The Bone Broth Ritual

A Return To Centre (When Needed)

Not every day.
Just when I feel it
a softness calling,
a need to come back to myself.

Sometimes before lunch,
when the morning has run long
or I’ve been in my head too much.
Sometimes when my body says:
pause, sip, ground.

Made from beef bones from the local butcher,
bones with marrow, with memory.
Simmered slow with whatever’s in the kitchen:
onion skins, garlic ends, the last of the carrots.
A splash of vinegar. A few peppercorns.
Bay, thyme, sometimes seaweed.

This is not a recipe. It’s a practice.
It begins long before I drink it.

And when the pot is emptied,
the bones go to the dogs.
Part of the cycle.
A quiet offering.
Everyone nourished.

The Ritual

I warm a small bowl never too full.
I sit by the window, or the garden, or the open door.
I wrap my hands around it and breathe in deep.

No phone. No notebook.
Just breath, broth, and the sound of the day.

Sometimes I name a single intention.
Other times, I just sip and listen:
You are allowed to pause.
You are allowed to soften.
You are allowed to begin again.