear off fully. Therefore, a cup of coffee in the late afternoon can make it hard for you to fall asleep at night. Nicotine is also a stimulant, often causing smokers to sleep only very lightly. In addition, smokers often wake up too early in the morning because of nicotine withdrawal. Avoid alcoholic drinks before bed. Having a nightcap or alcoholic beverage before sleep may help you relax, but heavy use robs you of REM sleep, keeping you in the lighter stages of sleep. Heavy alcohol ingestion also may contribute to impairment in breathing at night. You also tend to wake up in the middle of the night when the effects of the alcohol have worn off. Avoid large meals and beverages late at night. A light snack is okay, but a large meal can cause indigestion, which interferes with sleep. Drinking too many fluids at night can cause frequent awakenings to urinate. If possible, avoid medicines that delay or disrupt your sleep. Some commonly prescribed heart, blood pressure, or asthma medications, as well as some over-the-counter and herbal remedies for coughs, colds, or allergies, can disrupt sleep patterns. If you have trouble sleeping, talk to your health care provider or pharmacist to see whether any drugs you’re taking might be contributing to your insomnia and ask whether they can be taken at other times during the day or early in the evening. Don’t take naps after 3 p.m. Naps can help make up for lost sleep, but late afternoon naps can make it harder to fall asleep at night. Relax before bed. Don’t overschedule your day so that no time is left for unwinding. A relaxing activity, such as reading or listening to music, should be part of your bedtime ritual. Take a hot bath before bed. The drop in body temperature after getting out of the bath may help you feel sleepy, and the bath can help you relax and slow down so you’re more ready to sleep. Dark bedroom, cool bedroom, gadget-free bedroom. Get rid of anything in your bedroom that might distract you from sleep, such as noises, bright lights, an uncomfortable bed, or warm temperatures. You sleep better if the temperature in the room is kept on the cool side. A TV, cell phone, or computer in the bedroom can be a distraction and deprive you of needed sleep. Having a comfortable mattress and pillow can help promote a good night’s sleep. Individuals who have insomnia often watch the clock. Turn the clock’s face out of view so you don’t worry about the time while trying to fall asleep. Have the right sunlight exposure. Daylight is key to regulating daily sleep patterns. Try to get outside in natural sunlight for at least thirty minutes each day. If possible, wake up with the sun or use very bright lights in the morning. Sleep experts recommend that, if you have problems falling asleep, you should get an hour of exposure to morning sunlight and turn down the lights before bedtime. Don’t lie in bed awake. If you find yourself still awake after staying in bed for more than twenty minutes or if you are starting to feel anxious or worried, get up and do some relaxing activity until you feel sleepy.

Bringing her thoughts back to the present, Daisy decided to regain Matthew’s attention. “Of course,” she said casually, “we don’t have to have a wedding ceremony at all. We can simply adhere to the classic marriage-by-purchase. Give my father a cow, and we’ll be done with it. Or perhaps we’ll do a handfasting ritual. Of course, there’s always the ancient Greek practice in which I would cut off all my hair as a sacrifice and dedicate it to Artemis, followed by a ritual bath in a sacred spring—” Suddenly Daisy found herself flat on her back, the sky partially blocked by Matthew’s dark form. She let out a gasp of laughter at the suddenness with which he had thrown aside his fishing rod and pounced on her. His blue eyes gleamed with mischief. “I would consider the cow exchange or the handfasting,” he said. “But I draw the line at marrying a hairless bride.” Daisy relished the weight of him pressing her back against the spongy grass, the scents of earth and herbs all around them. “What about the ritual bath?” she asked. “That you can do. In fact…” His long fingers reached for the buttons at the front of her dress. “…I think you should practice. I’ll help you.

Most radical of all in their scepticism were the Cynics. From Diogenes until the last ‘dogs’ of the ancient world, the Cynics defined themselves first by ‘snarling’ at the institutions, rituals, beliefs and assumptions by which their contemporaries lived. To list their different acts of critique would be to compose a long priamel: ‘Not this, not that, and definitely not that’, says the Cynic in his scorn for all things merely conventional. In his seemingly universal nay-saying, the Cynic avoids traditional clothes, jewellery and bodily adornments for his own ‘uniform’; he restricts his diet; does not live in a house; derides bathing, sports, the Games; scoffs at festivals, sacrifice, prayer and religious life generally; does not marry, dodges work and steers clear of the courts, assembly, army and other arenas of political participation. He even strives to bust out of old patterns of talking, and tosses up for himself a wild new language.

loving, instead of depleting and effortful. Some pussification practices have become daily rituals. I take a bath instead of a shower because it makes me feel more relaxed and beautiful. I use lavender-scented Epsom salts because they smell nicer than the plain ones. After the bath I use coconut oil on my skin; it smells beautiful and nourishes the skin deeply.

It is recorded that Tipu made all his troops, Hindu and Muslim, take ritual baths in holy rivers ‘by the advice of his [Brahmin] augurs’ in order to wash away cowardice and make them superior in battle to the Marathas. Tipu also strongly believed in the supernatural powers of holy men, both Hindu and Muslim. As he wrote in 1793 to the Swami of Sringeri: ‘You are the Jagatguru,

How astonishing that being bathed in rays of light from a 4.6-billion-year-old mass of hydrogen and helium located 93 million miles away can make us feel happy?

Anti-Semitism was nothing new to him. He’d grown up a good ole boy in Gainesville, where there was little direct contact with Jews but still a lot of prejudice. The locals regarded decadent Miami as a pinko watering hole for kikes, spics, and niggers.

New York, in the late nineteenth century, was also an astonishingly dirty city for a variety of reasons. Only about half of New York’s families had bathrooms; the rest were served by outhouses. The Saturday-night bath had become a national ritual, but brushing one’s teeth was unheard of. By 1885, some 250,000 horses—pulling carts, carriages, trolleys and public omnibuses—jammed New York’s streets.

Leaning her head back, she began her nightly ritual, wringing the rag to trickle the scented water along her throat and over her breasts. In summer, the customary week between tub baths seemed like an eternity. Running the cloth slowly over her body, she closed her eyes. Lands, it was so hot. A female could cook in this country, wearing al those clothes. She had finished bathing and was rinsing her drawers in the leftover water when a coyote wailed. She poked her head out the window to watch the full moon. A wisp of cloud drifted across the moon’s milky face, casting ghostly shadows on the ground. A Comanche moon. Uncle Henry said it was called that because the Indians often raided on moonlit nights. Good light to murder by, she guessed. Comanches. She backed from the window and clasped her soppy bloomers to her chest. Was she insane, flitting around naked? “Loretta Jane Simpson!” Henry yelled. “Damn, girl, you’re pourin’ water through the ceilin’ like it’s a bloomin’ sieve!” Leaping back to the window, Loretta knocked the bowl over as she held her underwear out the opening. Oh, blast! She watched the bowl go bumpety-bump down the bark slabs. And stop. Right at the edge of the roof. “What in hell?” Footsteps thumped. “Quiet it down up there, or I’ll come up and shush you good.” Loretta swallowed. The pitch of the roof was steep. How could she retrieve the bowl without telling Henry? He’d be a wretch about it. She just knew he would. Amy moaned and murmured. Tomorrow, she’d find a way to get the bowl tomorrow.

When Balzac was working, his writing schedule was brutal: He ate a light dinner at 6:00 P.M., then went to bed. At 1:00 A.M. he rose and sat down at his writing table for a seven-hour stretch of work. At 8:00 A.M. he allowed himself a ninety-minute nap; then, from 9:30 to 4:00, he resumed work, drinking cup after cup of black coffee. (According to one estimate, he drank as many as fifty cups a day.) At 4:00 P.M. Balzac took a walk, had a bath, and received visitors until 6:00, when the cycle started all over again.

A particularly elaborate version of such an aswamedha is commemorated in the heart of Varanasi (Benares), otherwise the City of Lord Shiva and the holiest place of pilgrimage in northern India. Legend has it that Shiva, while temporarily dispossessed of his beloved city, hit on the idea of regaining it by imposing on its incumbent king a quite impossible ritual challenge, namely the performance of ten simultaneous horse-sacrifices. The chances of all ten passing off without mishap could be safely discounted and thus the king, disgraced in the eyes of both gods and men, would be obliged to relinquish the city. So Lord Shiva reasoned and, just to make sure, he also arranged for Lord Brahma, a stickler for the niceties of ceremonial performance, to referee the challenge. Shiva failed, however, to take account of King Divodasa’s quite exceptional piety and punctiliousness. All ten aswamedha were faultlessly performed. The king thereby gained untold merit and favour; Brahma was so impressed that he decided to stay on in the city; and Shiva slunk away to fume and fret and dream up ever more ambitious schemes to recover his capital. Thus to this day, when approaching the celebrated river-front at Varanasi, pilgrims and tourists alike get their first glimpse of the Ganga and of the steep ghats (terracing) which front it from ‘Dashashwamedh’ ghat, the place of ‘the ten horse-sacrifices’. And the merit of this extraordinary feat, it is said, continues to attend all who here bathe in the sacred river.

Alone at last, Rina stood up, stretched, and glanced at her watch again. Her own boys were still at the Computer Club. Steve would walk them home to a waiting baby-sitter so there was no need to rush. She could take her time. Removing her shoes, she rubbed her feet, slipped them into knitted socks and shuffled along the gleaming white tile. Loaded down with a bucket full of soapy water, a handful of rags, and a pail of supplies, she entered the hallway leading to the two bathrooms.

Her hand closed on a smooth, round object, something resembling a marble egg. It was a miniature bar of lotus soap, still in its wrapper, bought on their last trip to the 'hammam'. The public bathhouse had been a favorite spot of theirs, a place the three of them liked to go to on Thursdays, the day before the Iranian weekend. Marian held the soap to her nose. She took a deep breath, inhaling the downy scent of mornings spent washing and scrubbing with rosewater and lotus products. All at once she heard the laughter once again, the giggles of women making the bathing ritual a party more than anything else. The 'hammam' they had attended those last years in Iran was situated near their apartment in central Tehran. Although not as palatial as the turquoise and golden-domed bathhouse of their childhood, it was still a grand building of hot pools and steamy balconies, a place of gossip and laughter. The women of the neighborhood would gather there weekly to untangle their long hair with tortoiseshell combs and lotus powder, a silky conditioner that left locks gleaming like onyx uncovered. For pocket change, a 'dalak' could be hired by the hour. These bathhouse attendants, matronly and humorous for all their years spent whispering local chatter, would scrub at tired limbs with loofahs and mitts of woven Caspian seaweed. Massages and palm readings accompanied platters of watermelon and hot jasmine tea, the afternoons whiled away with naps and dips in the perfumed aqueducts regulated according to their hot and cold properties.

West was struck by how natural and affectionate their interaction was. Clearly this was not the usual upper-class arrangement in which a child was raised by the servants and seldom seen or heard by his mother. Phoebe’s sons meant everything to her. Any candidate for her next husband would have to be ideal father material: wholesome, respectable, and wise. God knew that left him out of the running. That life—of being Phoebe’s husband, father to her children—was ready-made for someone else. A man who deserved the right to live with her in intimacy and watch her nightly feminine rituals of bathing, slipping on a nightgown, brushing out her hair. He alone would take her to bed, make love to her, and hold her while she slept. Someone out there was destined for all of that. Whoever he was, West hated the bastard.

Your life would have been very different if you'd been raised here." "How so?" "Well, for starters, you would have been given two very specific names. The first would be an official name that ended in -nomiya. It means imperial member." Right. His name. Makotonomiya. "The second would be a personal name. Scholars would have drafted a list of options. I would have picked one, then sent my choice to the emperor. For approval, of course." "Of course." "The emperor would have written your anointed names on washi paper and placed them in a lacquered cypress box with the gold chrysanthemum emblem. The box would have been sent to the palace, then to the hospital and placed on your pillow, right next to your head," he says in a low, warm voice. "After the naming ritual, you would have been bathed in a cedar tub." "That sounds nice." He swirls the liquid in his glass. "A floral emblem would have been chosen for you." My breath makes little clouds. The fireworks are over. Near the pond, fireflies appear, dancing over the water in concentric circles. It's cold. Even so, I'm not ready to go inside yet. "What would you have chosen?" My eyes are as wide as saucers. My heart is open. I want this to work so badly. I want my life to be different. Better. More whole. Superhero epic. "I chose the purple iris." The vase in my room----a single iris. He thought about me. He cares. My eyes sting. I bat my lashes against the tears. If he asks about them, I'll say it's the breeze. "It stands for purity and wisdom.

He’d considered transferring back to Homicide, tired of seeing rape survivors hung up to dry by a fucked-up—and misnamed—justice system. At least with Homicide the victims never had to face the perpetrators.

A rape in Jewtown,” Marge muttered. “I’ve always thought of the place as sacrosanct. Sort of like a convent. Who’d rape a nun?” “Who’d rape, period?” Decker said. “Good point.

Simply this. If God was so sure that righteous Jewish men and women wouldn’t murder, why did He bother with the sixth commandment?

No. She only dates Jews—religious Jews—if she dates at all. Her oldest boy, Sammy, sometimes talks to me. He says she doesn’t go out.

She was pretty pissed at him.” “Goddam fucking people,” Decker muttered. “Stupid bitch. She looks the other way while he’s out raping and beating up other women, but he kicks her precious poodle, and all of a sudden she decides he’s a menace to society.

She was a bitch. They’re all bitches. I’m telling you, they asked me to do it. They begged me.

Kikes!” Macko spit. “I wouldn’t fuck those pieces of shit if they was the last bitches on earth.” Decker’s eyes blurred for a split second. When they refocused, he realized his hand was on the butt of his .38.

Besides, I could never spit in my parents’ faces and suddenly declare myself a Jew, like my ‘real’ parents. It would upset them tremendously.

They ain’t American. They’re all spies for Israel, and they come here to bleed us of all our money and

Theirs was a relationship that could never be. But she couldn’t help her feelings.

Listen. Sarah wore a black wig that could have easily been mistaken for your own hair. You told me she said the rapist went wild after he pulled off the wig. Of course he’d become unglued. At that point he realized that he had the wrong woman.

It just burns me, Rina, that this creep has all the women here suspecting everything in pants. But I guess it’s natural. It must be tough to be a woman, huh?

She said it was because I wasn’t Jewish, but I knew the truth. She was laughing behind my back at me. I know she was. She made me unable to function. They all did. They all laughed at me.

This is our home, Detective Decker. At least until we all make it to the Holy Land. We were not intimidated by vandals. We will not be intimidated by rapists, thieves, or murderers. If the police can’t adequately protect us, we will use our own means.

But that was just part of it. Some force was sucking him into this place. He knew he’d be returning here in a professional capacity. And that worried him.

It was cruelly ironic that his brilliant brain cells eventually led to his demise.

It’s those punk kids.” Ruthie Zipperstein grimaced. “They wear those Nazi armbands and the leather pants. Anti-Semites, each and every one of them. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if they were behind what happened at the mikvah.

I would have felt that I nailed his coffin. He was a wonderful person, Peter. A sweet man with a brilliant mind. In some ways he was much more attentive to me than Yitzchak. He would never do anything criminal, Peter. Just as you wouldn’t. It’s not in his makeup.

We know our way of thinking is considered antiquated, as dated as an Edsel. But to me, it has meaning.

don’t think a rich Jew bitch like you would mind makin’ us a little loan, would you? Plenty of bread where this came from. Just gotta spread those nice legs for that rich fucker husband of yours and your

What the fuck is this? Looks like a secret code to me. You some commie spy, rich bitch Hebe lady?

But I know as soon as I pack my bags and step off these grounds, I’m going to get swallowed up by that woman you just met.

You’d rather protect your own, even if he’s a criminal, than trust an outsider who happens to be a cop and, more important, a human being who’s very concerned about your welfare.” “Peter, it’s not that.

Yitzchak was bad enough, but how could He abandon Moshe so cruelly? But her ire was quickly quelled by the immediate guilt that followed whenever she doubted her faith.

They required roughhousing that was just too physically demanding for her. They needed a constant male figure. The boys at the yeshiva were nice, but didn’t provide consistency. She had tried a Jewish Big Brother once, but it hadn’t worked out. It was nearly impossible to get someone who had an understanding of her religious views.

ingest a lot of illicit chemicals. The murder smacks of drug-frenzied adolescence. The dismembered arm and leg, the slit throat. Spaced-out teenage boys who love gore and have low impulse control.

THE SECOND I feel a hurt, I take a loving action and I think, This apple is for you; this bath is to warm you; you are eating this delicious sushi because you deserve it. It’s intentional AF.

I submerged into it like a ritual bath and let it close over my head gladly. I wanted to stop my ears and my eyes and my mouth with it.

Android Girl Just Wants to Have a Baby! The first thing I do when I wake up is run my hands over my body. I like to make sure all my wires are in place. I lotion my silicone shell and snap my hair helmet over my head. I once had a dream I was a real girl, but when I woke up I was still myself in my paleness under the halogen light. The saliva of androids emits a spectral resonance, barely sticky between freshly-gapped teeth. After they made me, the first thing they did was peel the cellophane from my eyes. I blinked once, twice, and cried because that's how you say you are alive before you are given language. They named each of my heartbeats on the oceanic monitor: Guanyin, Yama, Nuwa, Fuxi, Chang'e, Zao-Shen. I listened to them blur into one. The fetus carves for itself a hollowed vector, a fragile wetness. In utero, extension cords are umbilical. Before puberty, I did not know there was such a thing as dishonor. Diss-on- her. This is what they said when I began to drip petrol between my legs. A tension exists between ritual and proof, a fantasy and its execution. Since then, I have been to the emergency room twice. The first time for a suicide attempt, and the second time because my earring was swallowed up by my newly pierced earlobe overnight, and when I woke up, it was tangled in a helix of wires. The idea of dying doesn't scare me but the ocean does. I was once told that fish will swim up my orifices if I am no longer a virgin. Is anyone thinking about erotic magazines when they are not aroused, pubes parted harshly down the center like red seas? My body carries the weight of four hundred eggs. I rise from a weird slumber, let them drip into the bath. This is what I'll leave behind - tiny shards purer than me. I have always been afraid of pregnant women because of their power, and because I don't yet understand what it means to carry something stubborn and blossoming inside of me, screeching towards an exit. The ectoplasm is the telos for the wound. A trance state is induced when salt is poured on it, pixel by pixel. I wish they had made me into an octopus instead, because octopuses die after their eggs hatch and crawl out into the sea, and I want to know what it's like to set something free into the dark unknown and trust it to choose mercy. If you can generate aura in a non-place, then there is no such thing as an authentic origin. In Chinese, the word for mercy translates to my heart hurts for you. They say my heart continues beating even after it is dislocated from my body. The sound of its beating comes from the valves opening and closing like a portal - Guanyin, Yama, Nuwa, Fuxi, Chang'e, Zao-Shen. I first learned about love by watching a sex tape where a girl looks up from performing fellatio and says, show them the sunset. Her boyfriend pans the camera to the sky, which is tinged violet like a bruise. In this moment, the sky displaces her, all digital and hyped, and saturates the scene until it collapses on me too, its transient witness. I move in the space between belly ring and catharsis. That night I have a dream where I am a camgirl, but all I do on screen is wash my laundry. Everybody loves me because I am a real girl doing real girl things. What lives on the border between meditation and oblivion, static and flux, a pomegranate seed and an embryo? I set up my webcam in the corner of the room and play ambient music while I scrub my underwear, letting soap bubbles rise up from the sink, laughing when they overflow on the linoleum floor - my frizzy hair, my pockmarked skin, my face slick with sweat. A body with exit wounds. I ride the bright rails of an animal forgetting. And when I wake up, the sky is a mess of blue.

The Great Bath may have been the site of ritual bathing, similar to the rituals which take place on the Ganges River today.

Reimagining rest looks like so many things. The possibilities are endless and infinite. Rest looks like tapping in and listening to what your body and soul want. It’s extra time while bathing, even an extra ten minutes of concentrated silence. Rest is taking a leisurely walk and dancing. Rest is a tea ritual allowing you to meditate while breathing in each warm sip. Rest is not returning an email immediately and maintaining healthy boundaries. Rest is honoring the boundaries of those you engage with. Rejecting urgency. Rest is detoxing from social media. Rest is listening and healing from individual trauma. Rest is journaling so you can be a witness to your own inner knowing without the energy of others. Rest uplifts and boosts our Spirit, allowing us to know that we are enough, and the care of our souls deserves a role in our healing plans.

Like other eastern tribes, the Cherokee played a ball game similar to lacrosse. Called "the friend or companion of battle," or simply "little brother of war," these stickball games were very rough--there were often broken bones, torn muscles, cuts, and bruises. Elaborate rituals preceded the game. If someone wanted a contest, he gathered his friends and sent a challenge to another town. If the town accepted the challenge, people were selected for various tasks: an elderly man to oversee the game, a person to sing for the players, another to whoop, and a musician for seven women who danced on the seventh night of preparations for the game. The night before the game, players danced together around the fire with their ball sticks, pretending that they were playing. Then they hung up their sticks, went to a brisk stream, and bathed seven times, after which they went to bed. At daybreak, the shaman took them to the creek again. During their preparations the players were not allowed to go near women and they could not eat meat or anything hot or salty. Seven women were chosen to prepare meals of cold bread and a drink of parched cornmeal and water. The men could not be served by women, so boys brought the food to them. During the day the men were scratched with rattlesnake fangs or turkey quills to toughen them for the "little brother of war." The two teams gathered on a large field where goalposts were set up at each end. Players paired off, the referee threw the ball up in the air between the two captains, and a mad scramble ensued. The game was "anything goes," and there was biting, gouging, choking, scratching, twisting arms and legs, and banging each other with the wooden rackets. The object of the game was to carry the ball between the goals twelve times. The first team with twelve wooden pegs stuck in the ground by the shaman won the game. There was no time limit and often the game went on until dark. There was also no time-out or substitution. If a player was injured, he and the opponent with whom he was paired both left the game. Cherokee gathered from throughout the mountains to watch and bet on these hotly contested games.

If you feel a slide into sadness or despair coming on, use a few drops of bergamot oil in a ritual bath to sort yourself out!

A criminal court is a very curious place. The seat of a ritual quite as elaborate as any religious one, it lacks in itself any impressiveness or symbolism of architecture. A robed judge in court looks like a catholic bishop would if he were to celebrate mass in some municipal bath-house. There is nothing to make one aware that here the Real Presence is: the presence of death.

I help her out of the bath after washing her hair and soaping her body for her. I wrap the towel around her before picking her up into my arms. She’s about to pass out. Our little session down in the basement took what little she had left to give. Setting her on the side of the bed, I dry her off a little more, and then she lies down, snuggling into the sheets. “Here.” I hand her two painkillers, knowing her jaw has to be sore along with everything else. I didn’t want to keep her down there for long, considering the position I had her in. She takes them and then hands me her bottle of water. I set it on the nightstand and then crawl in next to her. “Lie on your stomach,” I order. I straddle her back and rub my hands together quickly, warming them up before placing them on her skin. She moans when I start rubbing on her. Maybe a minute goes by before I hear her start softly snoring, but I continue to rub her back, arms,

Evening Ritual Checklist: [ ] Electronic screens off 90 minutes (minimum) before bed  [ ] Stretch and/or bath or shower [ ] Read some fiction [ ] Brush your teeth [ ] Use the bathroom [ ] Journal [ ] Meditation, prayers, or give gratitude [ ] Lay down in bed to sleep [ ]Time to say goodnight Sleep is the secret sauce.

When there are two pianos and you strike an A chord on one, the other will vibrate A too.

Taking a bath or touching a crystal won’t lead to total liberation under real oppression, but in order to care for others, we must first care for ourselves.

Bathing is a basic need, but it doesn’t have to be a forgettable moment in your routine.

The portion of Islam has been given to us through the Sunnah: Worship Rituals i. The Prayer ii. Zakāh and Sadaqah of ‘Īd al-Fitr iii. Fasting and I‘tikāf iv. Hajj and ‘Umrah v. Animal Sacrifice and the Takbīrs during the days of Tashrīq Social Sphere i. Marriage and Divorce and their relevant details ii. Abstention from coitus during the menstrual and the puerperal period Dietary Sphere i. Prohibition of pork, blood, meat of dead animals and animals slaughtered in the name of someone other than Allah ii. Slaughtering in the prescribed manner of tadhkiyah by pronouncing Allah’s name Customs and Etiquette i. Remembering Allah’s name before eating or drinking and using the right hand for eating and drinking ii. Greeting one another with al-Sālamu ‘Alaykum (peace be to you) and responding with Wa ‘Alaykum al-Salām (and peace be to you) iii. Saying al-Hamdulillāh (praise be to Allah) after sneezing and responding to it by saying Yarhamukallāh (may Allah have mercy on you) iv. Keeping moustaches trimmed v. Shaving pubic hair vi. Removing the hairs under the armpits vii. Paring fingernails (cleaning it) viii. Circumcising the male offspring ix. Cleaning the nose, the mouth and the teeth x. Cleaning the body after excretion and urination xi. Bathing after the menstrual and the puerperal periods xii. Ghusl-i Janābah xiii. Bathing the dead before burial xiv. Enshrouding a dead body and preparing it for burial xv. Burying the dead xvi. ‘Īd al-Fitr xvii. ‘Īd al-Adhā

Getting ready on the day of launch takes much longer than you’d think it would, like so many aspects of spaceflight. First I take a final trip to the banya to relax, then go through the preflight enema ritual—our guts shut down in space initially, so the Russians encourage us to get things cleaned out ahead of time. The cosmonauts have their doctors do this, with warm water and rubber hoses, but I opt for the drugstore type in private, which lets me maintain a comfortable friendship with my flight surgeon. I savor a bath in the Jacuzzi tub, then a nap (because our launch is scheduled for 1:42 a.m. local time). When I wake, I take a shower, lingering awhile. I know how much I’ll miss the feeling of water for the next year. The Russian flight surgeon we call “Dr. No” shows up shortly after I’m out of the shower. He is called Dr. No because he gets to decide whether our families can see us once we’re in quarantine. His decisions are arbitrary, sometimes mean-spirited, and absolute. He is here to wipe down our entire bodies with alcohol wipes. The original idea behind the alcohol swab-down was to kill any germs trying to stow away with space travelers, but now it seems like just another ritual. After a champagne toast with senior management and our significant others, we sit in silence for a minute, a Russian tradition before a long trip. As we leave the building, a Russian Orthodox priest will bless us and throw holy water into each of our faces. Every cosmonaut since Yuri Gagarin has gone through each of these steps, so we will go through them, too. I’m not religious, but I always say that when you’re getting ready to be rocketed into space, a blessing can’t hurt.

Unlike the modern church or mosque where participants in the religious ceremony congregate inside the building, in Roman religious observances the rituals generally took place outside in the precinct around the large sacrificial altar.

With time, Ali came to understand many things about the community that employed him. As much as he learned, however, many aspects of Jewish life remained mysterious to him. He knew the Jews sprinkled their prayers throughout the day, and he often observed them pause to mumble a benediction over tea or a piece of bread, but he had only the vaguest grasp of when and why they were obliged to pray. He did not fully understand the purpose of the Sefer Torah, or why it was kept locked away in an ark, and any questions he asked about the ritual baths were met with laughs and bawdy insinuation. The Jews’ most perplexing ritual, however, was their practice of discarding papers in the attic storeroom next to the women’s section.