Tending

What does it mean to tend to humanity? To our own beautiful, enthralling human-ness? When I first considered writing about my journey, I envisioned a small book titled "Restore." This idea came to me shortly after my grandfather passed away, a moment that, along with grief and loss, brought deep clarity and expansiveness. I clearly saw a beautiful parallel between my work in restoration ecology and my commitment to caring for my mental well-being. The form may be different, but the essence is the same—listening, healing, rebuilding.

After that moment, I became focused on the idea of "restoring" humanity and myself. It was one of the reasons I took radical steps to reorient my life and settle in a Zen monastery. I needed time to heal; I was amidst a deep depression, grappling with grief, loss, and uncertainty. But just a few days in, I met a monk who profoundly changed my life. When I explained that I had come to the monastery to "restore" myself, he challenged the term.

“I have a distaste for that word,” he said. “‘Restore,’ ‘transform,’ ‘fix’—these words suggest that something is wrong or bad. They imply that something needs fixing or doesn’t belong, which goes against inclusivity and non-dualism. What if it’s not about ‘getting rid of’ but ‘tending to’? How do we tend to grief, regret, sadness, shame, confusion? And how do we tend to our happiness and joy?”

This perspective welcomed all parts of oneself. It reframed deep reflection and turning towards the shadowed sides of myself not as something I needed to do for my well-being and others, but as something I had the honor of doing. It invited curiosity and wonder. Can we be master gardeners of our minds, not trying to eliminate parts of ourselves but learning to take good care of them? Revel in the wholeness of our being?

This is a wild time to be alive, especially as humans. We are amidst so much chaos and turmoil, violence and division, disembodiment and forgetfulness, but in chaos lies creation. To create a new way of being, we must deeply listen and lay to rest what no longer serves us. We must be courageous and let go of what limits, confines, and defines us, beginning with ourselves. It takes courage, resilience, skillfulness, and humility. Healing is not a one-time thing; it’s an ongoing process, a verb, just like love. It’s beyond our lifetimes...

For this reason, my journal entries, especially in the first three months, took the form of letters to my future child. Inspired by master letter writers such as Rainer Maria Rilke, I found something artfully intimate in letter-writing. Letters encapsulate and transcend time and space. When reading letters, I oscillate between embodying the writer and the receiver, almost as if I’ve become entwined in the conversation and the experience itself. One-way letter writing is interesting, too, as it feels like these words, though materialized, might still be lost. But they are words that needed to be written. Truths spoken. Creativity expressed.

Another truth is, I don’t know if I’ll ever have children of my own to read this letter series. But I do know that there is a child in all of us, a part filled with wonder and curiosity. It’s the part of us that must be spoken to and listened to, the part that can reimagine the world we’re in.

I’ve spent the past eight months tending to an organic garden alongside some incredible human beings. This is a particularly special garden where we grow everything from seed, make homes for pollinators, and spend a lot of time fostering our humanity. So here is my ‘tending’ to human-ness. In it lie the beautiful moments, insights, practices, and challenges encountered along the ever-unfolding path. In any backpacking adventure, it becomes clear that you must drop the heavy stuff and make space for the essentials—what will keep you and those you meet along the way safe and nourished? I view life like this too—all these experiences and practices are little medicines to stash in my imaginary backpack.

What I share is innately intimate yet universal. It’s a tribute to my ancestors, a dedication to those to come, and an invitation for us all to approach our human experience with utmost curiosity, each moment offering something interesting. The real trick is whether we are present for life, open to the poetry within us. Can we revel in our humanity while honoring the light within each of us? Can we let go of being ‘something’ or ‘someone’ so that we can be anything, everything? Can we dare to live beyond the timeline of our own heartbeats?

Listen however you may like—as yourself, as me, as my child, or as yourself as a child. I hope it inspires authentic curiosity, tenderness, hope, and connection, but most importantly, a sense of absolute wholeness.