Lately, I’ve been noticing the world differently.

 

Out in nature, and in the ordinary, everyday process of being human.

 

The way light falls on tarmac after heavy rain.

 

Raindrops sliding down a window.

 

The sound of wind catching in the tops of trees.

 

I’ve started noticing buds on shrubs I’ve passed for years. Bark exposed where deer have nibbled it — deep colours, intricate, unexpectedly beautiful. Soft to the touch. The texture and colour of different kinds of moss. I had no idea there could be so many.

 

Every day reflects light differently on every surface. No two daylights are the same — and yet that’s how I used to lump them all together.

 

Slippers are a joy. Whoever invented them deserved a knighthood.

 

Mugs are interesting too. Each has a backstory. Some arrive as gifts, some as prizes or adverts. Some have simply always been there. Milk is no longer just milk — it’s an experiment in variety and taste. The sound of the kettle. The fridge door opening and closing. Milk being poured. The smell of honey. The soft clink of a teaspoon against the drainer.

 

All of these things feel louder than before.

 

I use a small chrome frother with my hot drinks. It has a pleasing weight to it, and hearing it whirr has become a quiet staple of the day — nothing frivolous, just part of a simple ritual.

 

Other small repetitions have been settling into my days too. Candles lit after dinner. Asking Alexa for slow, classical music rather than anything with pace. Buying flowers, for no reason.

 

I remember working at a publisher’s when I was eighteen, one of the other secretaries buying flowers for herself on the last Friday of every month. A payday treat, she said. I remember how that landed in my body at the time — the same way the idea of soft cushions did. Such an indulgence.

 

I understand it now.

 

Strangers and I exchange more glances and smiles. Or perhaps I’m the one meeting their eyes more often now, smiling first. Maybe they were always trying to meet mine and I never noticed.

 

I listen more than I talk. I enjoy listening deeply. It feels like a privilege to hear another person’s thoughts — to know what matters to them, to really hear them.

 

I’ve grown curious about film too, particularly slow films that bear witness to real things and real places. I’ve become slightly addicted to the BFI Player channel, with its extraordinary archive — often black and white — that so many modern films quietly draw from.

 

I’ve bought a leather notebook and started writing poetry. Nothing for publication. Just for me. Just to see what emerges when the senses are given more space, when the world is allowed to speak first.

 

I don’t know what comes next.

 

Only that this feels real.