On Life and Words

  Have you felt it—the ache that lingers beneath all the noise and the hustle? It is not sadness, not quite loneliness, but a longing for something you can’t name. This ache is the echo of the village—the soul’s memory of a place where you were truly needed, where your absence was felt, and your presence mattered. We chase after busyness, fill our days with achievement, but deep down, we want to be needed for who we are, not just what we do. The ache is not a flaw. It is an ancient calling, a homing instinct pulling us toward deeper belonging. So don’t numb it. Listen to what it’s saying. Reach out, show up, gather with others, even imperfectly. Let the ache lead you home.

  Self-sufficiency is praised in our culture—do it all, manage alone, don’t be a burden. But the village lived by a softer rule: Strength is found in togetherness. You didn’t have to pretend you had it all together. There was wisdom in leaning on each other, in letting others help carry your load. Children were raised by many hands, meals were shared, stories and sorrows passed between neighbors. If your well was empty, someone would pour you a cup from theirs. In the modern world, admitting you need help can feel like failure. But the soul knows better. The soul remembers that interdependence is not weakness—it is how we thrive. Let’s honor the ancient strength of relying on each other. Let’s make room for both giving and receiving, for it is in the circle that we are made whole.

  There is a language that doesn’t need words— The language of being known, recognized, and remembered. In the world of the village, people were fluent in this language. Names mattered. Stories were passed down like treasures. If you disappeared, someone would notice. If you wept, arms would open. Today, many of us long for that kind of belonging—a place where we don’t have to explain ourselves to be understood, where our quirks are familiar rather than odd, where we are celebrated for simply showing up. It’s easy to lose this language in the busyness of modern life. But it isn’t gone; it’s waiting to be spoken again. Maybe it starts with a quiet question: Who is missing from my table? Who needs to be seen? How can I offer the gentle presence I crave? We can reclaim the lost language of belonging, one act of noticing at a time.

In a world where every hand holds a glowing screen and every pocket carries the hum of a thousand notifications, you would think we’d never feel alone. But so many of us do. We can scroll endlessly through updates, see snapshots of other people’s lives, and respond in a flash with a “like” or an emoji. Still, there’s a loneliness beneath it all—a quiet ache that technology cannot touch. Modern life is busy. Schedules overflow. We move from task to task, checking boxes, but rarely checking in with our own hearts. Conversations are often short, surface-level, and safe. We learn to hide our deeper stories, afraid that no one has the time or space to hold them. It’s strange, isn’t it? To be so “connected” and still feel so far away from genuine understanding. Sometimes, we wonder: is anyone really seeing us? Yet, deep inside, the heart remembers what connection once felt like—a time when presence mattered more than productivity, and when being together was enough.

We weren’t made for burnout. But modern life keeps pushing us toward it—faster schedules, longer work hours, constant connectivity. We wear exhaustion like a badge, even as it slowly breaks us. But in the village, life moved differently. There were rhythms to honor: sunrise and sunset, planting and harvest, seasons of work and seasons of rest. Rest wasn’t something you had to earn—it was something you were given, because it was part of being alive. People understood that rest made the work more meaningful. That rest wasn’t laziness—it was wisdom. There was a time to gather wood, and a time to sit by the fire. We need that again. Because rest isn’t just about slowing down. It’s about reconnecting to the sacred cycle of being human. It’s about pausing long enough to breathe, reflect, and restore—not just for ourselves, but for those around us. In a village, no one burned out because no one was left to carry it all alone. If we want to live well, we need to rest well....

  Parenting was never meant to be a solo act. And yet, so many parents today are trying to raise children in isolation—juggling work, bills, mental health, and generational wounds with barely any support. No wonder so many of us feel like we’re failing. But it’s not failure. It’s exhaustion. It’s overwhelm. It’s the absence of the village. In traditional village life, parenting was a shared responsibility. Grandmothers soothed colicky babies. Uncles taught skills. Neighbors noticed when a child was struggling—and offered care instead of judgment. It was normal for children to be surrounded by different adults who loved them in different ways. That kind of communal care builds security, empathy, and trust. And it also gives parents a chance to heal while they raise their children—because no one is pouring from an empty cup. Breaking generational cycles doesn’t happen in isolation. It happens when we raise children differently—together. With gentleness. With prese...