After many years, I recently rewatched director Michael Hoffman’s The Emperor’s Club, starring Kevin Kline as the erudite Mr. Hundert, and a young Emile Hirsch as the potentially brilliant but morally compromised Sedgewick Bell. While this is perhaps my favorite “teacher” movie, during this latest rewatch I became fixated not on Kevin Kline’s inspiring lectures on the death of Pompey or his impassioned defense of Brutus, but rather on what is some ways was a throw away line at the very start of the film:
“Days that begin with rowing on a lake are better than days that do not.”
Later in the movie there is a brief callback to this line in the form of a brief vignette with no dialogue. It is just Mr. Hundert rowing in the early morning of a beautiful fall day, a moment of peace before the chaos of the day ahead. This was his ritual, a ritual that helped focus his mind and ease his soul. This made me think about my own rituals, past and current, which have provided, and in some cases continue to provide, similar feelings of ease and comfort.
Like Mr. Hundert, I too enjoy the early morning. It is quiet, peaceful, and possesses a feeling of potential. I love the chill of an autumn morning just as much as the warmth of a summer one. And though I am not one to row on the lake, I used to love walking my German Shepard, Isis, before most the neighborhood was awake. Just me and my big eared, gentle giant making our way down the street and into the woods that run adjacent to our house.
She was not a well trained dog by any stretch. She destroyed rugs, ate floors and windowsills, and barked incessantly when company was over, but she was supremely loyal to me and was, in a very real sense, one of my best friends. For all her faults, she was great walking off leash in the woods, and when she tried to chase a deer or a squirrel, all it took was a simple clicking noise from my tongue or a whistle and she would immediately stop and return to my side. This made our morning walks - our small ritual we would perform together - all the more sacred.
When her health declined to the point that it was time to say goodbye, we had the vet come to our house in order to spare her what would be a physically painful ride - that and she really hated the car. As the vet gave her the medication and her body went limp, true to form and character, she let out one final bark and growl, tried to get up, and gave me one last kiss. Then she was gone.
The next morning I went for a morning walk without her for the first time. I realized that particular ritual had come to an end.
I can still walk in the woods, but just not at time particular time of day.