The good, hard work of being human
There is a word that keeps coming to me again and again: tending. Ten years ago I would have run from the idea of it. Now, I lean in.
I’ve been using these winter months as a time to truly slow down. Allowing myself to move a little slower, linger a little longer, and nurture myself a little more.
In the mornings, I take time to carefully wash the plastic storage bags (just like my grandmother used to do) and the containers that, no matter how hard we try to do without, still find their way into our daily lives. They gather around my kitchen sink, waiting to be cleaned so they can be used again or sent to the recycler rather than the garbage. It is not a glamorous practice. It is one that takes time and a little wrestling in the moment in order to do. It is, however, an act of stewardship and a small move toward a different way.
I am tending to my inner soil—doing the things that can be left undone. And slowly, I am learning to find joy in the tending itself.
As I slow down and settle into the work of tending, I feel my energy become more synchronized with the earth. My mind begins to shift from wanting and striving to simply being. In that space, I start to feel small sparks of inspiration arise. I start to understand what it means to tend the ancient cook fire.
In a culture shaped by excess and urgency, tending feels like a lost art. The lost art of being human. For me, tending has become a welcome place. It brings me back to the earth, back to humanity, and to the ancient, ordinary work of caring for what has been entrusted to us—our bodies, our homes, our communities, and our planet.
Tending reminds me that care is not a grand gesture, but a daily return. It is a soft, steady commitment to stay with the parts of life that are mundane, and a reminder that these parts can be beautiful too, if we allow them in.
My heart tells me this is the good, hard work of being human: to keep showing up. To keep caring. And to keep tending the small fires of life so they continue to burn.