There are patterns in our lives that we rarely stop to see, the quiet rhythms that guide us, the habits we repeat without thinking, the invisible routines that shape who we are. The way we always reach for our phone first thing in the morning. The particular route we take home, even when there’s a shorter one. The way we respond to kindness, to frustration, to silence. These small, repeated choices seem insignificant, yet they weave together to form the fabric of our days. Some patterns serve us, bringing comfort and structure. Others keep us stuck, old fears disguised as habits, outdated beliefs buried in routine. We tell ourselves we are just this way, without realizing that we are simply repeating what is familiar. But patterns can be changed. A different choice, even a small one, can shift the rhythm. A new response, a new habit, a new way of seeing can turn an unconscious cycle into something intentional. Maybe we don’t have to be trapped in the same loops forever. Maybe we can step back, see the patterns for what they are, and decide which ones are worth keeping, and which ones we are finally ready to break.
Light has a quiet way of transforming a space. The golden slant of the afternoon sun spilling across a wooden floor. The flicker of candlelight making shadows dance on the walls. The way city lights reflect on rain-soaked streets, turning the ordinary into something almost magical. The same room feels different at dawn than it does at dusk. In the morning, light is sharp, filling every corner with possibility. By evening, it softens, wrapping the space in a quiet kind of warmth. Even the harsh glow of a fluorescent bulb or the dim flicker of a dying lamp shifts how a place feels, how we feel within it. Perhaps that is why we are drawn to certain kinds of light. The way fairy lights make a room feel like a memory. The way firelight makes us feel safe. The way sunlight through lace curtains can make even an ordinary afternoon feel like something sacred. Light does not change what a place is, but it changes how we see it. Maybe that is true for more than just rooms. Maybe our lives, too, can feel different simply by shifting what we let in, what we focus on, what we allow to illuminate the spaces within us.
Not everything ends when we expect it to. Some things slip away before we have the chance to hold on. A conversation that was supposed to last longer. A friendship that fades without a goodbye. A moment so perfect, we assume there will be more, until there aren’t. We tell ourselves we’ll have more time. That we’ll call them next week. That we’ll say what we meant to say another day. But life does not always wait for the right moment. Some things end mid-sentence, mid-laugh, mid-heartbeat, leaving us with the quiet ache of almost. It is hard to accept that some endings come without closure. That some doors shut before we even realize we were walking through them. That we cannot always go back, no matter how much we wish we could. But maybe the lesson is not in trying to prevent endings, but in learning to cherish things while they are here. To say the words now. To be fully present in the moments we might later wish we had held onto. Because the truth is, we don’t always get to decide when something ends. But we do get to decide how deeply we experience it while it lasts.
Somewhere between the mountains of Ascona and the horizons only children can see, Ehan paused briefly, as if listening for a future calling his name.
“Do not disturb yourself by imagining your whole life at once.”
There is a terror hidden in the full picture.
A whole life, seen at once, would not look like a story. It would look like a debt. All the mornings already lost. All the rooms entered and abandoned. All the versions of ourselves we wore for survival and later mistook for identity. All the people we loved before we understood that love does not suspend time, it only makes time more visible.
Perhaps this is why life refuses to arrive as a whole.
It comes in fragments. A breakfast. A phone call. A meeting. A child asking the same question again. A parent walking more slowly than last year. A face in the mirror that has not changed suddenly, yet has somehow changed entirely.
We are spared the totality because we could not bear it.
But even in fragments, the exchange is always happening.
Thoreau’s sentence is merciless because it cannot be softened. The price of anything is the amount of life exchanged for it. Not the money. Money is only the symbol we use because it is less frightening. The real payment is attention. The real payment is the afternoon. The real payment is the tenderness we did not have left when we came home. The real payment is the inner life quietly thinned by years of wanting what everyone else wanted.
We say something was expensive when it cost too much money.
We rarely say it when it cost too much of the soul.
A man can lose himself in perfectly respectable ways. He can become efficient, admired, responsible, promoted, insured, well-dressed, reachable at all times, and still discover that some essential room inside him has been left unfurnished. Not destroyed. Not dramatically ruined. Simply unused. A room where wonder once lived. A room where he could hear himself before the world became loud enough to call that silence laziness.
This is one of the cruelties of adulthood. It does not always wound us through catastrophe. Often, it wounds us through repetition. Through usefulness. Through the slow training of the mind to value what can be measured. We learn to answer quickly, decide practically, buy conveniently, speak acceptably. Little by little, the wildness of being alive is replaced by the management of being alive.
Then one day aging begins to speak.
Not in philosophy. In the body.
The knee. The back. The tiredness after a day that once would have been ordinary. The photograph in which we recognize ourselves only after a delay. The first time a child sees us as old. The first time we realize our parents were not always parents. The first time we understand that memory is not a museum, but a house with lights failing in certain rooms.
And yet Bowie’s line carries a strange, difficult mercy.
“Aging is an extraordinary process whereby you become the person you always should have been.”
Not because aging makes us wiser by default. Many people age only into harder versions of their fear. But aging has a way of stripping the decorations from the false self. It weakens our appetite for performance. It makes certain ambitions look theatrical. It asks, with increasing directness, whether we have been loyal to our own life or merely obedient to the shape expected of it.
The tragedy is not that life is short.
The tragedy is that we often spend it before knowing its value.
We give years to anxieties that had no body. We rehearse disasters that never arrive. We carry insults longer than love. We postpone tenderness as if the heart were a bank account accumulating interest. We imagine that someday, after the work, after the pressure, after the next settlement of life, we will return to ourselves.
But the self we keep postponing is not waiting untouched.
It is aging too.
This is why Marcus Aurelius matters. In his work Meditations, he advises himself not to be overwhelmed by the thought of an entire lifetime, but to focus on the present task and the present moment. He is not telling us to avoid thinking about life. He is warning against thinking about it in a way that makes us incapable of living it. To imagine the whole life at once is to stand outside time like a judge. To live one day honestly is to stand inside time like a human being.
Maybe peace is not the absence of burden.
Maybe it is the refusal to carry the entire horizon in one pair of hands.
Today has enough weight. Not because it is small, but because it is real. The cup on the table is real. The person beside you is real. The work in front of you is real. The breath entering and leaving without asking permission is real. A life is not lived in the grand summary we keep preparing for some invisible audience. It is lived in the unnoticed transactions of attention.
And so the question is not: What do I want to achieve before I die?
That question is too easily corrupted by applause.
The harder question is: What is worthy of my disappearing life?
What deserves the only currency I truly possess?
Some things do. Most things do not.
To know the difference is perhaps the beginning of wisdom. Not a loud wisdom. Not the kind that announces itself in quotes and declarations. A quieter wisdom. The kind that changes how long you look at your child’s face. The kind that makes you call your mother without needing a reason. The kind that makes you stop mistaking urgency for importance. The kind that lets an old dream die without bitterness because you have finally recognized the life that is actually yours.
We do not get to keep our days.
We only get to decide what they become before they leave us.
And perhaps aging, at its deepest, is not the enemy standing at the end of the road. Perhaps it is the slow removal of everything we used to hide behind. The borrowed desires. The rehearsed identities. The needless shame. The hunger to be seen by people who never truly looked.
What remains after that removal may be smaller than what we imagined.
But it may also be truer.
A face without performance.
A love without display.
A day not sacrificed to the wrong altar.
A life no longer imagined all at once, but received, with trembling attention, in the only form it ever agreed to come.
One breath.
One hour.
One vanishing, immeasurable exchange.
By the way, did you know that I’m actively writing in malayalam also these days. Find them here. I’ve written a small book as well if you’re into that. If you like listening to stuff, do scroll through the selection of podcasts. If you’ve time, have a look at the visuals I’ve made. Grateful for your moment here. Keep coming back here : )
There are places we visit that exist nowhere on a map, strange houses we’ve never seen, endless hallways, sunlit streets that feel both new and familiar. They come to us in dreams, vivid and detailed, built from fragments of memory, imagination, and something we can’t quite name. We wake with a feeling—not always the memory of the dream itself, but of the space it held. A certain light. A staircase that led somewhere we didn’t reach. A room we somehow knew, though we had never been there before. These dream spaces vanish quickly, slipping through our fingers even as we try to remember. And yet, some of them stay. We revisit the same dream landscapes years apart, recognizing them without understanding why. A recurring hill, a city that doesn’t exist, a coastline we’ve never touched. Our sleeping mind constructs entire worlds that feel, in the moment, more real than waking life. What are these places? Memory reorganized? Symbol? Or a hidden part of our consciousness building something just for us? We may never know. But maybe not everything needs explanation. Maybe it’s enough to know that part of us continues wandering while we sleep, through imagined streets, unknown rooms, silent forests that vanish with the morning light, but leave behind a trace of wonder that lingers long after we open our eyes.
There is a particular kind of silence that only exists near cold water. Not the absence of sound exactly, but something heavier than that. A silence with weight to it, with presence. I felt it standing at the edge of a frozen lake in Montenegro, snow coming down slow and purposeless around me, the mountains ahead half-swallowed by cloud, the water so still it looked like it had given up on being water and decided to become something more permanent.
I stood there for a long time. Longer than made practical sense.
There was nothing to do there. No insight to extract, no photo that would actually capture it, no thought worth interrupting it with. Just the snow landing on the surface of the lake and disappearing. Landing and disappearing. I watched that for a while and felt something in me go quiet in a way that my ordinary life rarely allows.
It was the kind of place that asks something of you without speaking.
I’d been reading, around that time, a 12th century Persian poem called The Conference of the Birds, by Farid ud-Din Attar. A long, strange, devastating poem about a group of birds who set out on a journey to find their king, a mythical bird called the Simorgh, who lives beyond seven valleys, each one more annihilating than the last. Valley of the Quest. Valley of Love. Valley of Knowledge. Valley of Detachment. Valley of Unity. Valley of Bewilderment. Valley of Poverty and Nothingness. Most of the birds don’t make it. They find reasons to turn back in every valley. The heat is too much. They are too attached to something they left behind. They cannot bear what the next valley requires them to give up.
Only thirty birds reach the end.
And what they find there, I won’t say. But it undid me quietly, the way only true things do.
Standing at Durmitor, in that snow, I thought about those birds without meaning to. Because that landscape felt exactly like one of those valleys. Not the terrifying kind. The bewildering kind. The one where the path disappears not because something went wrong but because this particular stretch of the journey isn’t meant to be walked with a map. You’re meant to walk it uncertain, cold, watching snow fall into still water, not knowing what it means and slowly making peace with not knowing.
I think most of us are somewhere in those valleys right now. Not at the beginning where the excitement of setting out still carries you. Not at the end. Somewhere in the difficult middle, where you’ve given up enough that going back feels dishonest, but you haven’t arrived at anything yet that justifies what you’ve given up. That is an uncomfortable place to live. And yet almost everyone I know is living in it in some form.
The birds in Attar’s poem keep asking: how much further? And the answer, always, is that the question itself is the problem. The ones who make it are not the ones who suffer less. They’re the ones who eventually stop measuring the distance.
I’m not sure I know how to stop measuring the distance. I measure constantly. Progress, meaning, arrival, whether any of it is going somewhere. I stand at the edge of something vast and quiet and beautiful and part of me is still somewhere else, still calculating.
But for a few minutes that morning in Montenegro, in the snow, I wasn’t.
The cloud was sitting so low on the mountain that the treeline just dissolved into grey halfway up, and beyond that was nothing you could name. Just weather and altitude and the suggestion of something enormous behind it all. There was a small cabin across the lake, barely visible, a thin dark shape against all that white. Someone built that there. Someone chose to be that close to that much silence and that much wild.
I thought about what it takes to choose that. To build your life that close to the unresolvable.
Maybe that’s what the poem is really about. Not the destination. Not the Simorgh, not the revelation at the end. But the slow, difficult, deeply personal process of becoming someone who can tolerate the valley. Who can stand in the bewildering one, in the cold, watching something beautiful that refuses to explain itself, and not immediately need it to mean something that fits neatly inside language.
I am not that person yet. I want to be. I catch glimpses of it, usually in places like that one, where the world is large enough that my need to understand everything becomes briefly embarrassing and then briefly releases.
The snow kept falling. The lake kept receiving it without complaint.
I took a photograph that couldn’t hold any of it, and then I just stood there a while longer, umbrella in hand, letting the cold do what cold does. Strip everything back to what’s actually there.
I don’t know what I was looking for at that lake. I don’t know if I found it.
But I think the not-knowing, held without panic, might be the closest thing to an answer that this kind of question allows.
By the way, did you know that I’m actively writing in malayalam also these days. Find them here. I’ve written a small book as well if you’re into that. If you like listening to stuff, do scroll through the selection of podcasts. If you’ve time, have a look at the visuals I’ve made. Grateful for your moment here. Keep coming back here : )
I recently read A Month in the Country by J. L. Carr, a short novel from 1980s that appears very simple from the outside, but leaves behind a stillness that keeps widening after the last page. I thought of writing down my reflections from my read of it.
The plot is almost bare. A man named Tom Birkin, damaged by the First World War and by the collapse of his marriage, arrives in a small Yorkshire village in the summer of 1920. He has been hired to restore a medieval wall painting hidden beneath layers of whitewash in an old church. Another former soldier, Charles Moon, is nearby, searching the grounds for a lost grave. One man works on the wall. The other works in the earth. One uncovers an image. The other uncovers a buried body.
That is the story, outwardly.
But inwardly, the novel is about a man slowly returning to life. That’s the part of the novel that has moved me.
What stayed with me most was not the plot itself, but the manner in which healing happens in the book. There are no speeches about trauma. No dramatic confession. No one sits Birkin down and explains his wounds to him. No one gives him a philosophy of recovery. No one tells him that time heals, or that he must be strong, or that he must move on.
Instead, healing arrives almost unnoticed.
It comes through work.
It comes through weather.
It comes through being fed.
It comes through the rhythm of a village.
It comes through the quiet concentration of restoring something beautiful that had been covered over.
There is something deeply truthful in this. Very often, when we speak of healing, we imagine it as an event of understanding. We think we must name the wound, analyse it, explain it, narrate it, expose it under a bright light. There is value in that, of course. But A Month in the Country reminds us that some forms of restoration do not begin with explanation. They begin with the body finding a rhythm again.
A man wakes up.
He climbs a scaffold.
He scrapes away whitewash.
He eats.
He listens.
He notices the light.
He meets people who do not treat him like an idea or a case.
Slowly, he becomes less ghostly.
That, to me, was one of the great layers of the book. Healing is not always a lecture about trauma. Sometimes it is the reintroduction of ordinary life into a person who has been exiled from it.
Birkin comes to Oxgodby as someone visibly marked by war. His face twitches. His speech is affected. His marriage has broken. He is poor, displaced, and uncertain. But the village does not heal him by understanding him completely. In fact, most of the villagers probably do not understand him completely at all. They simply make room for him.
This is a powerful thing to ponder.
Perhaps we do not always need to be completely understood in order to be helped. Sometimes we need to be included. We need to be given tea. We need to be expected somewhere. We need someone to ask whether we have eaten. We need a task that asks something honest from our hands. We need a place where the nervous system can slowly believe that the war is not still happening.
The central image of the book is the hidden mural in the church. A medieval painting of the Last Judgment lies beneath layers of whitewash. Birkin’s task is to uncover it without destroying it. He must be patient. Too much force would damage what remains. Too little effort would leave it buried.
This image felt almost like a map of the human heart.
So much of life covers us over. Grief, disappointment, fear, routine, humiliation, exhaustion, compromise. Layer after layer gathers on the original image. We do not disappear exactly, but we become hidden even from ourselves. Then, if grace comes, it may not come as a sudden transformation. It may come as careful removal. A little clearing here. A little colour there. A line reappearing. A face slowly coming into view.
The novel does not say that Birkin becomes a completely new man. That would have been less convincing. It says something quieter and more believable: for one summer, he becomes available to life again.
That distinction matters.
There are books that speak of healing as if it means becoming untouched by the past. Carr seems to understand that the past remains. The war remains. Loss remains. The failed marriage remains. But something else also remains beneath all of it. A capacity for attention. A capacity for beauty. A capacity for tenderness. A capacity to respond.
Maybe this is what restoration really means. Not returning to an untouched condition, but recovering enough of the buried image for light to reach it again.
The church setting adds another layer. Birkin is restoring a religious painting inside a church, but the most sacred force in the novel does not come through formal religion. The vicar, Reverend Keach, is cold and dry. He is not a melodramatic villain, but he has the air of someone who lives near sacred things without being moved by them. The church as institution feels stiff. Yet the painting itself, the labour of restoration, the sunlight in the village, the kindness of the chapel family, and the companionship between damaged people all feel deeply sacred.
I found this contrast worth pondering. Sometimes the sacred is not where it is officially announced. Sometimes it is in a meal brought by a child. Sometimes it is in honest work. Sometimes it is in a field. Sometimes it is in the silence between two people who know suffering but do not need to display it.
Charles Moon, the other veteran, is important here. He is searching for a grave while Birkin uncovers the mural. Their friendship is understated, but meaningful. They do not overexplain themselves to each other. They are both survivors of something that language cannot easily hold. Their companionship has the dignity of shared damage without sentimentality.
I liked the symmetry of their work. Birkin looks upward to the wall. Moon looks downward into the ground. The book seems to say that the past is hidden in many directions. Some of it is painted over. Some of it is buried. Some of it is carried in the body. Some of it is preserved in stories people no longer understand.
The village itself becomes a kind of medicine. Not because it is perfect, but because it is alive. There are meals, chapel gatherings, work, gossip, sunlight, fields, trains, voices, and small obligations. Birkin is not treated as a grand tragic figure. He is absorbed into the everyday.
This is another beautiful insight from the book: ordinary life, when it is kind, is not ordinary at all. It is one of the great shelters available to us.
Then there is Alice Keach, the vicar’s wife. Her presence gives the novel its ache. Birkin is drawn to her. She is lonely, beautiful, and emotionally distant from the life she is trapped inside. Their connection is delicate, mostly unspoken, and finally incomplete. Nothing dramatic happens between them. Yet the possibility of love, or at least of being seen and desired again, becomes part of Birkin’s restoration.
This part of the novel is painful because it belongs to the realm of almost. The life that almost opened. The words that were almost spoken. The choice that almost became possible. We all carry such rooms inside us. Not necessarily romantic ones, but rooms of possibility. A different path. A person we might have known better. A city we might have stayed in. A season we did not understand until it had passed.
A Month in the Country is filled with this feeling of belated understanding. The older Birkin is remembering a summer from long ago. The whole book is written with the knowledge that the month did not last. This is what gives it its melancholy radiance. Even while we are inside the summer, we feel it vanishing.
That is perhaps the deepest truth of the book. Some periods in life heal us without becoming permanent. A place may save us for a while, but not become our home forever. A person may awaken us, but not remain with us. A season may restore us, but still end.
And yet, the ending does not cancel the grace.
This is something I have been thinking about after finishing the book. We often judge experiences by whether they lasted. If something ended, we are tempted to think it failed. But some things are not meant to last in the form in which they arrive. Their work is different. They enter us, alter the inner weather, and leave. Their permanence is not outside us, but within what they made possible.
For Birkin, Oxgodby is not a final destination. It is a clearing. A temporary mercy. A place where the buried image of the self is made visible again.
That may be why the book feels so tender. It does not exaggerate life. It does not promise that beauty will solve everything. It does not turn healing into triumph. It simply shows a damaged man placed for a short while among work, kindness, art, weather, and unfulfilled love. And it shows that this was enough to matter for the rest of his life.
I also loved the idea that art can connect the wounded across time. Birkin never knows the medieval painter personally, of course. The man is long dead. But through the painting, through the choices of colour and line, Birkin begins to sense him. One craftsman recognises another across centuries. The restorer becomes intimate with the original hand. This is one of the quiet miracles of art: a person disappears, but their attention remains.
To create anything sincerely is to leave behind a form of attention.
Someone else, perhaps much later, may find it.
Someone else may restore it.
Someone else may be restored by restoring it.
That thought moved me.
The book made me think of all the hidden murals in human life. The tenderness hidden under defensiveness. The faith hidden under fatigue. The beauty hidden under shame. The old self hidden under the person we became in order to survive. The colour hidden under whitewash.
And it made me think that healing may require a very gentle hand. We cannot scrape too violently at ourselves or others. We cannot demand immediate revelation. We cannot force the buried image to appear all at once. Some restoration work requires patience, humility, and the willingness to stand on the scaffold every day, removing only what can be removed that day.
This is why A Month in the Country stayed with me. Not because it gave me a grand message, but because it gave me an image.
A man wounded by war stands in a quiet church, slowly uncovering a painting of judgment and eternity. Outside, summer passes. People feed him. A friend digs in the earth. A woman looks toward him from a life he cannot enter. The village goes on. The world does not explain itself. Yet something in him returns.
That is enough.
Sometimes healing is not a revelation. Sometimes it is a season.
Sometimes it is a room above a church.
Sometimes it is work done by hand.
Sometimes it is a kindness that does not announce itself.
Sometimes it is the slow return of colour beneath everything that once covered us.
Sometimes it’s a blog that someone like me writes as a personal outlet of throughts, and feeling gratitude that someone special like you found time to read it till the end . : )
By the way, did you know that I’m actively writing in malayalam also these days. Find them here. I’ve written a small book as well if you’re into that. If you like listening to stuff, do scroll through the selection of podcasts. If you’ve time, have a look at the visuals I’ve made. Grateful for your moment here. Keep coming back here : )
We spend so much of life planning, mapping out the next step, the next achievement, the next version of ourselves. We tell ourselves that once we get there, once we arrive at that imagined future, we will finally feel settled, finally feel complete. But life does not wait for plans. It happens in between. In the quiet mornings before the day begins. In the unexpected laughter shared with a stranger. In the pause between where we are and where we think we should be. While we are busy chasing the next thing, life is unfolding, subtly, beautifully, without permission. It is easy to believe that real life is waiting for us somewhere ahead, in the goals we have yet to reach. But what if the most important moments are happening now, in the spaces we overlook? What if the best parts of our story are not the ones we planned, but the ones that surprised us? Perhaps happiness is not something waiting on the other side of accomplishment. Perhaps it is found in the way sunlight filters through a window, in a song playing at the perfect moment, in the small, unremarkable joys that fill the gaps between our plans. So pause. Look around. Life is not waiting for you to catch up. It is happening now, in the spaces in between. And if we are not careful, we might spend our whole lives planning for a future that was never the point.
I was reading Atul Gawande’s Being Mortal late at night when the house had gone quiet, one of those books you put down midway not because it lost you but because it found you too precisely, and I came across a question a doctor had started asking his dying patients. What does a good day look like to you? What are you afraid of losing? Simple questions. Almost embarrassingly simple. And yet most people had never been asked them. They had the answers ready. They’d just been waiting, maybe for years, for someone to finally create the space.
I closed the book. I didn’t pick it back up for a while.
I just sat there thinking about everyone I love and how rarely I ask them anything close to that. Not because I don’t care. Because I always assume there’s more time. Because asking it on an ordinary evening, without a reason, without a crisis forcing my hand, feels like too much. Like I’d be introducing a weight the moment didn’t call for.
But that’s the thing I keep coming back to. We’re always waiting for the moment to call for it.
And it never does. Life doesn’t clear its throat and announce that now is the time to say the true thing. It just keeps moving, and we keep moving with it, and the true things stay inside us, fully formed, waiting for a door that opens on its own. It mostly doesn’t.
I think about how many conversations I’ve had with people I genuinely love where I said the approximate thing instead of the actual thing. Where I came close, circled it, and then pulled back at the last second because saying it out loud felt like too much exposure. Like handing someone something fragile and watching them decide whether to hold it carefully or set it down. That possibility, of someone setting it down, is enough to keep most of us quiet for years.
So we speak in the language of almost. We imply. We suggest. We say “you know I’m here” instead of “I’m scared of losing you.” We say “it’s fine” instead of “this is hurting me more than I’ve let on.” We perform okayness so consistently that we forget we’re performing it, and then one day we’re surprised to feel so unseen by the very people who are closest to us.
But they’re not not seeing us. They’re seeing exactly what we showed them.
I’ve done this my whole life in different ways. Held things in because letting them out felt risky, or inconvenient, or like too much to ask someone to carry. I’ve watched relationships quietly thin out not because anyone stopped caring but because nobody said the thing that would have kept them thick. You don’t always know that’s what’s happening while it’s happening. You think you’re being considerate. You think you’re protecting the other person. Sometimes you’re just afraid.
And I understand the fear. I really do. Because saying the real thing makes it real. As long as it stays inside you it’s still yours, still safe, still something you can revise. Once you say it, it lives in the space between two people and you have no control over what happens to it next.
But here’s what I’ve started to understand, slowly and reluctantly the way you understand most important things. The not-saying has a cost too. It’s just a quieter one. It doesn’t arrive all at once. It accumulates, the way dust does, in the corners of things, until one day the light hits a certain way and you see how much has gathered without you noticing.
People leave this life, and sometimes they leave it without ever knowing what they genuinely meant to someone. Not because nobody felt it. Because nobody said it while there was still the ordinary ease of time to say it in. While it could have been said over breakfast, or in a car, or standing in a kitchen doing nothing in particular. Those are the moments. Not the grand ones. The unremarkable ones that are only precious in hindsight.
I don’t want to keep learning things only in hindsight.
I’m trying, genuinely trying, to be someone who says it while it’s still early enough to matter in the everyday way. Not the dramatic, last-chance way. The quiet, Tuesday-afternoon way. Where saying “you mean a lot to me” isn’t a goodbye, it’s just the truth, offered plainly, because the person in front of you deserves to know it while they’re right there in front of you.
I’m not good at this yet. I still swallow things. I still choose comfort over honesty more than I should. I still sometimes talk around the real thing and hope the other person is fluent enough in me to find it on their own.
But I’m more aware of it now than I was. And I think awareness, even when it’s uncomfortable, is the beginning of something.
The dying patients in that book, when finally asked what mattered, knew immediately. No hesitation. They’d always known. They just hadn’t been asked.
I don’t want to wait to be asked.
By the way, did you know that I’m actively writing in malayalam also these days. Find them here. I’ve written a small book as well if you’re into that. If you like listening to stuff, do scroll through the selection of podcasts. If you’ve time, have a look at the visuals I’ve made. Grateful for your moment here. Keep coming back here : )
I once kept a plant on a windowsill for so long without any sign of life that I genuinely forgot why I had kept it. The soil had gone pale and compact. I watered it out of something closer to guilt than hope. And then one morning, unremarkably, while I was looking at something else entirely, there was green.
That’s the thing about thresholds. They don’t announce themselves.
I’ve been thinking about the relationship between time and trust. Not as a philosophy, but as a daily practice that most of us are terrible at. We know, somewhere in the back of us, that things shift. That the heavy seasons have always eventually thinned. That we have survived every difficult version of ourselves so far. We know this. And still, in the middle of a long winter, the knowing does almost nothing. The knowledge is there and the comfort is elsewhere, and the distance between them is where most of the suffering lives.
There’s a word in Arabic — sabr — usually translated as patience, but that translation doesn’t quite carry the weight of it. Sabr is closer to steadfastness. It implies an active holding-on, a choosing not to collapse even when collapse would be easier. It is not the patience of someone who is fine. It is the patience of someone who is not fine and is staying anyway.
I think a lot of us are practicing sabr without knowing it has a name. I know I am. Or trying to. Some days I fail it completely.
I lose patience faster than I’d like to admit. When things don’t move, when situations don’t resolve, when the slow burn of difficulty sits in the chest too long, I feel it tip into something sharper. I’ve said things I didn’t mean. I’ve contracted when I wanted to expand. I’ve let the fire in me burn what deserved to be warmed instead. This is not a confession so much as an honest inventory. I am someone who knows the value of stillness and still fidgets. Someone who believes in the long view and still flinches at the short one.
But I think that’s allowed. I think you can hold a beautiful idea and be bad at it. I think the wanting to be better is itself a kind of becoming.
What I’ve noticed, in myself and in people I love, is that waiting for something to change often looks indistinguishable from being stuck. From the outside, and sometimes from the inside too. You can’t always tell if you’re enduring something necessary or prolonging something that should have ended. That uncertainty is its own weight. And no one talks enough about how exhausting it is to simply not know which kind of waiting you’re in.
But flowers don’t know either. The bulb underground in January doesn’t know if the warmth is coming. It just holds its particular form of life in the dark, without evidence, without reassurance, without anyone looking.
Maybe that’s the closest I can get to faith. Not certainty about outcomes, but a willingness to remain in the shape of something that can still bloom.
Grief is strange that way. When you’re inside it, it feels structural, like it is the building now, not something in the building. Like removing it would remove the walls. And so you walk around it carefully, live around it, set your routines around its particular geography. And then one day you realize you’ve stopped navigating around it. It’s still there, maybe, but it’s not the architecture anymore. You don’t remember when that changed. You were looking at something else.
I don’t think this is comfort, exactly. I think it’s just what’s true.
The last thought I can’t stop returning to is the simplest. Gratitude first. Then patience. Then faith. Not as a formula. More like a sequence that reveals itself in hindsight. You look back and think: oh, that’s what those years were. That’s what I was doing without knowing I was doing it.
Gratitude is the hardest to locate when you need it most, which is why I think it has to come first. Not because it’s easy but because it’s the only thing that softens the ground enough for anything else to grow in.
I’m still learning this. Imperfectly, repeatedly, sometimes embarrassingly. But the fact that it still matters to me, that I still want to be someone with more grace in the difficult moments, more steadiness when the heat rises, more room in me for what’s hard, that wanting feels like something. Not arrival. But movement. And maybe that’s enough to keep going with.
The plant on the windowsill is taller now. I don’t know what it’s called. I never looked it up. There’s something I like about that. Tending to something without fully understanding it, and watching it live anyway.
By the way, did you know that I’m actively writing in malayalam also these days. Find them here. I’ve written a small book as well if you’re into that. If you like listening to stuff, do scroll through the selection of podcasts. If you’ve time, have a look at the visuals I’ve made. Grateful for your moment here. Keep coming back here : )
