#ritual

#ritual

I grew up in a very religious, Christian family where Sunday's activities were predetermined and strictly enforced. Like many of my generation, come Sunday, our parents faithfully saw that we were dressed in our best attire and dutifully marched to church like preprogrammed automatons. With unblinking obedience, we reenacted this liturgy-week after week, year after unrelenting year-seemingly ad infinitum. Growing into adolescence, however, my mind began to fill with questions-many of them-but one upstaged the rest: "What was the purpose of our never ending churchgoing?"

She set a match to the candle wick. It casts a circular glow in the room. The glasses sparkle, the silver cutlery glimmers. Everything is in its place, but she can't help straightening a fork, adjusting a champagne flute. Her stomach flutters with a year's-worth of expectation. she glance in the mirror, its tarnish softened by the light, How many years? She can't believe 100. She takes her seat at the head of the table. "Is everybody here?" "Then let's begin." She says. She raises her champagne glass to the empty room.

For "The Cortège" approaches a difficult subject matter with an imaginative question: What if we explore grief not with isolation or solemness, but with wonder? It's a prompt that's ripe for an era of divisive politics, financial stress and often isolating technology. Beginning at twilight and extending into the evening, "The Cortège" starts with an overture, a six-piece band performing in the center of the field. We're seated either on the grass on portable pads with backs or in folding chairs on an elevated platform.

For the past decade, she's had one goal to dedicate herself to, and when the time comes, she'll know immediately whether she's succeeded or failed.