The Smallness That Feels Like Everything
The other morning, before anyone else was awake, I stood in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil. Not the loud, rolling boil — but that soft, almost-whisper of steam before it bubbles over. I caught myself smiling at it.
It reminded me of other small things that shouldn’t mean much — and yet they mean everything. The way one of my children leans over her watercolours, tilting her head just before choosing the next colour. The little hum my other child makes when he’s happy without realising it. The sound of River Song’s paws padding across the mudroom floor before she settles down with a sigh. The cool, papery skin of garlic cloves before I press them into the cold soil, trusting that they’ll sprout when the earth is ready.
None of these things will make it onto a calendar or into a photo album. They’re too small. Too ordinary. But they are the very threads stitching my life together.
Pottery has taught me this, too. The magic isn’t only in the big reveal when the kiln opens. It’s in the way clay warms under my palms as I wedge it. The way a perfectly trimmed foot ring feels under my thumb. The hush that falls over the studio when I’m sanding a rim just right.
These moments don’t ask for applause. They don’t announce themselves. They just arrive, quietly, and leave traces in your heart that last longer than the moment itself.
We may not remember the date or the hour, but our bodies remember the warmth, the sound, the weight of them. And when life feels too big, I think it’s these small things — the ones no one notices — that hold us up the most.
Until next time,
Nawsheen, your friendly homebody artist from Murrumbateman.
