A Time of Reflection
About slowing down and finding joy in the smallest of things & the tiniest of steps
Do you know the feeling when you have to pause, take a step back to get a new perspective and to figure out how to go on?
I’ve worked without a day off on several writing projects for close to two years. First because of excitement, my newly found creativitity, so many ideas, so many interesting and diverse projects. I’ve found my space again, my voice, I felt light and as if I was finally on a good path. I had reconnected with myself.
But pressure crept in. (She does that. Not as often as before, but still too often for my taste and sometimes I fail in noticing her reappearance. Maybe it’s because she uses new disguises.) It’s beginning to feel like it felt before. Unhealthy. Walking towards burnout again instead of having my strategies ready so it will not happen again.
Everything I wrote had to be better, come together faster, should be published sooner or more consistantly. It had to provide a stream of income. Not in years to come, but earlier.
I failed to see my progress. And come to think of it, there was a lot. Finding my way to writing again. All the diverse ideas I followed. The bubbly creativity. The sparks. Starting my Substack. Writing in a language that I love, but which isn’t my native tongue. The regular writing. My whole life circled around writing ideas and projects again.
And actually, I’m proud I’ve tried out so much. Instead of doing everything as perfect as possible or not at all. Trying, being creative, figuring it out along the way. Like life, right?
I felt a bit lost or overwhelmed lately. Not sure how to go on. I think, I need a bit of time, distance, a break to get a new perspective. To clear my mind, to regroup, to get my priorities right - and foremost to focus an self-care first again. (I seem to have neglected it. My heart says I did. Quite literarily. Heart palpitations for almost four months now.)
I need to slow down and think about what projects I want to follow and how. When I started this blog, I thought I already was further along the path of healing, of balance, of having reached a state of calmness and groundedness. Well, turned out, I still have a long way to go.
Or like
had put it so elegantly recently:It might be summer outside, but inside, you may find yourself in a sepia or monochrome season, the bright colours and sunshine, so close, yet so far. We can only feel as we feel, and sometimes we need a little reminder that’s OK.
The garden of winter is the same garden of summer. The soil has been nourished and the plants nurtured, yet it is the same soil, and they are the same plants.
Our season will come.
I find myself returning to my garden often now. Not because of summer, but because it soothes me whatever the weather or season.
One morning, I spontaneously started tearing out the ivy and small tree shoots from under the ornamental cherry and lilac to make room for more flowering plants. I discovered a rock crane’s-bill that secretly snuck over from the neighbours’. I helped it up, then transplanted a bloody crane’s-bill and some self-sown mini stonecrops as well.
I like the breathing space that I’ve created there now. It feels calming to look at it. I might not need undergrowth everywhere for the wildlife. Like with my many projects, everything can become too much, too muddled, too overwhelming if I let it do like it pleases. Sometimes I have to revisit it, think about what I want with this space, my time and my energy and wether less can be more, so that focusing on a particular project, giving it space and attention, can make it really shine. It’s about being intentional.
When we took over the house and garden four years ago, the garden was totally overgrown. Large bushes, trees, hardly any flowers. The previous owner had no interest in the garden and I had no energy for years. We only did the bare minimum (cut the lawn, the hedge, the bushes) and I created two flower beds by the patio and also put some pots on the patio.
This year is the first year that my flower seeds have really taken off and I can see sunflowers growing along the fence to the neighbours. I’d love more flowering plants, aiming for my secret dream of a cottage garden. Kelli Pease's newsletter has inspired and motivated me a lot. It doesn't have to be the whole garden at once. I can do it in small steps. Really tiny if necessary.
And speaking of tiny: I also discovered another bug species that morning, leaf green in colour, barely recognisable on the leaf: a green shield bug. So interesting to observe!
I’ve turned to meditation again in the last weeks, and I meditated in the garden for the first time. A place in the shades, a light, warm wind, my focus on birdsong. It felt so peaceful, so welcoming.
I sat on a wooden chair which otherwise only serves as a tray. I had put it in a place I’ve never sat before. It gave me a new perspective. On the garden. And on my thoughts.
The garden is my haven right now.
One day I sat on the patio in the shade with my husband from the morning till late in the afternoon and we talked. About life, frustrations and feeling stuck, turning fifty and low points, self-employment, projects, hopes we once had and the ones we have now, high points, successes in the past, have we already reached our peak?
Sitting together and really talking is always helpful, something happens every time when one or both of us feel stuck or not well. That day reminded me of my first summer after I’ve quit my job due to burnout, where we sat for hours on our bench on the patio, watching the birds, the bees, the shadows of bushes and trees wandering with the course of the sun, feeling the breeze, listening to the rustling of the wind in the trees.
Just being. Just being together. Enough. More than enough. Nothing more to wish for.
We were gifted with a pair of bullfinches at the bird bath for the first time ever in our garden that day. What a colour, what a distinctive red!
The first damselfly of the season found its way to our garden as well. So beautiful to look at, such special creatures.
I went for a walk early last Sunday morning. I visited our loved ones on the graveyard. Sitting on a bench, thinking about the past and the present, savouring the silence, not thinking at all. Feeling at ease with the birds all around me, the wind in the trees, a peaceful place.
When I went home, I noticed a difference that took me by surprise. I’d found a slower, more relaxed stride, a new rhythm - after years or decades, actually. It’s as if I was trusting the rhythm of life more, feel more relaxed with it, as if I had handed myself over to what I can’t control and be okay with it. Surrender and relax. For twenty minutes or so there was no pressure any more at all.
Last week, before it became all summerly and hot, I went for a walk in the rain. The snails had come out and there were so many in all sizes and with a great variety of snail shells, I hardly looked up any more, I focused on the tiny snails on the path before me, not wanting to crush one by mistake. It was a slow walk. I squatted down every now and then to take a closer look at a snail and marvelled at its perseverance, its dedication to going its own way, no matter how long it may take.
Sometimes I feel I’m only inching forward on my healing journey. Carefully, not wanting to get crushed while I’m finding my way, with a whole lot of baggage on my back.
But it’s fine. I’ll get there.
Thank you so much for being here and following my journey!
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I could relate to many of the things you wrote. For a long time, I tried to find my way back to what I could do before my burnout—only to realize I never will. And probably for the better. I need a new approach to life, and years later, I'm still figuring it out. Being a high achiever can become such a big part of one’s identity, and the rewards it brings can be almost addictive. Because to be honest, it's not very thrilling to be a snail compared to a multi-tasking superhuman.
I think that kind of healing journey is very much an up and down kind of rollercoaster. And that's ok and completely normal. It truly is learning how to slow down, and our surroundings aren't necessarily set up to do this naturally, making it even harder to do.