Notes on Stillness.
From October.
I’ve decided that from October onwards, instead of writing wonders of the month, I want to write about something I’m slowly learning to honour more than anything else: finding stillness and simplicity in daily life.
October is my favorite month. Autumn is fully here, everything is in ochre and crimson red hues. Everything is soft, wild geese are ready for departure and I am ready for waving farewell from my mother’s wooden porch. And, in those late October weeks, I felt a deeper pull toward simplicity and quiet. Towards finding pockets of stillness. Everything is a reminder that stillness doesn’t arrive on its own. We create it.
Last year I read The Ruthless Elimination of Hurry, and something in me shifted, quietly but permanently. I realised how much hurried life pace steals from me: my creativity, inspiration, tenderness in motherhood, my capacity to notice the tiny things that give shape to a beautiful life. Hurry flattens everything. For a long time, I tried following the steps in self-help books, adopting their systems and suggestions. And some were helpful, but none of them truly settled into my life until I simplified my world. Intentionally, gently, fiercely. Only when I made space for presence, when I chose to see everyday beauty, when I began loving what I already have, hurry loosen its grip.
Now I know how to slow down. Now I know where stillness hides. In small, steady rituals. In soft routines. In saying no. In letting things be enough. It feels like a bold claim, but I believe it: the world slows for no one. And if we keep waiting for things to calm down, we might wait forever. So instead I ask myself: How can I create that calm? Where can I carve out softness in the middle of everything?
Here’s how I’ve found small pockets of stillness and simplicity in October:
Slow morning walks without my phone. Just the cold air, the sound of my children’s footsteps, the soft crumble of leaves under our boots. No podcasts, no notifications, no distraction, only presence. These walks remind me how little I truly need to feel alive.
Lighting beeswax candles on dark afternoons. Their warm, honeyed scent fills the rooms as we read, sketch, or simply sit together. A quiet flame has a way of gathering all the scattered pieces of the day and gently placing them back into order.
Evening sketching by lamplight. After the children fall asleep, I open my notebook and slowly draw the things we’ve seen in the fields and around the house; a feather, a nest, a dried branch. My hands move softly, my breath steadies, and the world feels peaceful again.
A cup of spiced coffee with my sister. It happens in late afternoon, when the light is low and the air smells like woodsmoke. We talk about everything and nothing, warming our hands around the mug. These small conversations ground me more than I ever realise in the moment.
Reading in my floral bedlinen. Lamp on, blanket pulled up, pages turning slowly. I fall asleep early these days, but even a few minutes of reading feels like an exhale, a reminder that rest can be simple and nourishing, not something to earn.
Searching for abandoned nests and small seasonal treasures. On quiet walks, we notice the things that are easy to miss like curled shapes of old nests, the delicate architecture now exposed by fallen leaves. These tiny discoveries steady me, reminding me that nature moves slowly, confidently, without hurry.
Autumn trips for honey with my mum. We walk together through the muted fields, wrapped in warm coats, the air smelling of cold earth and distant woodsmoke. There’s something grounding about these slow journeys, the familiar path, the quiet conversation, the weight of the honey jars in my bag. A sweetness for the season, gathered gently.
Baking homemade bread in my new cast-iron pot. I finally treated myself to the set I’d been thinking about for months, and now the kitchen fills with the comforting scent of dough turning golden and crisp. There is simplicity in the rhythm of mixing, folding, waiting. The warm loaf cooling on the wooden board feels like a small anchor, a reminder that nourishment can be humble, slow, and deeply satisfying.
I hope you find time for slowing down too. I hope you’ll search for pockets of peace, calm and stillness in your life too. And I hope you’ll find inspiration to live a life with more simplicity through these letters.