Savoring simple daily pleasures

There are moments in life when stepping away from the familiar doesn’t just offer rest—it offers revelation. I didn’t fully understand that truth until I returned from a few truly fabulous days in sunny Australia with one of my daughters. The trip was everything I needed: warmth on my skin, space in my mind, and distance from the day-to-day noise I didn’t realize I’d been drowning in.

But the real transformation didn’t happen on the beaches or under the bright Queensland skies. It happened when I came home.

Something in me exhaled.
Not the shallow breath you take while rushing from one responsibility to the next, but a deep, grounding release. A sense of relief I didn’t know I had been waiting for. I felt myself settling—comfortably, confidently—back into my own skin.

For the first time in a long while, I was present.

Not racing, not chasing, not planning three versions of the future at once. Just here. Just me. And that’s when the words of the Dalai Lama drifted back into my mind:

“Want what you have, not have what you want.”

That simple shift—from longing to appreciation—felt like turning a key in a locked door. Suddenly the ordinary parts of my life revealed themselves as extraordinary. And the things I thought I needed? Many of them lost their urgency. Gratitude has a way of shrinking unnecessary desire and expanding everything that truly matters.

When Presence Sparks Possibility

Interestingly, it was this newly grounded presence that reignited my imagination.

I started thinking—dreaming—about future passion projects: ideas that had been sitting quietly in the corners of my mind, waiting for the right moment to stretch and breathe. I felt a gentle spark of inspiration flickering back to life. Not the frantic kind of ambition that demands immediate action, but the calm, confident kind that knows it will unfold in its own time.

And that’s when another truth landed for me:

Not everything is meant to be shared before it’s ready.

In a world addicted to announcement culture, where every idea becomes an Instagram story and every half-formed thought turns into content, there’s something profoundly powerful about building in silence. I’ve learned that when you expose something before it’s fully formed, you dilute it. You give away its energy. You invite opinions, expectations, and noise into a space that is still too fragile to withstand them.

It’s said that when you share something prematurely, you lose 50% of its power.
I’ve come to believe this is true.

Our ideas need incubation.
Our dreams need privacy.
Our next chapters need room to grow roots before they bloom.

The Magic of the Private Season

There is a season for planting and a season for harvesting—but we often forget that there’s also a season for tending, nurturing, and quietly building. The private season is where the real magic happens: the sketching, the rethinking, the early morning clarity, the gentle course-correcting. It’s where passion finds direction and ideas find shape.

When we protect our creativity instead of broadcasting it, we give it strength.
When we stay present instead of projecting into the future, we give ourselves clarity.
When we want what we have, rather than chasing what we don’t, we create space for authentic inspiration to emerge.

Coming Home in More Ways Than One

Returning from Australia gave me more than sandy memories and sun kissed skin—it gave me perspective. It reminded me that the most important journey isn’t across oceans, but inward. Toward self-understanding. Toward presence. Toward appreciation.

I came home, yes.
But more importantly, I came home to myself.

And now, from this place of grounded clarity, I can dream again—quietly, intentionally, powerfully. The future feels exciting not because I’m desperate to get there, but because I finally feel rooted enough to build it.

In private first.
In public later.
In alignment always.

Savoring simple daily pleasures 

"Wanting holds us hostage in the future, never satisfied with the present moment."

How often do we catch ourselves saying, “I’ll be happy when…”? When we get the promotion. When we lose the weight. When we meet the right person. When life looks a little more like the picture we’ve painted in our heads.

But the truth is, this kind of wanting quietly steals our peace. It keeps our minds tethered to a version of the future that doesn’t yet exist — and might never look exactly how we imagine. We start living in a constant state of almost, unable to savor what’s already here.

The Art of Savoring the Present

When we slow down long enough to truly be in a moment — noticing how our morning coffee smells, how laughter fills a room, or how sunlight dances through the trees — something shifts. Gratitude starts to grow in that space.

Savoring isn’t about pretending everything is perfect. It’s about acknowledging that life is unfolding now, in small and beautiful ways, even when things aren’t exactly as we planned. The present moment is the only one that’s guaranteed — and when we learn to inhabit it fully, it becomes enough.

Gratitude as an Anchor

Gratitude grounds us in what’s real. It reminds us that while we may not have everything we want, we likely already have more than enough to be content, connected, and alive.

Practicing gratitude doesn’t mean giving up on growth or ambition — it means appreciating the ground you’re standing on while you walk toward what’s next.

Setting Intentions, Not Shackles

There’s a quiet wisdom in setting intentions rather than rigid goals. Intentions give us direction; they invite clarity and purpose without the heavy burden of a deadline or specific outcome.

When we attach our worth to whether something happens in the exact way or timeframe we expected, we set ourselves up for unnecessary disappointment. Life rarely unfolds in straight lines — but that doesn’t mean we’ve failed.

Intentions, on the other hand, allow space for life to surprise us. They guide us without trapping us. They let us move forward with openness rather than pressure, curiosity rather than control.

Coming Home to Now

When we release the grip of constant wanting, we return to what’s real: this breath, this heartbeat, this moment. And in that return, we find something we’ve been chasing all along — peace.

So yes, dream. Set intentions. Move toward what lights you up. But don’t let the wanting keep you hostage in the future. Life is happening here and now, and it’s quietly waiting for you to notice.

 Savoring simple daily pleasures 

As I lay awake in the early hours, listening to the steady hum of a purr beside me and watching the moon drift slowly across the sky, I found myself transported — not just in thought, but in feeling. One moment I was wrapped in the soft weight of my duvet; the next, I was nine or ten years old again, standing at the little iron gate of my grandmother’s home in Northamptonshire.

It was such a vivid transportation that I could almost smell the faint sweetness of her front garden — the mingling scents of lavender and freshly watered geraniums. The gravel crunched under my shoes as I made my way up the short shale path, leading from the gate to the front door. The house stood proudly at the end of a 1920s terrace, a modest corner property with stories soaked into its pebble dashed bricks.

To the right lived an elderly lady with a cloud of white curls and a Stannah Stair Lift that I’d found endlessly fascinating as a child. To the left, beyond a narrow passageway, was the little corner shop — its bell forever tinkling with the comings and goings of customers, its windows cluttered with handwritten signs and sweet jars that glimmered like jewels in the sunlight.

The front door was new then — a white, double-glazed plastic affair that my grandmother was immensely proud of. “All the rage,” she’d told me, beaming as she turned the key with a satisfying click. I step through now in my memory, and there it all is, exactly as it was.

To my left, the telephone table — a marvel of multi-function design: a little seat, a shelf for the phone, a place for the notepad and pencil, and a nook for the hefty phone directories that seemed to contain the whole world. A side lamp glowed there in the evenings, casting a warm, golden pool of light as my grandmother chatted with her acquaintances or jotted down messages in her neat, looping handwriting.

Beyond that, the stairs rose steeply — narrow carpeted treads that creaked beneath my socked feet. To the right, the dining room, a space that had once hosted Sunday roasts and family birthdays, later became my grandfather’s bedroom when his legs could no longer carry him up those stairs. It was a dignified, peaceful room, its bay window dressed with lace curtains that softened the view of the small front courtyard and street beyond.

I can still see the sideboard, a treasure chest of paints, brushes, and handmade cards — my grandmother’s artistic domain. She was a gifted watercolorist, and her cards were miniature masterpieces: delicate flowers intertwined with the name of the recipient, always painted with love. The built-in cupboards on either side of the fireplace were magical to me — their shelves lined with tea services, souvenir trinkets, and novelty ashtrays shaped like seashells or tiny animals or grown up jokes.

At Christmas, the tree stood proudly in that front room, its multicolored plastic lights twinkling like little jewels for all the street to see. I remember pressing my nose to the cold windowpane, mesmerized by their glow.

Straight ahead from the hallway lay the kitchen — a narrow galley, its blue Formica table and two chairs squeezed neatly into one end. The appliances were modest, the counters small, yet my grandmother managed miracles in that little space. There was always the scent of something comforting — bread pudding, apple crumble, or her famous rock cakes cooling on the rack. The back door, with its frosted, bubbly glass, opened onto the wash house, later turned into a potting shed. I think the twin-tub washing machine lived there once, though perhaps that’s just a trick of memory — I can’t quite be sure.

The sitting room was the heart of the home, tucked between the kitchen and the dining room. A gas fireplace, a three-piece suite, and French doors opening onto the small patio. It was always warm — the kind of warmth that comes not just from heat, but from safety and love. In later years, when my grandfather was confined to his wheelchair, my grandmother had a small fish pond built just outside the window so he could watch the golden flashes of life from his chair.

In that room, the cupboards held memories: board games, photo albums, yellowed snapshots of childhoods and pets long gone. On the shelves above — encyclopedias, atlases, and well-thumbed novels. I can still picture the narrow display shelf shaped like a little house, where my grandmother’s thimble collection stood in neat rows — souvenirs from across the UK, Spain, Malta, Ibiza. She spoke good Spanish, having traveled there with my grandfather years before, and sometimes she’d paint those places — their warmth, their colors — as though she could bottle the sunlight itself.

There was another collection too: silver teaspoons, each from a different town or holiday, their tiny emblems gleaming under the dust motes that danced in the light.

At the top of the stairs, the pink bathroom glowed like a sweet shop — from the carpeted floor to the fluffy U-shaped mat that hugged the base of the toilet. Even the toilet seat had its own cover, soft and pastel, and the famous “toilet roll dolly” stood guard — her frilly skirt disguising a secret stash of spare rolls. The air always smelled faintly of talcum powder and soap, and a wall-mounted heater buzzed softly on cold winter mornings.

My grandmother’s guest bedroom overlooked the garden — twin beds dressed with  candlewick spreads. It was a simple, tidy room, yet it carried a deep sense of comfort. I’d often lie awake there during the  weeks when my mother was working, homesick but safe, tracing the pattern of the wallpaper by moonlight and listening to the faint tick of the clock downstairs.

And then there was her room. Always neat, always fragrant with powder and lavender. Her nylon dresses hung in the small wardrobe, their fabrics whispering when you brushed past. On her dresser stood a silver-backed mirror, hairbrush, and comb — all gleaming from years of careful use — and beside them, a pot of peachy face powder topped with a puff tied by a pale aqua ribbon. I can still smell it, soft and floral, like comfort itself.

As the moon outside my present window slipped behind a cloud, the image of that house began to fade — the colors softening, the details slipping away like dreams do when morning comes. The purr beside me deepened; the cat stretched, and the warmth of the present slowly replaced the warmth of memory.

Still, as I closed my eyes, I could almost hear the faint clatter of teacups, the gentle murmur of the gas fire, and my grandmother’s soft humming from the kitchen — the eternal soundtrack of love and home.

My mind transported me again this time to my paternal grandmother's home. But that's for another day. 

 Savoring Simple Daily pleasures

My daily constitutional over the weekend took me down familiar streets that had been transformed for Halloween. The evening sun slanted through the trees, gilding everything in gold, while the air carried that faint edge of spring warmth — the kind that makes you forget the calendar for a moment.

Cobwebs straggled across hedgerows, the kind spun not by spiders but by enthusiastic small hands. Foam tombstones leaned slightly on front lawns, and paper pumpkins swung gently from mailboxes. Jack-o’-lanterns grinned from porches, their carved faces already softening a little in the sun. A frisson of excitement shimmered in the air, mixed with the giggles and shrieks of youngsters testing out their costumes ahead of the night.

Families gathered on street corners, older siblings urging the little ones to go ahead — go on, knock on the door, it’s okay! Familiar children ran up to me, proudly holding out handfuls of brightly wrapped loot, eyes wide with sugar and triumph. The smallest of them seemed less concerned with the haul and more entranced by the experience — the thrill of being out past their usual bedtime, dressed in fairy wings or floppy bunny ears, fluttering along beside the bigger, braver ghouls and superheroes.

I stopped to chat with a few neighbours, all of us basking in the mellow warmth of the late afternoon sun. Laughter carried easily between houses, and for a moment, I was tugged backward in time — to years of sticky hands tucked into mine, pumpkin-shaped buckets bobbing expectantly at our sides. Gosh, they grow so fast.

The next evening, I took the same route, but the scene had changed again. Where there had been cobwebs and candy, there was now a twilight market — another kind of magic altogether. The air was alive with music and chatter, the smell of sausages and tacos drifting lazily down the street.

Friends and neighbours strolled between stalls of crafts and garden plants, faces painted, gelatos melting faster than they could be eaten. Children raced in wide circles around their parents, ketchup stains glowing like badges of happiness. Couples sat cross-legged on the grass, swaying to the beat of a local band, while dogs trotted contentedly at their owners’ sides, tails wagging to the rhythm of the evening.

I wandered slowly through it all, taking it in — the laughter, the smells, the easy mingling of lives that brushed up against one another every day. Two very different nights, yet both full of the same thing: community, connection, that simple, grounding joy of belonging somewhere.

It felt, for a moment, like stepping into an all-American dream — Hope River, Gilmore Girls, Desperate Housewives perhaps — though without the glamour, and with a distinctive Kiwi twist.

As the sun dipped and the fairy lights began to glow, I felt deeply, quietly grateful — to be part of this place, this time, this gentle rhythm of ordinary wonder.