What makes a ritual feel real?

I was cleaning out an old shoebox last night—just random ticket stubs, dried-up pens, a photo of someone I don’t remember—and suddenly it felt sacred. Like the act of holding those things mattered more than what they were. I keep thinking about how we build meaning in small gestures: lighting a candle, folding laundry with care, saying the same joke to the same audience every week. Is it the repetition? The intention? Or just that no one’s watching? I don’t know. But I want to believe it’s the quiet moments that hold the weight.