The Small Things That Hold Us
I need to admit something. For years, after the divorce, I stopped seeing the small kindnesses. Not just the ones offered to me, but the ones I could have given. I became a creature of avoidance, mistaking solitude for strength, and silence for peace. I hid in the quiet of my cabin, convinced that accepting a cup of coffee from a neighbor, or letting a stranger hold a door, was a sign of weakness. I thought kindness was for people who had their lives together. People who weren’t shattered. People who didn’t carry the quiet, persistent ache of being unmoored.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be kind. I just couldn’t bear the vulnerability of it. After twenty years in the national parks, I’d learned to read the language of the land – the way a certain bird call signaled a storm, how the angle of sunlight on a mossy rock revealed the time of day. But I’d forgotten how to read the language of people. I’d built walls so thick, so necessary in the immediate aftermath of the breakup, that I couldn’t see the tiny cracks where kindness might seep through. I’d become so focused on my own internal landscape – the jagged edges of grief, the fear of being seen as broken – that I stopped noticing the quiet, steady currents of care flowing around me.
I was walking the other day when I saw it. Not a grand gesture, but a small one. A young woman, maybe twenty, struggling with a heavy backpack and a map at the trailhead. She looked lost, her shoulders hunched against the wind. I’d have walked right past, head down, pretending not to see her, as I’d done countless times before. I’d have told myself I was busy, that I had my own path to follow, that offering help was a distraction from my own pain. But this time, something shifted. Maybe it was the way the late afternoon sun caught the dew on a spiderweb strung between two pines – a fragile, glistening thing holding the light. Or maybe it was the sheer, simple effort it took for her to stand there, map in hand, looking for a way forward. I stopped.
"Can I help with that map?" I asked, my voice rougher than I intended. She looked up, startled, then relief washed over her face. "Oh! Yes, please. I’m trying to find the old fire tower trail." I unfolded the map, tracing the path with my finger. "You’re heading the right way, but you’ll need to take the left fork at the boulder with the red lichen. It’s easy to miss." She nodded, her hands still trembling slightly. "Thank you," she said, her voice thick with unshed tears. "I was so worried I’d get lost." I just nodded, the simple act of seeing her worry, of helping her navigate, feeling like a small, unexpected warmth spreading through my chest. It wasn’t grand. It was just a map, a fork in the trail. But in that moment, the wall I’d built felt… thinner. Like a crack in the bark of a tree, letting in a sliver of light.
That’s when I realized what I’d been hiding from myself. I’d avoided kindness because I was afraid of receiving it. I’d convinced myself that accepting help, accepting a simple gesture, meant I was still broken, still needing. But nature teaches us something different. Look at the forest floor: it’s not a single, perfect thing. It’s a tapestry woven from fallen leaves, decaying wood, the slow work of fungi breaking down the old to nourish the new. The trees don’t reject the fallen leaf; they use it. They don’t say, "I am too strong to need this decay." They simply are the forest, and the forest is the decay. Accepting the small kindness, the small help, the small moment of connection – it wasn’t weakness. It was simply being part of the living, breathing whole. It was acknowledging that I was still here, still part of the forest, even when the path felt lost.
I’d been so focused on my own internal storm that I’d stopped noticing the gentle rains that fall on the forest floor, nourishing the roots of the trees I’d spent my life protecting. I’d stopped noticing the way a squirrel, carrying a nut, pauses for a moment to look at you, not with fear, but with a simple, shared awareness of the space we both occupy. I’d stopped noticing the quiet generosity of the world.
Why was it so hard to face? Because facing it meant admitting I’d been wrong. It meant admitting that my solitude wasn’t peace; it was a kind of self-imposed exile. It meant admitting that the fear of being seen as broken was a heavier burden than the actual brokenness. It meant admitting that I’d been so busy tending to my own wounds, I’d forgotten how to tend to the connections that could help heal them. It felt like stepping out of the deep, dark shelter of my cabin and into the open, exposed to the wind and the light. Vulnerability is terrifying. But the forest doesn’t hide from the wind; it bends, it adapts, it finds strength in the very thing that threatens it.
The moment of honesty wasn’t dramatic. It was just me, standing at the trailhead, offering a map. It was the young woman’s simple "Thank you," and the way her shoulders relaxed. It was the quiet realization that I hadn’t lost anything by offering help; I’d gained something – a tiny, undeniable thread of connection. I’d gained the feeling that I was still part of something larger than my own pain.
Since then, I’ve started noticing the small things. I’ve stopped turning away when the neighbor waves from her porch. I’ve accepted a cup of tea from the woman who runs the little bookstore in town, even when I’m feeling particularly stubborn. I’ve let a younger ranger carry my heavy pack on a difficult hike, not because I couldn’t, but because I realized it was a small, easy way to say, "I’m here, and I’m okay with you seeing me." I’ve even started leaving a small bowl of water for the stray cat that visits my cabin at dusk – a tiny act of care I’d have ignored before. It’s not about grand gestures. It’s about the smallness of it. The fact that it doesn’t require a lot of energy, just a moment of presence.
Nature teaches us that the most profound changes often happen in the smallest increments. A single raindrop doesn’t make the forest grow, but a thousand raindrops do. A single spiderweb doesn’t hold the dew, but a million do. It’s the accumulation of small, quiet acts that build resilience, that nourish the soil of our hearts. When I stopped avoiding the small kindnesses, I stopped avoiding the small truths that come with them. I stopped avoiding the fact that I am not alone. That I am still capable of connection. That I am still part of the forest, even when the path feels lost.
So, here’s the practical advice I’ve learned, the hard way: Start small. Start with accepting. When someone offers you a cup of coffee, say "Yes." When a neighbor asks if you need help with the trash, say "Yes, thank you." Don’t overthink it. Don’t worry about whether you deserve it or if it’s "too much." Just accept it. Feel the warmth of the cup in your hands. Notice the simple act of being seen, being offered a small piece of the forest’s generosity. Let it be a tiny crack in your wall, not a chasm. Let it be the first drop of rain on the forest floor.
And if you’re like I was, hiding in the quiet, afraid to be seen as broken – know this: the forest doesn’t judge the fallen log. It simply uses it. Your brokenness isn’t a reason to hide; it’s a reason to be seen, to be held, to be part of the slow, patient work of healing. The small kindnesses aren’t a distraction from your pain; they are the very thing that helps you carry it. They are the spiderwebs catching the dew, the fallen leaves nourishing the roots. They are the quiet, steady rhythm of the forest itself, teaching us that we are never truly alone, even in the deepest solitude.
I was walking the other day, and I saw a young deer, barely more than a fawn, standing at the edge of the meadow, watching the world with wide, curious eyes. It didn’t look lost. It looked present. And in that moment, I understood: the small kindnesses aren’t about fixing the broken parts. They’re about remembering that you are still here, still part of the living, breathing world, and that the world is still offering you its quiet, steady grace. All you have to do is stop walking away from it.
— Ellen Ferguson, patient as the land