Starting again
A Little Messy, a Little Whole
Every time I think I am on the wrong planet, I am actually moving a little closer to myself. Sometimes the universe leaves you in the wrong place… but the story always begins in the right one. Take a Sunday morning…
Every time I think I am on the wrong planet, I am actually moving a little closer to myself.
Sometimes the universe leaves you in the wrong place… but the story always begins in the right one.
Take a Sunday morning…
There was a small story in the kitchen.
The first batch of dough…
with one cup of flour too many,
turned into modelling clay.
Is life not sometimes like that, too?
A little too much of something upsets the balance.
Then came the second attempt…
calmer, more careful, more patient.
It was as though the disorder inside me was slowly settling.
Life was taking shape again between my palms.
And those fluffy little pişi, the fried dough puffs…
so warm, so soft…
small joys that reached our table and our neighbour’s plate, too.
Sometimes happiness does not stay within your own home anyway…
even its scent finds a way to other tables.
Just like a heart beginning to heal;
first it warms itself within,
then it brings light to those around it.
And perhaps this is what matters:
starting again with the same dough…
finding balance again within the same day…
and being able to say, a little more each time, ‘It is coming together.’
Because some stories are not perfect…
but that is precisely what makes them real.
That morning, we held cups from my favourite city…
filled with clove tea and freshly squeezed orange juice.
As we ate our pişi breakfast, we were watching the film Storm Boy.
The fluffy dough puffs on one side,
the warmth of tea on the other…
and that quiet story unfolding on the screen.
They all mingled in the same moment:
breakfast, a film and time slowing down.
And that scene…
Three pelicans: Mr Percival, Mr Proud and Mr Ponder.
On the beach… trying to learn to fly.
What stays with you most is Mr Percival’s first moment of courage.
Because sometimes this is exactly what life is:
thoughts, pride, waiting within you…
but the real turning point is that small moment:
‘Shall I try?’
And once that moment passes…
flight begins.
Then we looked at the world on the cup:
a plane, a plane ticket, a crown, a deckchair…
Brighton, a beach ball, ice cream, sunshine…
seagulls and a red telephone box…
‘Guess which country?’
But the real answer was not on the map.
My daughter’s answer was lovelier:
‘It does not matter which country any more… let us just start travelling.’
That was when I understood…
some journeys begin not with a visa, but with an intention.
Maps only show the direction, really…
the actual movement begins within.
With a glance, a sentence, an act of courage.
And sometimes you realise:
it is not about the destination…
but about being able to set out.
Then real life is waiting at the door again.
Things to do, deadlines to meet, small and large tasks scattered through the day…
that strange sense of unhurriedness drifting through the house…
As though there are things to do, but time is not shouting,
the house is messy, but it is in no rush,
and I flow along with it, in a rhythm somewhere in between.
Because sometimes it is not about the to-do list;
it is about staying present despite that list.
Being able to give yourself small breaks even while the tasks are waiting…
instead of waiting for the ‘right time’ to write,
finding a small writing break within the day…
Sometimes, too, being able to put on your trainers and step outside…
And really, all of this…
is about being right in the middle of life.
Before you begin tidying a home,
first greeting the space, as in Tidying Up with Marie Kondo…
Being able to pause and ask, ‘How does this place make me feel?’
In the small pauses scattered through life,
leaving a little joy within the moment…
The rhythm changes; a light breeze redirects the quiet flow of the day.
And the second half of the day reveals itself.
The kitchen counter, the rooms, the laundry, a walk…
yet it feels as though I will never catch up…
In between, my daughter’s geometry questions,
tidying a room,
folding the laundry,
brief breaths…
Perhaps none of it is finished.
But nothing is missing, either.
The same sentence keeps circling inside me:
‘If only our home were as lovely as a flower…’
The ironing is waiting.
Max’s bath has been put off.
Some corners remain unfinished…
And there are two voices within me:
One is rushing: ‘Finish it, next…’
The other whispers: ‘Slow down a little…’
Perhaps it was never about finishing anything.
It was simply about touching life as we pass through it.
Because life is not about being complete, but about continuing.
And we… are really always beginning again.