Chop Wood, Carry Water

“Almost everything will work again if you unplug it for a few minutes, including you.” - Anne Lamott

This morning I swept the porch.

There was no big reason.

It just needed doing.

Leaves, sand, bits of winter carried in by weeks of wind and rain. The simple, quiet mess of living close to nature.

And as I swept, I felt that familiar settling inside my body.

There’s something about these small, necessary tasks. The rhythm of the broom. The slow gathering. The clearing of space. It feels almost like meditation, except I’m not trying to meditate.

Just sweeping.

In a world that moves fast and expects constant output, these moments feel grounding. Almost sacred.

It reminds me of the old saying:

Before enlightenment: chop wood, carry water.

After enlightenment: chop wood, carry water.

Life doesn’t suddenly become grand or dramatic.

It’s still wood. Still water. Still dust on the porch.

The work doesn’t change.

But something inside us does.

After the Storm

The past weeks here in Portugal have been intense. Relentless rain with winds exceeding 200 km/h. Thunder that shook the night. Forests flattened. Flooded land. Destruction and devastation on many levels. A visible reminder of how fragile we are.

The horses were tired. We all were.

It takes energy to live through that kind of force. Even when you’re not directly affected, your body feels it. The nervous system stays slightly alert. Slightly braced. And I think we forget how much energy it takes simply to endure something.

And so the horses rested. Long hours standing together. Heads low. Doing less.

There is wisdom in that. No rushing back into productivity. No pretending nothing happened.

Just rest.

And then, a shift

Now, just as we step into the Chinese New Year, the Year of the Fire Horse, something feels different. Lighter.

The ground is beginning to dry. The air has softened.

And the horses have started moving again. Not dramatically. Not all at once.

Just naturally.

They’re choosing new grazing spots. Exploring further corners of the field. Their winter coats are loosening and they roll in the dirt, scratching at the itch of what is ready to fall away.

There’s a quiet readiness in them.

Movement, yes. But not frantic.

Alive.

It feels like the kind of movement that comes when things have settled into place on their own.

The beauty of the ordinary

After the storms. After exhaustion. After big events.

Life returns to the small things.

Clearing branches. Checking fences. Refilling water. Sweeping the porch.

Carrying wood. Fetching water.

There is something deeply regulating about tending to what is right in front of me. The nervous system doesn’t need big declarations or dramatic plans.

It needs rhythm. Repetition. Simplicity.

The horses know this.

They don’t rush to make up for lost time. They don’t analyse the weather. They don’t compare themselves to another herd.

They rest.

Then they move. Then they graze. Then they roll.

They follow what is present.

A Different Kind of Growth

I sometimes think we’ve been taught that growth must look impressive. That change must be visible. That movement must be productive.

But what if growth looks like sweeping?

What if it looks like showing up for the small, needed things. Without drama, without pressure?

When I sweep, I’m not just cleaning the porch. I’m telling my body:

The storm has passed.

We are safe.

You can soften now.

Maybe that is what this Fire Horse year is asking of us. Not wild action. But aligned movement.

Not forcing things into place. But trusting that after rest… after shedding… after tending to what is simple and true… life begins to move again.

Naturally.

So today, I’ll sweep. And I’ll watch the horses move across the field, their coats loosening, their bodies lighter. And I’ll remember:

Before and after.

Wood. Water.

Broom. Dust.

Sometimes the smallest acts carry the deepest meaning.

♡

A bit of a slow almost poetic one this month. Enjoy the simple moments with your horse.