By Robbie Shell
Nov. 14, 2023
The first piece of advice I got when I retired was from a friend who had made the move five years earlier. “Don’t underestimate the importance of rituals.”
I was skeptical. In thinking about how I could ease the path into retirement, rituals didn’t seem to be part of the answer.
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To me, rituals were daily or weekly routines that organized time efficiently with the goal of simply getting jobs done and checking off a box. My early trips on Saturday mornings to the local farmers market to buy fruits and vegetables before it got crowded, for instance.
It didn’t take long, though, for me to see what my friend had been getting at. With days that are no longer ruled by tight schedules and deadlines, I came to appreciate the special role that rituals play in my life. They are more than disconnected, recurrent acts. They are the keeper of memories that might otherwise fade away. They anchor people and places that are meaningful to me, and they give structure to days and weeks during a time when it can be increasingly easy to feel adrift.
A weekly coffee
Some of my newfound rituals are grounded in relationships formed since retiring, like the coffee date every Friday with two women I met seven years ago at an adult education French course. We stopped trying to converse in French a month after the course ended. But our weekly coffee was never really about that. With no baggage from past years to deal with, we are free to talk about the present—good books and streaming shows, family issues, health concerns, politics of course, and anything that worries us. What makes it a ritual, and not just a social event, is the care we take with each other and the certitude of knowing that we will be there every week.
Tuesday is my day with Evelyn, a 92-year-old woman I met three years ago through volunteering with a senior-services organization. She lives alone in the small townhouse where she spent her entire life. During my weekly visits, she has shared stories of growing up in an extremely devoted family, one that has had more than its share of tragedy. She is well-versed in family dynamics, informed about the state of the world, and sees no point in complaining about the crippling pain in her back and leg. We have become close in ways I hadn’t expected. She is like an older, honored family member who is always interested in my life, even as I worry about the challenges she faces in her own.
A more frequent ritual involves another relationship closer to home. My husband, who is still working, and I have fallen into the habit of holding an early post-breakfast meeting every morning (including weekends) to go over our different schedules for the coming hours and inevitably, to debate the latest headlines. Eventually we get to a brief discussion of dinner, the end point that wraps up a day that hasn’t been lived yet but has already been shared. It’s a reassuring start.
My teams
Other rituals that retirement has inspired involve the sports I follow—including my bet every winter with a former colleague that the Philadelphia Flyers hockey team will win the Stanley Cup (they haven’t since 1975). This ritual gives a lighthearted meaning to what has lately been the losing seasons of a hapless team. And it keeps me connected to a colleague I might otherwise lose touch with.
I give more energy to the rituals around our pro-football team. With more time in retirement for leisurely nights and afternoons of watching football, I celebrate the Philadelphia Eagles every game by singing along with the team’s fight song, “Fly, Eagles Fly,” from my chair in front of the TV, and draping my scarf from their 2018 Super Bowl win on the back of my seat. It makes me feel like a part of the great Philadelphia sports network, both famous and infamous for its maniacal devotion to the hometown teams. I belong to that great river of fandom that flows through the city and beyond, buoyed by a sense of hope that this will be a championship year.
Perhaps most meaningful to me has been recommitting to rituals carried over from my preretirement years. On Christmas Day, my family shares a specific tradition passed on to us by my older son’s godfather, Simon. The ingredients include a loaf of French bread, soft butter, Stilton cheese and a bottle of Port.
It’s a rich, memorable combination that brings Simon, who died five years ago, back into our lives. I see him vividly, remembering his endless storytelling and the wisdom he offered from his years as a psychiatrist and then, at age 50, his return to medical school so that he could be the family doctor for generations of men and women in the military. He was a godfather in the truest sense of the word—a mentor to my son, and one of the most caring and constant people in his life. Carrying on this Christmas ritual keeps him there, not just for my son, but for everyone in our family.
Rainbow sherbet
Another annual ritual, one that is taking a brief time out while waiting for new players, centers on the rhymed scavenger hunt I created for my husband and sons every Easter. It always involved one very obscure clue that, once deciphered, led to a pint of rainbow sherbet hidden at the bottom of our freezer. The sherbet wasn’t much of a surprise after a few years, but it was always a highlight of the morning, and I always remember it as a sign that I could make a revered tradition out of a frozen, multicolored treat. We are no longer all together on Easter, but when my grandchildren get older, I fully expect rainbow sherbet to regain its place in the hunt. Some rituals are born to be generational.
And then there are the rituals, begun decades ago, that seem trivial, but aren’t. Every few days I sit down and brush my hair 100 strokes. When I was 12, my mother told me I should do this every night, probably in hopes that my hair would be as thick and beautiful as hers. I followed this directive for a while, but over the years gradually started to slip. These days it happens maybe two or three times a week, but always with the full 100 strokes. There are some compromises I won’t make. Whatever the time frame, an image of my mother always comes up as I sit there, hairbrush in hand, thinking back to some of her other dictates, such as I should learn to play the piano so I could be the hit of every party. I ignored that one but brushing is an easy ritual to follow—a warm reminder of her attentiveness during simpler days.
I don’t see rituals becoming less important as I get older. They will continue to be familiar and comforting in the way that turning on the lights every time I enter a dark room is—an assurance that the space is intact and that things still work. Like the lights, I can count on rituals to illuminate the days ahead. If I’m lucky, I might one day see a parade of victorious Flyers hoisting the Stanley Cup on their way past throngs of adoring fans.
Robbie Shell is a writer in Philadelphia. She can be reached at reports@wsj.com.
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