Memory & Moment
Back in New York, Douglas used to buy tubs of raw shea butter — the kind so firm you had to melt it with your hands before you could use it. He’d laugh and show me how: “Rub it between your palms first. That’s how you get the good stuff.”
He was right, of course. It wasn’t just about skincare — it was about patience, about taking time to soften what was rough.
Now, every time I make shea butter, I think of that — how warmth transforms. What starts solid becomes something that can soothe, protect, and shine again.
I didn’t realize it then, but this became one of the first healing rituals I ever learned. I didn’t realize it then, but this was how I first began to recognize what healing felt like — not in my mind, but in my hands. The act of softening what was once hard — not just in my hands, but in my heart — taught me that purpose doesn’t always come from starting new, but from continuing what was made with love. Every batch reminds me that care is still possible, that even in grief, we can create something that holds warmth again.
Reflection: The Meaning in Ritual
Healing doesn’t always start with grand gestures. Sometimes it begins with small, repeated acts — warming, stirring, softening — until what once felt fixed begins to give way. Grief, like shea butter, needs gentle persistence. You return to it, again and again, until it becomes something you can hold without pain.
Supportive Practices to Reconnect Through Touch
— Gentle Grounding: Hold something textured — shea butter, fabric, clay, or soil —
and focus on how your hands respond. Notice the warmth that builds as you stay
present.
- Ritual of Continuation: Choose one shared habit or object from your loved one’s
life and continue it once in your own way — not as repetition, but as reconnection.
- Journaling Prompt: Ask: “What am I softening toward? What part of me still feels
solid and untouched?” Write freely, without judgment, as though your hands are doing
the speaking.
Highlight
Every act of care carries memory. What we soften with love doesn’t disappear — it transforms.
• Grief changes form. Like shea butter in your palms, it softens under warmth and patience.
• Love endures in motion. Acts of care, no matter how small, keep the bond alive.
• Healing is remembering differently. It’s not forgetting; it’s transforming what remains into comfort.
Calendar Reflection
Sometimes healing doesn’t announce itself — it happens in the quiet warmth of your hands, in the patience you bring to something ordinary. When you notice that softness returning, even in small ways, you’re already finding your way back to yourself.
Prompt:
What small action or ritual reminds you that you’re still capable of care, of warmth, of transforming what feels hard?
