The Little Things That Will Save Us

Life, death, and cherry tomatoes

Sep 11, 2025

Of the dozens of tomato seeds we planted in tiny trays on the first day of spring, only one has borne fruit. In May, we culled it to two seedlings, repotted them for the back porch. One lost its top half in the deck-staining shuffle, and the last man standing is only doing so with a great deal of outside help.

But at a rate of about one cherry tomato a day, they’re turning “choice yellow”—the variety my daughter picked—and I’m popping that single sphere of sweetness abundant straight into my mouth.

As I do so, I remember that four years ago, it was a ripe cherry tomato that compelled my diaper-clad daughter to take her first steps. Legs wide in that classic cowboy stance, she toddled with intention until she had her prize in hand. Then she opened wide and took a gigantic bite, dripping with pure satisfaction.

These days, she won’t really eat tomatoes, though occasionally she makes exceptions to “suck them for the juice.” At five, she is about as far from toddling as it is possible to be, or so it seems. She races a million miles an hour and climbs every tree her barely-taller-than-a-tomato-plant body can get a foothold in.

Yesterday, as I drove her home from gymnastics class, where for the first time she got to show off her monkey-swinging skills and do tricks on the trampoline, she asked me what “war” was. It wasn’t totally out of context; I’d just attempted to explain, yet again, the cause behind the Palestinian protests on Main Street.

She wanted to know how anyone was left if they were all killing each other. She wanted to know where Israel and Palestine were. Only in retrospect did I register that she was probably most concerned with how close they were to Vermont. To us.

I don’t know how to reconcile these worlds—really these parts of the same world. Porch plants and gymnastics class; racism and genocide. I don’t know how to write my way through it, or to address anything worthwhile on this tiny soapbox I’ve built.

So, at least for today, I will stick with the small. I will make a list—as I have before in various ways—of tiny moments and pleasures and miracles that remind me what is still good about humanity, and why hope is the one way out.

The Little Things that Will Save Us

Writing out on the porch on a September morning with a fleece blanket and a hot coffee
A friend (spy?) at the elementary school telling you the story of your kid’s empathy for a new classmate
Cross-generational bonding at spin class
Watching your kid pull that 180 from wrenching anxiety to eruptive joy
Revisiting something you wrote a long time ago and thinking, “Damn, gurl knows what she’s doing”
Relearning the beauty of rejection as a tool for clarity
Chatting with someone you thought you couldn’t relate to and realizing you were totally wrong
Listening to the busy black-capped chickadees sing to each other as they work
The potential energy of wanting to spill your guts to a good friend
Saving today’s one cherry tomato so your kindergartener can suck the juice out of it
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More than ever, I don’t have capacity for the big things. Not that I don’t want to know, or don’t care, but I don’t want to freeze. And for me, the antidote to freezing is to focus small. Go micro. Come back to the breath.

I believe that in breathing together, we will change the world. Take a moment to con*spire with me: inhale light, life, and love. Exhale that which seeks to divide and deny us. Try it again.

Watch the sunlight play in the leaves. Have a conversation with the moon. Taste a tomato, straight from the vine, and remember all the steps it took for each of you to ripen toward this moment.

Conspiratorially yours,

Devon

P.S. What are the little things that are saving you right now? Let me know in the comments.