The Practice of Contentment

A Hearth Reflection

There was a season when we lived in a small, creaky house tucked on a generous block of land.

And for a moment, if I could, I will take you to this memory that is so dear to me.

Out the back, life quietly unfolded: An old apple tree - grafted with both Jonathon and Granny Smith branches - offered fruit for the whole season. Nearby stood a timber pergola built by my husband, his father and family friends. The children had their own sandpit, a mud kitchen and a ring of logs for outdoor picnics. We stacked apple crates to build them a cubby house and every summer we planted calendula to make salve, along with sunflowers and wildflowers that the ducks would nap beneath - nestled into the petals like stories waiting to be told.

There was also a big dirt mound at the back - nothing fancy, just a pile of earth - but to the children it was a mountain, a bakery, a fortress, a canvas for play.

Those years held barefoot days with friends, poetry teatime picnics under the pergola, bowls of fruit passed hand to hand and the kind of joy that doesn’t ask to be documented - only lived.

And yet, even with all this quiet magi unfolding around me, I struggled. I struggled with the feeling that it wasn’t enough until it was finished.

That the house should be fully renovated. That the tools should be packed away. That the dust should be gone before I could fully exhale.

Contentment didn’t come in a burst of gratitude. It arrived slowly, like light under a door - asking me to notice the goodness within the undone.

I thought I was waiting for the house to become what it should be.

But quietly, it was the house - the season - that waited for me.

I fell in love with the way things already were. With the way life asked me to meet it - just as it was, not as I had planned.

There was the tree, fruiting on schedule. There were walls, holding in the laughter. There were the growing feet, padding through the imperfect spaces.

And so I began learning contentment. Not in the distant “when it’s finished” or “when we have more,” but in the gentle gift of now.

Just as I’d grown to love the it, our home was taken- acquired by the government. We relocated across states, starting again in another house that, too, wants to become a home. And now, once again, I am meeting contentment daily - sometimes easily, sometimes not.

Because contentment is not a one-time thing. It is posture. A practice.

It’s choosing to give thanks when the walls need painting. It’s making soup from what’s in the pantry. It’s asking “What can I do to make someone’s day today?”

It’s looking out instead of spiraling in.

Contentment, I’ve found, is not passive. It is active. Tender. Sacred. And it grows best when tended in ordinary soil.

And while I’m still learning, there are a few small things that help me practice contentment - especially on the days when it feels far away.

What Helps Me Tend Contentment

Noticing the Enough

When I pause and really see - that the steaming cup, the child’s drawing on the floor, the scent of dinner, sipping morning tea, or walking at dusk all anchor me. They whisper, “This is a life, not a list.”

Creating with My Hands

Contentment rises when I make something - bread, salve, a story, a home. The doing becomes a prayer of presence.

Looking Outward

Asking, “Who can I bless today?” reorients me from lack to love. Sometimes a smile or a shared biscuit is the holiest thing.

Gratitude in the Mundane

Sometimes it’s not the big moments, but the small, repetitive ones - folding towels, wiping counters, stirring oats- that invite me to say thank You. These are the quiet places where gratitude can take root.

Rhythms Over Rushing

When I keep our days simple - a quiet breakfast, reading aloud, lighting a candle before dinner - it reminds me we are not behind. We are home.

Protecting My Spirit

Staying off social media until I’ve begun my real life (or not checking at all) guards my joy. Comparison has never made me more content.

Remembering This is a Season

Some days I whisper, “This is not forever, but it is for now.” And even now can be holy.

And perhaps it’s the same for you. Perhaps contentment is arriving in pieces, not perfection.

If you’d like to share - I’d love to hear:

What helps you tend contentment where you are?

May you find beauty in what is already here.

May your days slow just enough to let joy be felt.

And may contentment rise in you like morning light- quietly, faithfully, without demand.

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@keeper.of.the.hearth