This morning in the soft light I tried to capture urine in a cup and wound up spilling it on myself. Thankfully, ‘twas but a wee amount. I used a warm wash cloth with nice smelling hand soap on the wet spots, and was soon as good as new.

I started to say, “Oh, God, what a way to start the day,” as if it were some big tragedy. But I arrested myself mid-melodrama: No, this is exactly what needed to happen. I needed this just as it was. It’s a Byron Katie practice, and you know, it just nipped that whole woe-is-me response in mid-air. Instead, I rode my whole life down the stairs to fix a cup of tea. I found, as my foot touched each stair, that I was wide awake. The clock hovered before 6 a.m. and darkness looked back at me from our windows.

We don’t have window coverings yet. In the spring, summer, and fall, foliage covers us from our neighbors’ curious glances (which I invented. Most of them likely don’t care.) But now, at winter’s zenith, only a few green and dried leaves cling to the spindly branches.

I poured hot water onto my Darjeeling tea bag and added silk creamer. While it steamed, I lit the tealight candles in two half-gourds from our garden. This fall, I learned it is possible to leave a garden squash on one’s table just long enough that the outside forms a hard, knife-resistant shield, but not too long. I boiled the whole thing in an enormous enamel pot I inherited from my grandmother (because I could not get any knife to cut into it). The inside meat remained supple and delicious. The curved, striated inner lining of the wild acorn squash gourds glows a lemon-tangerine color by firelight. I sit down, cover my knees with a wool blanket, retrieve the tall blue steaming mug from the table, and sip.

I exhale. Everything in the world seems just right. And this is my gift for embracing my present moment upstairs in the bathroom and the next and the next just exactly as they are, whatever comes. In. Out. Calm. Ease. Deep. Slow. These are my breathing mantras. I pair them with Thich Nhat Hanh’s reminder to sip only my tea—not my thoughts, not my projects, only the tea. To taste it and let its flavor fill and nourish me.

Last night I watched a Supergirl episode while I cleaned up my own dinner and left dinner out for Christopher, who would be returning late from teaching guitar in Denver. I boiled him a spaghetti squash, because he doesn’t eat the noodles. The yellow halves peered at me from the bowl. I wiggled the seeds out with a big silver spoon (also once my grandmother’s). I ladled the slimy seed pulp into the tin cooking pot we use for a compost bucket. I speared each hot half squash with the two-pronged serving fork and scooped out the insides. Then, I swirled and smoothed it all into one uniform succulent pile of yellow, and covered it with the pasta lid to stay warm.

I’ve thought recently about Gandhi’s principle of nonviolence, satyagraha. For one thing, the ends can only equal the means. How we are, how we behave, what we think and feel, all this impacts the result of what we wish to accomplish. And no we’re not perfect. I think of the million times I’ve been impatient, or demanding, or controlling, or pissed off while parenting. Thankfully, there have been many times too when I loved warmly the whole of my daughter within a sacred moment and was fundamentally there for her. But yeah, we’re a work in progress.

But I loved the way I scooped out those seeds last night. I hope the squash tasted all the better. And while the loving care may not have registered with my beloved consciously, these small instants add up to a life. May I be the “truth force or  love force,” that Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. describes talking about Gandhi and satyagraha in his autobiography. It’s strength, not weakness. It loves all life, yet it insists, insists, insists on the truth. And it preaches nonviolence always, except when the only alternative is cowardice.

It’s so easy to get distracted: I just ordered Ghandi’s book Non-Violent Resistance (Satyagraha) for Christopher for his birthday, which means I’ll also get to read it. Maybe I’ll also get Dr. Martin Luther King’s autobiography and we can take turns. I’ve been inspired to read both by Michaelle Small Wright in her new memoir, Pivot. Learning to work directly with nature intelligence is her mission, and learning this skill could help save humanity and the planet. I recommend anyone who cares about both to check out her work at www.perelandra-ltd.com It’s a learnable, doable thing, within all of our reach.

I near the end of the time I’ve set aside for this craft this morning. Hunger carves out my stomach. Soon I will don dance clothes and ready for leaping on the way to work for universal health care. So many deadlines call out. Yet the answer to all of it, all of it, will be to stay within the flow of the present moment and let go. I can only do so much. Life will help me finish everything else. I am but one powerful and mighty pawn, surrendered and willing to will God’s will and partner with nature intelligence, so that my own life aligns with what is trying to be born: A planet where all life thrives in harmony, balance, and peace.

But you know what they say: If you want peace, work for justice. It’s true, true, true, yet every step, each carving of a moment or action matters. Is it truth? Is it love? If not, we’re making it worse.

In. Out. Find what we need inside ourselves first. When my daughter was little, I found that getting out for even a 30-minute run made the difference between mommy and mommymonster. So I ran, I ran at 4:30 a.m. on the dark frozen streets if I had to before Steve left for work.

What is it that saves your soul from the abyss, that brings you back into the soft light?

Find it. Nourish it. And then share.