Savouring simple daily pleasures

It’s funny how memories sneak up on you. Earlier this week, on a particularly hectic morning, I caught myself humming the theme tune to a long-forgotten children’s show from the early 1980s — Button Moon.

Do you remember it? A wonderfully simple animation from the UK about a family of spoons who lived on Junk Planet and travelled the galaxy in a baked bean tin rocket ship. Even now, I can almost hear the slow, soothing narration and that gentle melody. Somehow, that tiny spark of memory sent me tumbling down a rabbit warren of nostalgia — back to a simpler, slower time.

There were only three television channels then, and they signed off at 11 p.m. sharp. Cars had radios, not touchscreens. At home, we had one phone — attached to the wall by a spiral cord — and if someone else was using it, you waited your turn. There were no mobile phones, no DVDs or CDs, no microwaves or tumble dryers. My mother’s pride and joy was her “twin tub” washing machine, where you had to lift the laundry from one side to another for the spin cycle.

And yet, somehow, life didn’t feel lacking.

We played outside until dusk with the neighbours, rode bikes, drew pictures, and spent hours creating worlds for our dolls. Our imaginations filled in the gaps that technology now occupies. Shops closed at noon on Saturdays and didn’t reopen until Monday. Sundays meant roast lunch and time with family. The rhythm of life followed the seasons — in our clothes, our food, even our routines.

There’s so much convenience in life today — and I’m certainly not giving up my washing machine or my robot vacuum — but I do sometimes wonder what we’ve lost in the process. My teenage daughters, for example, rarely has both ears free of her white earbuds. Anything they want to know is at their fingertips, but the joy of asking a friend, a neighbour, or an elderly relative — that small act of connection — feels like a fading art.

And yet, not all is lost. On my evening walks, there’s a stretch of quiet road where local kids still race their bikes and invent games, just as we once did. It always warms my heart to see them out there, making their own adventures under the fading light.

This past long weekend, I barely ventured beyond the driveway. I pottered in the garden, sat in the sun on the deck, had lunch outdoors, and simply was. I’m such a homebody at heart. Perhaps that’s what I’m craving — a return to that gentle simplicity, to being more present and less drawn into the noise of the world.

It’s almost impossible to escape it all — the constant hum of the news, the ping of notifications — but maybe we can carve out small moments of stillness. This week, I’m setting myself a quiet little challenge: fewer screens, more presence. I’ll read my paperback instead of scrolling, walk to work, bake something just because, go to my ballet class, take long baths, and climb into bed as early as the day allows.

Maybe that’s the modern version of a trip to Button Moon — a brief escape from the busyness, a small journey back to wonder, simplicity, and peace.

Savouring simple daily pleasures

There’s something wonderfully reassuring about the rhythm of the seasons — the way one slips gently into the next, each bringing its own palette of colours, moods, and small joys. Each season has its own best kind of leisurely pursuit, its own invitation to slow down and savor what only that time of year can offer.

The title of this post I heard while listening to a podcast or audiobook earlier this week- It may have been "stories from the village of nothing much"- forgive me, I can't quite remember which, but it resonated with me. It inspired this weeks entry. 

Autumn: The Season of Comfort and Turning Inward

Autumn arrives like a gentle sigh after the brightness of summer. The air turns crisp, the world burns gold and amber, and suddenly there’s a delicious pull toward home and hearth.

There’s something deeply satisfying about raking leaves — the soft rustle, the earthy scent rising up as the piles grow. It’s a quiet kind of work that soothes the mind, followed by the simple pleasure of a bowl of stew simmering on the stove, windows fogging gently as warmth fills the kitchen.

Sunday afternoons seem made for slow reading — a thick blanket, a good book, and a cup of tea that’s refilled one more time than planned. Autumn reminds us to exhale, to take pleasure in the small rituals that root us.

Winter: The Season of Warmth Within

Winter calls us to retreat — not to withdraw, but to cocoon. Outside, the world feels bracing and raw, the wind sharp on the skin and rain tapping insistently at the windows. There’s beauty in that contrast — in walking through the chill, cheeks flushed and boots muddy, knowing that a fire awaits at home.

Crackling logs, the smell of woodsmoke, a mug warming your hands, the cozy weight of a favorite sweater — winter teaches us the art of contentment. Even the storms have their poetry, watched safely from bed as the wind howls and rain lashes the glass. Winter’s gift is stillness — the invitation to pause, to rest, to gather strength for what’s to come.

Spring: The Season of Renewal and Airing Out

Then one day, the light changes. The air softens. Buds swell on branches, and the earth smells alive again. Spring carries a sense of possibility, a clean slate.

It’s the season for flinging open windows, for airing the house and shaking out the cobwebs — literally and figuratively. Gardens call for attention, hands itching to turn the soil, to coax new life into being. There’s a quiet joy in hanging laundry in the soft breeze, in feeling that first true warmth of sun on the skin.

Spring reminds us to awaken — to stretch, to breathe, to begin again.

Summer: The Season of Simple Joy and Long Days

And then comes summer — full-hearted, golden, unhurried. Days lengthen into evenings that never seem to end, and time itself feels looser.

There’s a particular kind of happiness found at the beach — sand between your toes, skin kissed salty and warm, waves hushing endlessly against the shore. The sun lingers late, and with it comes that blissful illusion that this could last forever.

Summer’s leisure is freedom — in swims at dusk, picnics that spill into laughter, the laziness of afternoons spent doing absolutely nothing but being.

The Beauty of the Turning Year

Each season has its special, irreplaceable gifts — the ones we miss when they’re gone, and long for their return. The crackle of a winter fire, the greening of spring, the golden ease of summer, the russet calm of fall — each holds its own kind of joy.

Loving them all equally is a kind of gratitude — a recognition that life, like the year, moves in cycles of renewal and rest, of warmth and chill, of fullness and quiet.

So let us notice. Let us savor. Let us immerse ourselves fully in whatever the season brings — trusting that each one, in its own way, is exactly what we need.

Savoring Simple Daily Pleasures

There’s something about Brené Brown’s work that feels like coming home to yourself. Her research into vulnerability, shame, courage, and belonging has become a lifeline for millions of people searching for truth in a world that often trades in performance, perfection, and pretense. Among the many powerful ideas she offers, a few have lodged deeply in my mind—and heart. They’re lessons worth revisiting often, especially when life feels loud, fast, and a little too much.

“Look for 8 while they pull the gate.”

This phrase is classic Brené. It’s shorthand for a crucial concept: pause before you respond. Especially when we’re being challenged, questioned, or pushed into discomfort, our impulse is often to react—defend, deflect, explain, or retreat. But Brené encourages us to wait. To breathe. To give it the full eight seconds (or more) before speaking.

Because in that pause, something shifts.

We reclaim our agency. We create space between stimulus and response. We stop ourselves from giving away our power, from answering out of shame or fear or people-pleasing. In that pause, we remember who we are and what actually matters. It’s not about being clever or right—it’s about staying grounded in our values.

Your worth isn’t up for debate.

One of the most liberating truths Brené shares is this: If someone doesn’t value your work, that doesn’t make your work less valuable. Let that settle for a moment.

In a culture that loves feedback loops, approval ratings, and constant external validation, it’s radical to believe in your own value regardless of how others receive you. Whether it’s your art, your parenting, your leadership, or your quiet presence—your worth isn’t determined by the loudest critic in the room. Your worth is not a negotiation.

The same goes for your humanity, your story, your truth. As Brené so powerfully reminds us, there is no person, church, religion, or dogma that has the right to question your divinity. Your relationship with the sacred—however you define that—is deeply personal. It’s not between you and anyone else. Your inherent worth isn’t dependent on others validating your experience of the divine. That’s yours.

Belonging is rare—and sacred.

We all want to belong. But true belonging, as Brené defines it, doesn’t require us to fit in. In fact, it demands the opposite. It asks us to be fully ourselves and to find people who can meet us in that authenticity.

That kind of connection is rare. If you have even one or two people in your life who truly see you, who understand your story, and who love you without condition—that is a gift beyond measure. It’s reciprocal, rooted in respect and vulnerability. And it may not come from where we expect it. Sometimes it’s not family. Sometimes it’s not community or coworkers. But when we find it, even in just one soul, it matters more than we can say.

Love and belonging are irreducible needs.

This isn’t a nice-to-have. It’s not bonus content in the human experience. Brené’s research shows that love and belonging are core needs—non-negotiables for a healthy, whole life. When we’re deprived of them, we suffer. We disconnect. We armor up. But when we are met with love and acceptance, we begin to heal. We soften. We grow.

That’s why cultivating relationships that offer safety and honesty is more than self-care—it’s survival.

The opposite of scarcity isn’t abundance. It’s enough.

We are drenched in scarcity messages every day. Not enough time, not enough likes, not enough money, not thin enough, not smart enough, not doing enough. And so we hustle. We compare. We shame ourselves into striving.

But the antidote to scarcity isn’t more. It’s enough.

Enough is a declaration. It’s choosing to believe, “I am enough. What I have is enough. Who I am right now is enough.” That doesn’t mean we stop growing. But it does mean we stop living like we’re one achievement away from being worthy.

Closing Thoughts

Brené Brown doesn’t offer simple answers—because real life isn’t simple. But what she does offer is clarity. Compassion. A reminder that courage isn’t about being fearless—it’s about showing up anyway. It’s about pausing when we’re triggered, owning our stories, and choosing love over armor.

So today, take a breath before you answer that difficult question. Trust in the value of your work, even if no one claps. Hold close the one or two people who truly know you. And remind yourself—again and again—that you are already enough.

This is a puriri moth- spending up to 5 years as a caterpillar to then live as this jade beauty for a mere 24-48 hours. 

 Savoring simple daily pleasures

After a busy stretch of travel — including an incredible time in Singapore — I had already planned to give myself a bit of a tech-light week. Life made the decision easier when I arrived home feeling under the weather. Rest was calling, and with it came an unexpected opportunity: a chance to unplug from something I hadn't questioned in years — my fitness trackers.

For well over a decade, I’ve relied on various devices to monitor, measure, and motivate my movement and health: a Fitbit, a Garmin, MyFitnessPal, and most recently — for the past two years — an Oura Ring. These tools have been incredibly useful. I’ve learned so much from them. They’ve given me insights into my sleep, steps, heart rate, stress levels, eating patterns, and so much more. In many ways, they’ve been wonderful teachers.

But over time, I noticed something creeping in — a subtle but persistent feeling that I couldn’t have a day without logging a meal or checking my readiness score. A walk didn't quite feel complete unless I saw the steps. A run wasn’t "real" unless it was tracked. Sound familiar?

So this week, I made a conscious choice to pause.

Movement Without Metrics

Instead of “starting an activity” or checking GPS stats, I simply… went for a walk. No duration, no heart rate zones, no step counts. Just walking — for the joy of it, and the gentle rhythm of moving my body.

With being sick, I didn’t push myself into runs or strength training. But I kept to daily walks, a little stretching, and more importantly, I let my body lead. Slower paces, shorter distances, and no pressure.

Food Without Logging

One of the biggest shifts? Not tracking meals. That muscle memory is strong — I caught myself reaching for my phone multiple times, about to log a snack or enter ingredients. But I resisted.

And surprisingly… I thrived. I found myself making solid, healthy choices without the food diary. I was actually savoring meals more. With time at home, I rediscovered the luxury of cooking — chopping vegetables unhurriedly, trying new recipes, and plating food with care, not haste. It was nourishing in more ways than one.

Rest as a Ritual

Another unexpected joy? Resting fully. Not just because my Oura told me to, or because my sleep score dipped, but because I could feel I needed it. I climbed into bed earlier, gave myself permission to slow down, and filled my evenings with warm baths, books, and stillness.

No makeup, no rushing, no pressure to optimize or perform. Just space — and skin that’s honestly never looked clearer.

What I’ve Learned

Let me be clear: I’m not anti-tracking. I’m not giving it all up for good (though my Oura subscription is up in December, and I’m still deciding if I’ll renew).

But I do know this:

• I have a solid understanding of my body, my nutrition, and my rhythms.

• I don’t need a ring or an app to tell me everything — I already know a lot.

• Sometimes, just moving, just eating, or just resting — without tracking — is enough.

• The goal of these tools is to support, not control.

This week has been a gentle reset. I’ve started my days more slowly. I’ve tuned into my body with more intention. I’ve felt more present — not chasing data, but noticing my lived experience.

Looking Ahead

I’m hopeful that next week, my energy will return and I’ll feel fully myself again. But I don’t want to rush back into the buzz. I want to bring some of this calm, this clarity, into the days ahead.

Whether I renew my tracker subscription or not, I’m holding onto this truth: wellness isn’t just in the numbers. It’s also in the joy of walking without a purpose, cooking without a plan, and resting without guilt.

Unplugging doesn’t mean going backwards. Sometimes, it’s the most progressive thing we can do.

 #3 in the Love for Imperfect Things Series

Savoring simple daily pleasures

"When we are alone in a peaceful place, we experience the stillness of our mind. It is nourishing and restorative like medicine, helping us recover our centre and feel the divinity within us. A dose of stillness once in a while does a lot of good."
— Haemin Sunim, Love for Imperfect Things

After the vibrancy, intensity, and sheer sensory overload of our recent trip to Singapore—the heat, the humidity, the constant movement—I’ve unexpectedly found myself experiencing the kind of stillness Haemin Sunim so gently encourages in his book. Though not quite how I’d have planned it, being knocked over by a stubborn little virus on our return has slowed life right down. And surprisingly, I’m grateful.

There is something undeniably restorative about being home. Not just physically back, but truly present in my space—no plans, no pressures, no expectations. For the first time in a long while, I’ve allowed myself to fully sink into the quiet. No makeup, no schedule, no need to be “on.” Just soft loungewear, a warm mug of tea, cozy mysteries, and the soothing rhythm of birdsong drifting through open windows.

This unexpected pause has felt like a gift. A dose of stillness.

I’ve been thinking back to another time life slowed down: the COVID lockdowns. A chapter of collective upheaval, yes—but also, personally, a chapter of deep grounding. We spent months at home, and while the world outside felt uncertain and often frightening, inside our four walls, I found a sense of safety and contentment I hadn’t known before. As a homebody, I soaked up the long, unstructured days with my family. I remember the simplicity of those moments: cooking slowly, reading often, moving through the day without urgency.

This past week—though triggered by a pesky throat infection—has returned a bit of that forgotten rhythm to me. The slower mornings. The luxury of reading in the daylight hours. The kind of rest that comes not just from sleeping, but from not needing to be anywhere or do anything. In this quiet, I’ve noticed something magical: my mind feels clearer. Unrushed, it has space to catch up with itself—to sort, dream, create, and clarify.

Haemin Sunim reminds us that peace isn’t something we need to travel far to find. It’s not a destination or a reward for productivity. It’s here, within us, always waiting for a moment of quiet to rise to the surface.

Stillness, in this context, isn’t the absence of life or energy. It’s a return to centre. It’s the moment your soul exhales after being stretched too thin. It’s noticing the freshness of the cooler air, the way light softens through your windows, and the nourishment of fruit prepared slowly, savoured fully.

We often push stillness away—filling every gap with tasks, goals, screens, and stimulation. But perhaps, as Sunim gently teaches, stillness is not a luxury, but a medicine. One we’d do well to take regularly, before life forces our hand.

So today, as I sit in the quiet with nothing more urgent to do than rest and recover, I’m leaning into this space with full permission. I’m letting myself be still, and in doing so, I’m finding a depth of peace I didn’t realise I needed. A peace that doesn’t demand perfection or productivity—just presence.

And maybe that’s the lesson here. Sometimes, the universe slows us down so we can hear ourselves again. So we can realign, refocus, and remember the divinity within.

A dose of stillness, once in a while, really does do a lot of good.

Savoring simple daily pleasures

 Series: Love for Imperfect Things – Entry #2

"Emotions are like uninvited guests. They come whenever they want to, and leave once you acknowledge their presence. Although emotions are born inside you, don't assume they belong to you. That is why they rarely listen to you."

— Haemin Sunim

Today, I’m writing from my sofa rather than my desk, wrapped in a blanket with the quiet hum of a kettle in the background and the aftertaste of ginger tea still lingering. A common virus has made its way into my body, gently forcing me into a rare and necessary state of stillness.

Normally, I’m an active relaxer—the kind of person who thinks rest means ticking off domestic tasks or reorganizing cupboards between cups of tea. Even when I’m unwell, I tend to push through, convincing myself that productivity is a form of self-care. But not today. Today, I have done nothing but rest, sleep, hydrate, nourish, and listen—to both my body and the weather outside.

After a morning of torrential rain, the sun has now emerged cautiously from behind the clouds. The wind, still strong, is drying the laundry I managed to hang out earlier—a quiet triumph. I’m about to take a short walk by the beach, a slow wander for some fresh air before returning home to curl up again with a book. There’s no pressure to do more. No guilt creeping in. Just presence.

And it’s in this space that I’ve been reflecting on Sunim’s words. Emotions are like uninvited guests. They show up unexpectedly—fatigue, irritation, worry, restlessness—especially when we’re forced to stop. In the past, I’ve tried to ignore them, override them, or fix them with productivity. But like any guest, they don’t leave until they’ve been acknowledged.

Today, instead of shooing them away, I’ve opened the door and let them in. I’ve offered them tea, asked what they need, and in doing so, they’ve softened. Some have already left. Others are still here, lingering in quiet corners. And that’s okay. The point isn’t to control them. It’s to witness them. To understand that although they arise within me, they don’t define me. They don’t need to be wrestled into silence or judged for showing up.

As I sit with this insight, I can’t help but notice a gentle joy beginning to rise. Not because I’m well again—not yet—but because I’m aligned. Aligned with what my body needs, with what my spirit is asking for, and with what this moment is offering: rest, release, and reflection.

There’s something oddly liberating about letting go of the need to do. In illness, we’re given a chance to listen more deeply—to slow down not out of luxury, but necessity. And in that slowness, something beautiful often emerges. A kind of clarity. A reconnection with what is essential.

So if emotions are uninvited guests, perhaps rest is the home they’ve been looking for. Not to stay forever, but to be seen, heard, and gently released.

And for now, that is enough.

 Savoring Simple Daily Pleasures

We landed in Singapore under a sky that shimmered as brightly as the city itself. From the moment we arrived, it was a whirlwind of opulence—rooftop infinity pools, mirrored skyscrapers, immersive art, tasting menus that looked like sculpture, and boutiques so beautiful they felt like galleries. Every hour was curated, every view Instagram-worthy. It was exhilarating, indulgent, unforgettable.

But something unexpected happened on the flight home.

In a rare moment of stillness, cruising above the clouds somewhere between time zones and to-do lists, I opened Love for Imperfect Things by Haemin Sunim. 

I read it cover to cover in one sitting. It felt like it had been waiting for me. One quote, in particular, landed with the kind of gentle clarity that only comes when you’re truly ready to hear it or be reminded: Something I have frequently referenced or written about personally, but after the saturation of glamour and abundance and stores with no price tags it was apt and perfectly timed to read;

"The nice cutlery set, tea, wine, clothes, pen, quilt, that you have been saving for a special occasion—use them whenever you get the chance. Special moments are not separate from our everyday lives. When you make use of something special, it makes the moment special."

It echoed inside me.

After days of high-end everything, I suddenly longed for the quiet beauty of home: the favorite mug I always reach for, the scent of clean sheets drying in the breeze, the dog-eared pages of a favorite book. It was a reminder that luxury doesn't always need to come from the outside. Sometimes, the truest luxury is presence, and a home that you've created as your sanctuary.

There’s no denying the thrill of a five-star hotel or the magic of city lights reflecting on the Marina Bay Sands. But now that we’re back, I’ve found myself lighting the good candle just because, pouring tea into the "special occasion" china, and pulling the good quilt over my knees as I read - feeling the cool after the drama,tically different temperatures.  Not waiting. Not saving. Not separating joy into compartments.

Singapore gave us the gift of beauty, but coming home gave us the invitation to recognize it—in the simple, in the slow, in the small.

I freely admit I love the atmosphere and cool air conditioning of a high-end mall- and in Singapore their air is even fragranced with expensive scents- the little buzz of wondering what you might spy (or whom!) and the holiday feeling of freedom that you might splurge perhaps.... The window displays of Haute Couture and the dazzle of jewels and watches worth as much as our home- but I had fully reached saturation by the end of our trip, and longed for birdsong, cooler temperatures and the treetop view from our tranquil bedroom. I was shopped out- a very rare occurrence for me! 

The trip reminded me how it feels to be dazzled. The book reminded me that I can feel that way, here, at home, in the everyday. My daily walks, the silky soft rumbling pile of fur at the end of our bed, the iris blooming in the garden, spring bursting forth, even picking up fresh produce locally and bumping into many familiar faces and members of the community, stopping to catch up, exchange a greeting or enquire as to their health. 

Real, simple, unfiltered everydays. 

And I think that was always the point.