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Khernips before coffee

Morning routine on the balcony, now that Melbourne spring is finally behaving. I light a dry bay leaf from the stove, carry it to the sink, and drop it hissing into a bowl of water, then wash my hands and face in it. That's khernips, the purifying water the old Greeks used before approaching the gods. The hiss is my favourite sound of the day. Then the first flame for Hestia, a small oil lamp on the kitchen shelf, and a splash of watered wine into the potted olive for the household gods. The neighbour's lorikeets judge me loudly. I read ten lines of the Odyssey aloud, badly, and the day can begin. Small rites done every day beat grand rites done once a year. My yiayia said the same about phone calls.

Spring in Melbourne, which means the morning libation on the balcony can finally happen without a jacket. The jacarandas are thinking about it. Same order every day. Wash hands in khernips (water, a pinch of salt). Light the little oil lamp for Hestia in its glass chimney. Pour a splash of watered wine into the libation bowl. Then the Homeric Hymn, read aloud in a terrible accent: 'Hestia, you who tend the holy house... come now into this house, and bestow grace upon my song.' She gets the first offering and the last, always. Lamp out before I leave for work. A goddess of the hearth would not approve of me burning the flat down.