The magic of quiet ritual

There is a particular kind of magic in ritual. Not the glittery, wand-waving kind, but the quiet, grounding kind. The kind that slips in when the day exhales and the sky softens into shades of lavender and ash. It’s in this in-between space, twilight, that I love walking the most. Not for fitness or errands but for ritual, for rhythm. For remembering that I’m more than my to-do list.

Twilight walks have become a kind of ceremony. I don’t track steps or set goals. I try to fully immerse myself in my surroundings. I take notice. The fox that darts across the path. The hush that settles over the trees. The way the air shifts and the wind sighs. It’s like a form of meditation.

And it’s not the only ritual I practice.

I colour-code my bookshelves, not because it’s practical (it’s absolutely not, finding a specific title can be like a scavenger hunt), but because it brings me joy. It turns my collection into a visual poem. A mood board of memory and meaning. A way of saying: these stories matter and so does how I take time to arrange them.

There’s something soothing about the process. Pulling each book off the shelf, flipping through pages I’ve highlighted or annotated, remembering where I was, how I was feeling, when I first read it. It’s introspective. A ritual that slows me down and invites me to reflect, on the books themselves, but also on the person I was when I chose them.

I light candles when I write, not for ambience, but for intention. I shuffle tarot cards when I feel stuck, not to predict the future, but to prompt reflection. Not to guide my decisions, but to gain perspective. These small rituals hold weight. They anchor me when the world feels chaotic; in a culture that prizes productivity and constant motion.

I’ve come to see ritual as resistance. As a way of saying: I’m here. I’m whole. And I’m worthy of these moments that are only for me. Rituals also remind me that healing isn’t always loud. It can be quiet, repetitive, even mundane. It can live in the way we prepare tea, arrange flowers or choose a book to reread. It’s about intention. About choosing joy, especially in small, deliberate ways.

There is a particular kind of magic in repetition. In doing something not because you have to, but because it makes you feel more like yourself. Whether it’s walking the same path at dusk, brewing the same tea each morning, or arranging books by hue, these acts become a kind of language. A way of communicating with the self. Of honouring the ordinary.

And maybe that’s the point. That joy doesn’t always come from grand gestures or big wins. Sometimes it lives in the quiet corners. In the rituals we create. In the shelves we colour-code. In the stories we return to, again and again. These are the things that make life feel textured. Personal. Alive. And in a world that often asks us to be efficient, strategic and endlessly productive, choosing joy, especially in small, intentional ways, is a radical act.