Appreciating the small things (but not all the time)

Sometimes we need permission to be grumpy  

What are the best things in life?

A clear run of green traffic lights on your usual route home.

A single successful swipe of nail varnish on a nail.

A perfect scoop of ice cream in a crisp cone.

Picking the most efficient passport queue.

Opening your book on the right page, even though your bookmark fell out.

A perfectly toasted marshmallow – crispy, gooey, and chewy all at the same time.

A moment in the garden when no one nearby is strimming/mowing/leaf-blowing/chainsawing or otherwise manhandling the silence.

The moment when your head hits your own pillow after days of sleeping in a strange bed.

Opening an optimal avocado.

Discovering your mandarin has not a single seed.

Hearing a long-lost song from your youth, while sitting in your car waiting for a child.

Babies’ heads.

A cup of tea at the top of a mountain.

A beer on a boat at 4pm.

Five minutes of bubblewrap popping.

A diagnostic discovery which turns out to be treatable.

Opening the jam jar when others have failed.

Blackberry jam.

These are all very individual and I realise not everyone will agree. I also accept that the syrupy “wellness” business of ‘Gratitude’ (has to have a capital G if you want to market it) and mindfulness and appreciating the little things in life is all very well and all very boring. Yes, yes, we know we are supposed to cherish every little rosebud that we see and marvel at the beauty of the raindrops gathering on the window, but God it can be hard work sometimes.

I live a life of extremes when it comes to seizing the day and all that. Some days I’m as ungrateful and intolerant as any angry radio DJ.

I live a life of extremes when it comes to seizing the day

Other days I’m in floods of tears as I cradle a perfect strawberry in my hand.

How do we live our lives to the fullest, without killing ourselves in the process? Maybe lying on your bed in grubby pyjamas scrolling through TikTok is actually just as important as paddling along a palm-fringed beach with your perfectly dressed children shrieking in delight around you.

I am constantly bouncing from imminent death to endless life (mostly metaphorically, but sometimes literally) and the push and pull of it is exhausting. The guilt about not living every day to its absolute fullest is almost as consuming as the guilt that comes from wanting to wallow in my own misery for weeks on end. Neither of these options is fair on my children, who would presumably prefer a mother who trundles through life more concerned about managing her chin hairs than whether she will die before the chicken in the fridge goes out of date.

Taking pleasure from the small things in life does help me through some of the darker days and I do feel bad for people who are not filled with joy when they manage to return all of their plastic bottles without a single sticky reject hurling itself back out of the machine. Taking a moment to appreciate a satisfying burp can sometimes be the best part of my week. And a successful potshot of an apple core into the distant compost bin is almost unbeatable in its pleasure.

But sometimes we need permission to be grumpy and ungrateful and selfish. We need to allow ourselves the opportunity to take a day off from being a better person. 

Then we can wake up again the next day and marvel at the wonder of a perfect soft-boiled egg.