The Weight of Small Things: Exploring the sacred in the ordinary.

A reflection on the LA fires & how to come back from loss of place

It begins in the simplest of moments. Steam rising from a morning cup of matcha. The slow, deliberate act of polishing a mirror until it catches the light just so. The ritual of jotting down a grocery list, one mundane necessity at a time. These are not grand gestures, not the stuff of sweeping narratives or life-altering epiphanies. Yet, it is precisely in these repetitions, these small acts of care, that life unfolds, becomes a vessel for identity, reveals its most profound truths.

But this week, as fires rage across Los Angeles, consuming over 10,000 homes and uprooting countless lives, I find myself thinking about how fragile these small things are. How easily the rhythms of daily life—those quiet, comforting rituals that tether us to ourselves—can be lost. It’s not just the homes reduced to ash, but the disorienting weight of unknowing. Many are sitting in that liminal space, the deep recognition of loss, without a place to land, without the tangible fragments of their lives to hold onto.

I know that feeling, though in a different time and place. On my birthday in 2016, my own home burned, flames gutting not just a structure but a sense of identity. Afterward, I wandered through the remains, grappling with the emptiness where routines and rituals had once been. An art collection, family heirlooms, photographs—gone. But also the simpler things—my favorite reading chair, the small but delightful kitchen where I discovered a love of cooking. It wasn’t so much mourning for the physical things, but rather for sense of place they held—the small gestures that made life feel steady, meaningful, alongside the sense of being cast out, weightless, into the world so large, so vulnerably…as I’m sure many are feeling, just now.

In Wim Wenders’ glorious film, Perfect Days, Hirayama’s life revolves around such small rituals: cleaning toilets, tending plants, and playing the carefully curated songs on his mixtapes. The music threads through his solitary drives in Tokyo, a soundtrack to his inner world. Lou Reed’s “Perfect Day” echoes in the film, as does Nina Simone’s “Feeling Good.” These songs become more than sound—they’re acts of grace, tiny moments that hold and carry him.

For those impacted by these fires in Los Angeles, the usual anchors are gone, replaced by profound uncertainty. The birds that used to visit the yard, the light that once filtered through familiar windows—those small sources of connection have been displaced. And yet, even amidst this uncertainty, small acts of grace remain: a neighbor offering food, someone making room for another in their home, a stranger pausing to listen.

I think of Ross Gay’s The Book of Delights, where he catalogs fleeting joys: the way light plays on water, the rhythm of a stranger’s laugh. His reflections are reminders that even during trying times, there is room to notice the good. Not to erase the hard truths but to coexist with them, to find small reservoirs of strength in the ordinary.

Small, intentional acts hold us in the hardest moments. For someone grieving a loss, sharing a song, sitting in silence with another, taking a single breath of fresh air might offer a sliver of peace. These gestures, these small points of light, matter more than they seem. The profound in the simple. The generous in the ordinary.

For those looking to offer support, here is a list of ways to both help people on the ground in Los Angeles, and resources for who have been impacted by the fires.

So I ask: What is one small, meaningful thing you can do today to find peace? And how might you use that moment to extend kindness to someone else? Even the tiniest gestures can ripple outward in ways we may never fully see.