On figuring out how to be excessively gentle

February 1, 2026

And the rituals that keep me from capsizing

There are many things that I practice (attend to rather)—momentary practices that have the capacity to instantaneously shift my mood or perspective. Early on they were deliberate, while now many have become an inseparable part of my day. Now a habit, a personal vernacular, a way of showing up for myself. And even in the event of the inevitable capsize, I remain buoyant.

• Upon waking I scrape my tongue, brush my teeth, and then while rinsing my mouth, I splash cold water on my face, with eyes wide open. Sometimes the most banal acts are the ones that I find the most profound, cooling, cleansing, and deeply penetrating. They transition me from dream time to wakefulness. I say this now in retrospect. I started these practices in my twenties and now can’t imagine a day without.

• While out walking I pay particularly close attention to the wind moving through the dried cottonwood leaves. Even though it’s winter, many of the leaves remain attached. As brittle above as they are below, I delight in the crumbling underfoot and aerial rattling. It’s a playful cacophony. A language I’m intent to learn.

• Feeling the vibration of Nala’s purr reverb into my own chest. I hold her close and listen. She is one of my cats and loves, particularly in the afternoons, crawling up into the crook of my neck. I’m always humbled how this clear and direct form of love melts me to the core.

• Catching the scent of yesterday’s incense (Shoyeido Horikawa River Path) as I walk past the dining room credenza. Even when extinguished, it has a way of embedding itself into wood and cloth. Overlaying itself into my memory.

• Walking in the foothills and pausing to absorb, perhaps even harvest, the ripe exude of piñon. Its pitch is extremely sticky while having the most divine aroma. It also makes a fine fire starter. With reverence, artifacts from the wild find their way home with me either slipped into a pocket or folded in a scrap of paper, my grateful hand holding treasure.

• Answering the call when I hear them and quickly slip outside. I pull up the chair, shield my eyes from the sun and listen to the two dancing northern flickers atop the utility pole. They sing back and forth something magical—courting, playing. Maybe a feather will fall to add to my sunhat.

There are more. And what holds true for all of these micro rituals is how they offer pinholes of light and energy to flow into my being. Everything from the food I choose to my surroundings to the relationships I cherish, are in a sense forms of nutrition.

This may sound dramatic, but they’re also a bulwark to a collective loss in domestic and local reverence. The more I’m able to remain close to the sensory experiences of life, immersing myself into these elements, the less likely I feel emotionally unstable, distracted, or have that chronic, impulsive desire to reach for my phone.

I recall the final lines in the short essay The Parable of the Cave or: In Praise of Watercolors, by Mary Gordon in Janet Sternburg’s The Writer on Her Work, “I don’t know what the nature of the universe is, but I have a good ear. What it hears best are daily rhythms, for that is what I value…”

What do you have an ear for? How do you nourish yourself?

Āyurveda has a poetic way of describing this as it relates to the process of nutrition. Imagine a field in need of water. First the farmer must irrigate, so she opens the gate in order for the water to flow. As the field slowly floods khale kapota nyāya follows—a process of selection. The translation in this case is interesting to highlight as kapota means pigeon. The pigeon flies down from its perch and selects the most optimal elements for them and their young. The landscape flourishes, matures, and eventually transforms. Digestion is a transformative process and, while often confined to our bellies, it’s happening at every level and with all of the senses.

Take refuge in your senses, open up
To all the small miracles you rushed through.

Become inclined to watch the way of rain
When it falls slow and free.

~ John O’Donohue excerpt from For One Who is Exhausted, A Blessing

Even in this wonderfully sensual life with all that can pique my interest I’ll forget to listen. I allow myself to be distracted. Easily. Yet I always seem to circle back. Or pull myself up. It’s these little things that, when focused on intently, expand and hold power.

—

The surge and arrival of ambivalence

This past month I’ve noticed a rising surge of ambivalence around my work. At times it borders on doom. My sentiment is not not to do it, more like paralysis on its worthiness to circulate or sell when it seems insignificant compared to global and social disruption, displacement, and fear.

How do I share, sell, and market myself when the world seems to be on fire? On fire with hate, confusion, and vice. Why bother? Who needs this? Where is the bridge between social perspective and accountability? When does indulgence become corrosive? Am I just contributing to collective indigestion? I’m still questioning. I have no clear fix. No definitive answer.

Again, the form my solution takes are these small yet deliberate rituals for stillness of mind and presence of spirit. Solace.

I took refuge in these words.

“One might ask though — is this the time when artists sell their work and what does that look like? I would like to vote yes. Not from some moral standpoint or a deeply researched angle. But from my own desires as a consumer and artist.

I want to see you sell your paintings so you can pay your bills and so people who are really fucking sad have a painting to look at. I want to buy your knitwear pattern so I can knit my girlfriend a scarf that keeps her warm and gives me something to do with my hands when the grief is too much.

I want you to sell your courses so that we may be in community with each other, not navigating the hellscape alone. I want us to touch in with your herbs and your medicine and your psychic magic and your tarot readings because when we know ourselves better, we can fight like hell together.” (Cody Cook-Parrott)

Now may you, my dear pigeon, select what nourishes you. Remember that everything you taste, touch, smell, listen to, witness—all of it, in some form or another is your social, cultural, spiritual, and psychic nutrition. Take notice. It’s not for me to determine its usefulness or value. I’m simply flooding the field.

Yours, Erin