You’re invited next September 20-26, 2026, to The Tender Harvest, a week-long retreat amidst the golden hues and organic bounty of the world-class Ballymaloe House in County Cork, Ireland. Each day will feature yoga, meditation, farm-to-table meals, and curated excursions—plus ample time for rest, self-nurturance, and imagination.
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I awake to the murmur of a boy speaking to his slumbering father. All night long, the darkening stillness of December had settled over the house, and, as usual, our son had scampered down the hall just before dawn, burrowed under a breathing mound of blankets, and reached toward whichever one of us was nearest. “I love you so much,” I hear my child sigh as he tucks himself beneath the warm weight of his father’s arm.
I have no language to measure such a moment, ordinary though it may seem. I have only an attention born of it, a residue of tenderness reminding me that somehow –however improbable, fleeting, and marvelous – we are here together, and here at all.
Later, diagonal rays of winter sunlight beam across the sky, a fact bright enough to leave an afterimage seared on the inside of my eyelids. Of this event, too, I keep only what impression remains: a momentary flash that lingers and softens.
Which brings me to the medicine of tenderness—our capacity not just to intellectualize or conceptualize, but to feel the invisible textures of this living world. The word “tender” shares its etymological parent, the Latin word tendere–meaning “to extend outward or upward, to stretch toward or hold out, to offer; to direct toward, to aim toward”–with the verb “to tend,” in the sense of caring for, but also with “intention,” “attention,” and “tenders,” the small boats that carry people or goods from larger vessels to shore.
A thruline here links the practices of intention and attention, guiding our consciousness toward what we care about, with a whole-bodied suppleness of presence. The metaphor of tender boats bridges the mutual nature of tenderness. How can one person’s practice of tenderness bring another to shore in a gradual and reciprocal softening of nervous systems? How is it that when one person rests with awareness in the tender weight of their body, heart, and mind, it can signal to another that their bruises are safe from further harm?
Ezra Klein recently shared an interview with Patti Smith, the iconic musician, writer, and visual artist—sometimes called the “godmother of punk”—who rejects those labels wholesale. With a shrug that suggests the humbler, deeper values of her practice, she says, “call me a worker.” I love her for that.
Many moments resonate in their conversation, but none so much as when she likens a good poem to a teardrop: “If you’re thirsty and you get that drop of water, it suddenly becomes the most welcome thing in the world.” My mind catches on what kind of thirst—what invisible needfulness—a good poem can satisfy. This is not the thirst of the yarrow or migrating whitethroat, not even the thirst of the bear in autumn. It seems a uniquely human thirst that calls out for the sincerity of real art.
On the subject of death and spiritual thirst, Mary Oliver wrote: “Who knows what will finally happen or where I will be sent, yet already I have given a great many things away, expecting to be told to pack nothing, except the prayers which, with this thirst, I am slowly learning.”
I believe this kind of thirst, of the nature of wanting to understand and be nourished by the mystery of our existence—by the grace of what it means that we are alive and able to wonder at the circumstances of our aliveness—dwells somewhere beneath the surface of every human being. This thirst lives in the unseen currents of heartache, uncertainty, and longing that flow like water beneath a frozen river.
According to fellow poet Jane Hirshfield, Galway Kinnell once called “Tenderness” “the secret title of every good poem.” That line, for me, speaks to the particular mechanism within poetry that can meet such thirst. Tenderness is the dynamic tension between bearing witness to our shared fragility and strengthening our capacity for wholehearted presence and connection with ourselves and each other. It is the alchemy of kindness that can distill cold facts into feelings, thaw a hardened heart, and show us how we’re not alone. Like a teardrop, a gesture of tenderness can be small and exact, yet it can quench us with vital sustenance and healing.
Strangely, the image of a teardrop has seeped into my morning practice like a quiet teaching. As I reach for some nearby poem, my mind skidding over the uneven terrain of the hours ahead, I pause to take a breath, and it occurs to me: I can carry a teardrop inside this day. Most authentic mindfulness practices seem strange to the outer gaze, but their effectiveness lies in the specificity and earnestness with which we orient toward them. So, here it is: a useful practice, an invisible resource to mind my life. One way I am learning to soften.
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+ Join me every month for movement + meditation exclusively for paid supporters of The Guest House. Our next practice will be live on Thursday, December 18, at 9 am MT / 11 am ET, and will be shared via replay soon thereafter.
+ Back to a regular studio class! Join me at YogaSource in Santa Fe every Wednesday morning, 9-10:15 am MT / 11 am-12:15 pm ET for Dynamic Practice. This class is live and not recorded. Join in-person or virtually from home. Register directly through the studio here.
+ Two deeply envisioned retreats in the year to come: first at Beyul Retreat in the pristine wilderness surrounding Aspen, Colorado, for an extended Memorial Day weekend, May 21-25, 2026; then at world-class Ballymaloe House in County Cork, Ireland, September 20-26, 2026. All the details here.
Together, we are making sense of being human in an era of radical change. Your presence here matters. Thank you for reading, sharing, ‘heart’ing, commenting, and subscribing to The Guest House.
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