this is what a grounded morning looks like

when was the last time you really looked at the sky?

hello quiet reader, popping in quickly to ask how you’re doing this winter? if you’re struggling a little like i do every year, i made a mini zine on how to find comfort this season that might bring you some solace. making it certainly did for me :’) check it out here.

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there’s a break in the clouds. i look out of my window and just above the horizon, there is a strip of colourless light peeking through the thick clump of bluey grey clouds. the sky looks like it’s opening up like an ancient storybook or a coveted treasure chest, nothing but an almost blinding light that’s about to fill my entire scope of vision. it’s still winter, but this morning, something felt a little lighter in the air. the sky is starting to wake up a little earlier and there’s proof of it, not just outside my window, but dotted all around my house.

the kettle is boiling beside me. when i came downstairs this morning, the hallway had a blueish hue, the sort of blue you would only see at this time of year—murky, a little melancholy, but like all of nature, a little breathtaking. it’s bright enough that i don’t struggle to find my slippers at the bottom of the stairs. the first sign of sunshine has also found itself lying on top of our dining table. the tiles at the bottom of my feet have changed colour a bit. the tulips look a little dull in this light, but i am just happy to see them without switching on a light first.

i know we still have a way to go, spring equinox is nestled right at the end of the month for eager daffodils, but i can feel it now, it’s starting to get lighter a little earlier. before, i used to watch the morning sky, stretching in all directions like a body waking from deep slumber, and try to predict whether i could hang laundry outside or not. i enjoyed reading the sky’s fortune, looking for signs of a cloudless day. but now i can occupy myself with watching how the sky just knows. watching the cycle begin again once more. glancing at my clock each morning and finding light at an earlier time each day. my feet are still cold but slowly, my heart is warming up.

i shake my oat milk furiously. every morning i am irrationally worried this will wake my partner, fast asleep upstairs, but the carton is about half empty now, so these are perfect conditions for a frothy tea. i watch the thick liquid pour into my favourite mug, the colour of my tea goes from the colour of damp soil to a light beige and with lots of bubbles on top. i feel like minjun from the book welcome to the hyunam-dong bookshop, trying his best to make the perfect cup of coffee, persevering through life’s unpredictable nature to create some sense of consistency in his life. no mater what happens today, i always have this morning ritual to ground me. there isn’t much art to creating a good cup of tea as opposed to a cup of coffee, but i enjoy the practise anyway. i swirl the mixture together, not too rigorously, only three to four cycles. in my experimentation, i’ve found this makes the tea a little thicker. i return to my blue staircase to have my first sip upstairs in the sun room.

the curtains are still drawn a little so i eagerly let the blue cosy up with our sage green painted walls in here as well. my monstera and i have our first sip of sustenance together.

since the big move from london, i have neglected this plant a little and there are some yellow and browning leaves. my heart breaks when i look at it. i’ve had this plant for a few years now and all it has done is thrive. a couple of weeks in a shadowy corner of our home while we sort through boxes and furniture and suitcases and more boxes has left it depressed, it seems. but it never fails to surprise me how similar we are. we too get a little depressed when we haven’t been nurtured, haven’t seen our friends in a while, haven’t been hugged, taken care of, loved.

i’ve since moved the plant into this room, the side of the house with the most light, and i’ve given it a hefty drink of water. surprisingly, the other day, i noticed a new leaf sprouting against one of its stems. it’s still going strong despite its yellow highlights. before i saw this leaf, i googled yellowing leaves like a hypochondriac. apparently the plant uses nutrients from its dying leaves to let new ones grow. i was pessimistic at the time, thinking it was all over, wishing somehow i could make them green again. it seems all i need to do is trust the process.

i take a few more sips of my cup of tea and get a cramp in my hand from holding my pen too tight as i journal. after a while, i lift up my head and i see the blue around the room has disappeared and has been replaced with a whiter light. the break in the clouds has gone and the sky is officially awake. i can turn off my lamp now. i stare at the soft brush strokes of sun in between the patches of dense and sparse clouds for a moment. today’s sky fortune looks like the kind where clouds peel off the sky a little to reveal the plain blue canvas underneath. i think i’ll do a load of laundry today.

early morning in the sun room

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hello quiet readers, something a little different today, but i really enjoyed writing this. i like taking small moments like these and writing about them, i hope you enjoy reading them too. spring is definitely on it’s way and as exciting as it is, i’m still being careful not to rush through the seasons. how are you feeling about the sky getting a little brighter each day? are you excited for spring or are you still gripping onto these last few weeks of cosy season? let me know.

thank you for reading this week’s post and supporting finding quiet. i hope you’re all enjoying last week’s winter edition of the quiet list and to those of you who bought one, your handmade zines! if you’d like one too, it’s not too late to get yours here or become a paid subscriber to get yours for free every season <3

okay, that’s all from me, i’ll see you next week <3