It is one of those Saturdays, quiet and warm and reflective. The smell of clean sheets rises in the air, mixed with the comforting scent of the summer breeze. Everything is soft, soft around me. Soft pillows, soft smells, soft memories.
My eyes are lost somewhere in the stream of light cascading through the window, following the ascension of dust particles in the atmosphere. Time melts around me, the barriers between past and present and future turn blurry, until they are but a point in the distance.
“You know, one day you’ll want children of your own…”
“Or maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll never be ready to have children, no matter how much I love them.”
I stared into the silence. Our outlooks were too different, our self-evident truths too disparate and we seemed only then to have come to that realisation.
“What’ll you do then?”
“Travel…I don’t know.” The answer, though truthful, felt lacking, missing a crucial part.
I was younger then, still unsure of countless things.
My gaze has not wavered from the open window. The sunlight must be warm and comforting.
I want to reach out and hold this light in my hands. Another part of me wants to cup it and…and let it grow.
I understand. Actually, I think I’ve known all along. There is a desire in all of us to nurture a life that is not our own. Children. But also pets, plants, art, projects. I believe we have this innate need to care for things, for people. We need it to survive, to feel needed and important. Caring for someone else gives meaning to life; it gives purpose to sacrifice. It is a reassuring thought : we may fade away, the day may come when we no longer have time to spend, but some part of us will always persist in someone, something else.
So yes, I want to cup that light and help it grow.
Right now, I also want to lean into it and close my eyes, letting my skin soak in all the wisdom of this ordinary-looking moment.
Oh simple saturdays, small saturdays and your great-life-realisations, I’ve missed you.