About a year ago, having spent my literate years without any personal writing practice, I began to write daily. This wasn’t really a writing “practice,” nor was it journaling in the sense I had always imagined–a diaristic accounting of events and how I felt about them. I wasn’t writing to hone my skills toward any particular end; I wasn’t deliberately sowing the seeds of a memoir or a similar offering. Instead, this writing emerged as a companion to various activities that might strike an observer as “spiritual,” but which I consider practical modes of care, like brushing teeth, going to work, and bathing, among other sundries.