In the half-light, half-darkness of not-yet morning, I breathe peacefully, content to be tending to my own little world.
On the rooftop, my basil saplings are pushing against the soil, glistening after being watered half an hour ago. The kettle bubbles and gurgles over the fire. In some moments, it will let out that odd whistle-shriek I have grown familiar with. Droplets of condensation are pearling on the lid of the weathered teapot, falling back into the milk tea I poured a little while ago. The wind welcomes itself to a dance through my sleep-mussed hair. Clouds drift in and out of view from my window. Every now and then, the neighbour’s drying clothes wave at me and spread the scent of lavender.
These compositions of sounds and visuals are the building blocks of my small existence, the evidence of the littlest things falling into place.
It’s strange that I actually enjoy this: doing the dishes and other menial chores. It is not the task itself that draws me in. Rather, it is the meaning behind it: the crafting of my own little life, the making and taking of space in this never-ending, callous world.
Every chore is an act of creation.
I sign my name and intention each time I prepare to welcome myself into the future. Or each time I stretch lazily into the present, taking comfort in it.
It’s a beautiful life. It can be.
Note: Call me crazy but clothes drying on the line is somehow so romantic.