Changing the sheets on the bed.
Freshly washed, dried in the sun.
With that gentle, almost imperceptible scent of lavender soap.
Opening the windows after the rain.
Cool, clean air slips into the room, preparing it for easier sleep.
Coffee in my favorite clay mug. Sip by sip in the garden, on the swing, while my fingers turn the pages of a book.
Walks through fields rinsed by rain, stepping through tall, glistening grass in green rubber boots.
Watching the horizon, sketching it into a small black sketchbook.
Arriving in the morning garden. Standing before the blackberry bushes with the children. Lips stained, fingers dyed purple.
Pulling an ochre sweater from the bottom of the wardrobe. Pulling it over my head for a walk across the meadows.
These are the small things that, for me, mean simplicity. The beauty of the everyday. Grounding. Because simplicity, for me, is a way of seeing. How someone changes their sheets and feels joy. How they smooth the cotton pillowcase before lying down.
I recently visited my grandmothers. My mother’s mother was beaming as she showed me her bed. White cotton sheets, edged with lace, spread neatly across an old wooden frame. She lives in an old Slavonian brick house, the kind where the floor is poured concrete and the windows are double-paned, painted white, always cracked open just enough to let the air flow. The sheets drape softly over the sides, the pillowcases are vintage, the lace yellowed in places but still delicate as breath. It struck me then — how much happiness a simple act like changing the bedding can bring. I imagine her later that night, sinking into that cotton, feeling the cool smoothness against her skin. My other grandmother lives in a similar house, alone. Her days are filled with tending a small garden. There are only flowers, since she is too old and frail to dig or care for more. Bent and slow, she still cuts stems and sets them into a vase. Her yard is filled with old barns made of baked brick, barns that haven’t sheltered anyone for decades. There’s the heavy wood-fired oven from my childhood, when she used to leave six kneaded loaves in old baskets to rise. I’d watch as she pushed them in with a wooden paddle longer than her arm. The oven leans now, and the baskets are chewed at the edges by mice. Baskets my late grandfather wove by hand. In the sheds, willow-branch baskets hang from nails, the kind my late uncle made for carrying wood. I used to sit and watch him weave, for hours. They are all gone now, and the baskets hang there, as if waiting for those hands to return and fill them with logs for the fire or grass for the cattle. Those things. Those people and their absence always remind me of how beautiful simple living can be. How much grace there is in working with your hands, in making, mending, and reusing.
These days, I plan to continue simplifying home, to remove what’s unused. And between all that I will find simplicity in my mother’s garden, in gathering pears and apples, in baking cakes, in walking, in reading.
Simple act of moving through the fields, being quiet, breathing and observing trees, wild rabbits and greylags on the pond can bring you peace, stillness and simplicity.
Each morning begins with a walk, and another follows in the afternoon. Our black labrador, ten years old now, walks beside me. The rain has been coming at night and in bursts through the day. This whole week will be the same. So I pull on my green boots, and from the basket in the kitchen corner, I dig out a grey sweater, sometimes ochre one, and pull it over my head. And out I go again in the afternoon. I carry my wooden artist’s bag. I sit down in the meadow grass. Dry stalks cling to my trousers, and the stronger, greener blades, still soaked from rain, leave dark damp traces. There’s something tender about walking through wet fields. The dog digs in the distance, her paws tossing earth, chasing the scent of unlucky field mice. I sit, open my bag, and sketch into my small book. Small enough that I can finish something in the quiet because my little ones are waiting for me. As always. Morning walks are for them. Afternoon ones, sometimes, I keep for myself.
Seek and find simplicity in your mother’s garden, holding a warm cup of coffee as the day begins. Notice the way the steam curls into the morning air, the slow sway of branches, the soft hum of bees. This is how you remember what it means to live gently.
After breakfast, my sister makes us coffee. She wears long trousers and a cardigan, beige and knitted, with deep pockets that swing at her sides. Thick socks on her feet. Her hair is pinned into a loose bun, bangs falling and slightly touching her eyelashes. The coffee ritual is slow. The spoon clinking, the kettle steaming, milk foaming. We take it outside. I carry my daughter with a few of toys; red wooden cube and little wooden peg doll. My little boy plays with the rain soaked leaves, running around us. My sister sit at the wooden bench. I am on the swing. We drink coffee, breathing in the crisp air, our socks warm our feet. In the distance, mist wraps the woods and the fields. Autumn is here. My sister reads her Bible. I read a book. At the moment, I’m reading Anna Koska’s From Coast and Cove.
Learn to say no, not out of anger or guilt, but to protect your time, energy, and the space you need to feel balanced.
I’m saying ‘no’ more often now. No is a whole sentence, I remind myself. A day without plans is not laziness, it’s a deliberate slowing down. Because we all carry so much, no matter where we live or how simply we try to live. But if you stop long enough to look outside, to see what’s happening in the branches, in the shifting sky, you start to learn things about yourself. And now, with my children I want to protective their peace and their childhood too. I want them free, roaming around with people they love, in a space they feel light and safe.
Step away from your screen. Notice the light shifting, the rain tapping, the quiet waiting for you.
I’ve been stepping away from screens more often. Rainy days make it easier. There’s less to see online that can compare to the sight of clouds moving across the fields, or steam rising from tea in the morning sun. I’m learning that not-doing takes practice. It feels strange at first, uncomfortable even, when you’re used to crossing tasks off a list. But the more you do it, the more it becomes familiar, almost necessary.
Painting gives me space to pause and notice things I usually overlook. It helps calm my thoughts and brings a bit of peace in a busy day.
And I’ve found my way back to painting. Afternoon walks are the ones I keep for myself. In the mornings, the children come along, but when the house quiets and the sky feels heavy with that after-rain light, I take my wooden artist bag and go alone. The grass leans under the weight of raindrops, and each step makes a sounds. I find my spot, lower myself into the damp meadow, and open my bag. Inside, everything has its place; the small sketchbook, no bigger than my hand, brushes wrapped in linen, a tin of gouache, a watercolor palette. I paint in the meadow, in the field edges, wherever the dog decides to dig. The sketches are quick. A wash of color, a hint of shadow. Later, at home, I add the rest. It doesn’t happen every day, but twice a week at least, I give myself that walk, that sketch, that moment. Usually when the little ones nap, or when my mother keeps them close for a while.
Practice simplicity by caring for your clothes—mend what’s worn, repair what’s torn. Small repairs make things last longer and help you slow down.
Lately, there’s been sewing, too. I bought a machine. Carried home four floral pillowcases, two striped ones, and one green checkered one for my son’s pillow. The work is simple, the kind that brings its own peace; seams pinned, fabric folding under my fingers. I make small vintage-style stitches along the edges, little decorative seams. It makes me feel even more cozy in bed, while reading a book or simply writing my gratitude before sleep.
Working in the garden is a simple way to slow down. Planting, weeding, and watching things grow reminds you to be patient and appreciate the small, everyday moments.
And then the garden. The days blur together in the best way — me, my sister, and my mother in the raised beds. We pull weeds with soil under our nails. Tomatoes go into baskets for sauce. Plums fill buckets until our arms ache. The blackberries stain everything they touch and we don’t mind. They’ll become jam, or cake, or simply be eaten in the garden.
By the end of the day, my body is tired. The kind of tired that doesn’t make you feel heavy, but alive. And I think about how all these things, sewing, sketching, coffee in the garden, rain-wet meadows, blackberries staining my little one’s hands are not big, loud moments. But they are one true life. Simplicity is often found in simple, mundane acts of life itself. It’s space to notice the damp grass clinging to your trousers, the soft weight of foam on your coffee, the way plums smell in the sun. It’s living, but with both feet on the ground.
Little suggestions:
Read my latest countryside story. About picking apples, roasting peppers and pulling jumpers out.
What I’m sketching lately? Read it and see it here.
Latest Garden Notes, here.