Ragged and Loved: What Care Looks Like.

On the shelf nearby sits my Raggedy Andy figurine. My older sister gave him to me when I was little, and he's been with me ever since, through my childhood bedroom, college, three apartments, three houses. Somewhere along the way, one foot broke.

Earlier this year, when my mom was visiting me, she helped me patch it, and we left the repair visible with a swollen cast and a little Band-Aid. I joke about it now. He’s ragged, obvious, and oddly perfect to me.

Then, over the summer, someone bumped into him and he fell again. He’s so lightweight that it doesn’t take much to knock him over. The back of his head cracked. I screamed, then immediately thought, “My mother is going to kill me for knocking him over.”

I was busy and didn’t have the time or patience to glue him right away, so I put the pieces back together and left him like that. Days turned into weeks. Last weekend, I finally sat down and glued him back together. I held the pieces in my hands and pressed them into place, careful not to rush. When I stepped back, he looked whole again, but not untouched. The crack was still part of his story, and it made me smile to see him finally settled, repaired, and still unmistakably himself.

These small moments have shown me a new perspective. Worn edges, visible fixes, and touched places make something enduring, not diminished. Imperfection isn't something to hide; it's what makes a thing, or a person, worth keeping.

The Japanese have a word for this: wabi-sabi, the practice of finding beauty in what's imperfect, impermanent, and incomplete. I didn't know the term then, but I was learning to live it, in the way I kept the broken things, in the way I let them stay visible, in the way I learned not to treat damage like the end of something.

He'll probably fall again someday, a doorway, a shelf, a careless elbow. When he does, I won't rush to fix him. I'll let the pieces sit for as long as they need to, and glue him back together when I'm ready, not before. That's the tending part: not getting it right once, but being willing to do it again.

Gathering

Photo by Pauline

Once, I sat by my window, sharing my worries and watching a sunflower turn its face to the sun. Its gentle movement calmed me. I felt weighed down by chores and plans, wanting time alone. The sunflower slowly turned toward the light, reminding me not to rush.

I realized I could get things done, relax in the garden, and still enjoy dinner with friends. The day felt more manageable, not because anything changed, but because I did.The sunflowers I planted burst forth in buttery yellows, deep golds, and rusty reds. Birds and squirrels feasted on the seeds, and I welcomed them. The garden felt generous and alive, a reminder that abundance is meant to be shared.

My students planted flowers, vegetables, and milkweed, eagerly watching for new buds, bees, and chrysalises. AJ noticed everything. He studied new buds, measured stem growth, and searched for caterpillars and chrysalises. When bees and birds visited the small blue flowers, he ran to tell us.

I wonder what AJ was really watching for. Was he simply noticing the garden’s changes, or was he waiting for the next sign of life, growth, and becoming? 

Maybe that’s what I’m watching for too. I imagine my heart as a sunflower, holding a steady sun. I let that light touch others with a smile, a door held open, or an invitation to the garden.

I can’t always solve struggles, but I can meet them with presence and care, like a sunflower turning toward the sun. Sometimes, that’s enough.

Years later, I return to the garden when I need to remember this. One foggy morning, I watched the sun rise as birds stirred and the earth warmed. I breathed in the quiet and felt softened.

I realized I still learn to release the need to fix everything at once. I still hurry, fill my days with tasks, and forget to pause. But now I know the way back. I can step outside, focus on something living, and let its presence bring me into the moment.

The return is rarely dramatic. It might be watering a plant, holding a door, sharing a bench, or noticing a new bud. These small acts remind me that care is a rhythm, not a single decision. I turn toward what gives me life, repeat it, and become more rooted, open, and willing to share my light.

Turn toward what gives you life, again and again. Let your sunflower heart guide you.

What the Hammock Taught Me

Photo by Alice Triquet on Unsplash

I remember sinking into the hammock with a book, sometimes drifting off, or lost in the sound of birds chirping, leaves rustling. Nothing to reach for. Nothing to finish.

The slow pace was natural, like the air. I’d catch myself thinking, “I read two books.” Part of me wanted to downplay it, as if
rest needed to be earned to count, but even that small noticing mattered. Awareness doesn’t ask to be impressive. It only asks to be noticed.

Nature surrounded me, and I let it. I breathed in the trees, smelled the lake, and simply being outside slowed me without effort. I didn’t scroll. I let most things wait. Three emails mattered. Everything else could simply be.

One afternoon, I found a cozy spot by the window, mountains ahead, the lake catching light, the trees framing it like something being held rather than owned. I took a bite of salmon, and let myself stay there, in that one bite, before reaching for the next. The birds moved. The water moved. I did not.

Forty-five minutes passed before I noticed time at all. I woke when I woke. I showed up fully to yoga, to qigong, not performing presence, just being in it. The real teaching wasn’t a lesson I could carry home and repeat. It was quieter than that: eat slowly. Notice what’s already here. Listen to birds, to rain, to the space between one moment and the next.

At Kripalu, slowness wasn’t something I practiced. It simply arrived, the way breath arrives, unbidden. I didn’t build it. I received it.

Now that I’m home, slowness asks something different of me. It isn’t given here, it has to be chosen, again and again. Some mornings I hear the birds and sit down with my food like I mean it. Other mornings, the noise gets in first, and I eat without noticing. I begin again. It stings a little, that presence doesn’t stay on its own the way it did there, but perhaps that’s the practice itself: not staying present forever, just returning, endlessly, to now.

I don’t know if this will still be true in October. But I remember what it felt like when slowness came without asking. So I keep listening for it here, not chasing it, just leaving room for it to arrive again.