Many indigenous cultures mark the transition from youth to adulthood by orchestrating initiation rituals where the younger self is ritually killed or destroyed, so that a new and larger self can emerge. These powerful ceremonies often involve psychoactive plants, fasts from food and water, solitary time in the wilderness, physical scarification, and other demanding ordeals.

In our modern American culture, we lack definitive rituals to mark the transition from youth to adulthood, relying instead on the watered-down “sweet sixteen,” prom, bar mitzvah, driver’s license, army draft, and the buying of booze.

Without a clear transition between youth and adulthood, adolescent behavior can easily linger on indefinitely — as evidenced by our cultural obsession with fame, sex, money, material acquisition, and other essentially adolescent pursuits.

When asked in our culture “who are you?” it is customary to rattle off a chronological list of accomplishments — habitually reciting the all-too-familiar life story that keeps our sense of self comfortably (if speciously) intact.

This egoic sense of self is precisely what is targeted by traditional rites of passage, so that participants are forced to go beyond themselves to connect with something universal. As mythologist Joseph Campbell explains:

The tribal ceremonies of birth, initiation, marriage, burial, installation, and so forth, serve to translate the individual’s life-crises and life-deeds into classic, impersonal forms. They disclose him to himself, not as this personality or that, but as the warrior, the bride, the widow, the priest, the chieftain; at the same time rehearsing for the rest of the community the old lesson of the archetypal stages.

In this ritual, I use framing lumber to build a large wooden easel. Late one night, I place it at the edge of the field outside the High Acres Farm barn, lit by twin pairs of halogen work lights, with nine body-length mirrors waiting nearby.

I choose nine different outfits that represent nine distinct identities that defined me to myself and to others over the years.

One at a time, I put these outfits on, approach the mirror, and use my grandfather’s handheld hammer to smash its reflection, before removing the outfit and discarding its constituent elements atop the growing heap.

Once all nine mirrors have been shattered, I light a butane torch with matches and set the pile alight. I sit by the fire as the broken mirrors melt and morph within the flames, the identities mingling together in sparks.