Some days just feel like oatmeal.
Not in a bad way. More like the comfort of it — safe, maybe slightly boring, but dependable.
Today was one of those.
I sat on my fire escape for a while — technically not allowed, but I’ve always thought fire escapes are wasted when they’re only used for emergencies.
There’s a whole view out there, even if it’s just the brick of the next building. You can still see sky if you tilt your head right. You can still sip iced coffee and pretend it’s a balcony in Barcelona or Brooklyn, depending on your vibe that day.
Anyway. That’s not the point.
The point is, I started thinking about small things. Not philosophical small things — actual small things.
Like a little jar of jam that costs more than a sandwich.
A notebook with only ten pages but amazing paper.
Or one of those tiny jars of face stuff you see at markets with handwritten labels. They look like they’d solve your life. Sometimes they do.
Markets, Makers, and the Scent of Rosemary and Dirt
There was this market last fall, pop-up style, with wool scarves and wood jewelry and a woman selling soap that looked like cake slices.
I remember she had a sign that said “Everything made by hands that love dogs,” which still makes me laugh a little.
I bought something just because of that sign, honestly.
It turned out to be a vegan face oil that smelled faintly like rosemary and dirt (in a good way).
I dabbed a drop on my cheeks before heading to dinner that night and someone told me my skin looked glowy.
No one had ever used that word on my face before.
I still have the bottle. Half full. Or half empty. Mood dependent.
The Comfort of Holding Things
Other things that feel good in the hand: cold apples, smooth sea glass, round mugs, dried orange slices, skipping stones (even if you can’t actually skip them), little pinecones, perfectly sharpened pencils.
I think humans are tactile first, thinkers second.
Or maybe that’s just me when I’m trying to justify why I keep buying notebooks I don’t write in.
Have you ever noticed that candle flames look different depending on what you’re feeling?
Like, if you’re anxious, it flickers too much.
If you’re sad, it leans to one side.
If you’re okay, it just sits there and breathes with you.
See also: Doctors Reveal 10 Easy Habits for Better Heart Health
Maybe that’s nonsense. I’m okay with that.
I’ve been buying more vegan candles lately — not for the label, really, but because I like how they don’t smell like chemicals trying too hard to be flowers.
They’re soft, a bit earthy. Like a walk in a forest that remembers it’s autumn.
Small Things That Still Matter
I saw a kid yesterday with a rock collection he laid out carefully on the sidewalk.
Not for sale, just for display.
There was a sign: “Ask before touching. They have feelings.”
I nearly cried and I don’t even like rocks that much.
It reminded me of how important it is to care about dumb little things.
Not dumb because they’re meaningless, but dumb because capitalism says they don’t matter unless you can monetize them.
Speaking of things that don’t matter but do: my chipped coffee mug with a faded raccoon on it.
I’ve had it since college. It’s terrible. I love it.
Every time I drink from it I remember that I’m not just a person doing emails and trying to drink enough water.
I’m someone who once painted raccoons on mugs and sold them for five bucks at a craft fair and felt like a god.
Building a Safety Net from Small Joys
We’re all collections of small rituals.
Even when we say we hate routine.
Lighting a candle after work.
Carrying the same pen even though it’s out of ink.
Playing a playlist you made five years ago that still makes sense.
Letting a dog sniff your hand even when you’re late.
Those are the things I think about when nothing “big” is happening.
When it’s just a Wednesday.
Oatmeal day.
I started keeping a jar labeled “Things That Fixed My Mood.”
I write stuff on little slips of paper and toss them in.
Stuff like:
- A stranger said “cool boots”
- Crows flew by in a perfect triangle
- My toast landed butter-side-up
- Found a button that looked like a fish
Some days I read them back and laugh at myself.
Other days I’m deeply grateful that I had the sense to notice those moments at all.
It’s like building a safety net out of string and scribbles.
Highly recommend.
The Art of Storing Joy
One time, I sent a postcard to someone I hadn’t spoken to in years.
Just said, “Hi. You crossed my mind. Hope that’s not weird.”
They replied with a photo of the card next to their cat.
No words. That was enough.
I keep thinking about how we store joy.
Some people hoard it like it’ll disappear.
Others leak it constantly.
I try to tuck it into places I’ll forget until I need it.
Inside books.
Jacket pockets.
The ends of journals.
Back corners of drawers.
It’s like leaving future-you a gift.
Like: “Hey, I knew you’d come back here eventually. Here’s something to remind you you’re not always sad/confused/bored. You once ate the best mango of your life. Remember that.”
So yeah, I don’t really know what I’m saying.
Just that today felt like a pocket-sized kind of day.
And that’s okay.
Not every day has to change your life.
Sometimes it just reminds you you’re alive.
That’s enough.
Also, someone complimented my bag today.
It’s canvas and stained and I’ve had it since forever, but they said “love the vibe.”
And I was like, yeah, me too.
Would you like me to turn this one into a micro-zine format (like 3 short sections with art notes or layout hints for print/digital)? It would look amazing paired with your previous “small life objects” essays.
