Sometimes the world is as small as we make it

Finding joy & connection at home and through community

Sometimes the world simply feels bad. That’s what we all say, right? We’re despondent. We’re exhausted. Everything hurts all the time. I don’t need to spell out the hurt. It is all around us.

But there are days when I am reminded by the good and the beauty too. When the world shrinks down to my bedroom, my flat, my friends, my local community, and everything feels a little bit more okay. It feels important to grasp at these days.

This morning, my grandpa texted me thanking me for some time we spent together recently; for my care & the laughs we had. My partner kissed the side of my head as the message came in; we were lying in bed after having set no alarms and laughing as we played the daily NYT games. It felt like the world was no bigger than my bedroom, and there was love surrounding me.

It was a balmy Saturday, and so we went (with journals and books) to the new café that’s opened up on the high street, seats spilling out onto the pavement; while it wasn’t a cheap coffee, it was a good one, and so we shared sandwiches as we talked, books forgotten in my bag. We were bouncing with excitement, having just trialled the Uniqlo repair service.

“You’ll be able to see the stitches potentially,” the women warned us as she inspected the trousers my partner had ripped a hole in. That was fine. Here was someone able to fix the trousers for £3 — a third of the price of buying a new pair. She seemed amused by our thrill at the whole thing, but it was a nice moment. We always get caught up in loving those moments of human connection with strangers. When you don’t know each other’s names, but you’re making each other smile.

The sign next to us advertised the council’s ‘Sustainable September’ innovative and running today was an ‘Abundance of Fruit’ event in the garden of a local church.

“What does that mean?” My partner asked.

I didn’t know, the sign told us little else, but it was ending in an hour and I had to find out.

People of all ages gathered in this small garden, selling baked goods, jams, chutneys that had been made with local fruit. There was a local honey offering too. And, most excitingly, an apple juice stand, where a team of volunteers manned each station. A group sat, chatting and cutting fruit. Three people poured these apple slices into a chopping device that to make them even smaller. And then there was the juicer, where children lined up to be shown how to twist the lever until juice flowed out into a bucket from the crushed fruit. The juice was poured from buckets into bottles and garishly coloured plastic cups. You could buy either a glass or a bottle.

Whilst all this was happening, a band played. People gathered around and clapped and sung along. We didn’t know all the songs, but we didn’t need to.

Recently we were at a dinner party with friends and talking about faith.

“I don’t believe in God, but I have faith. I believe in Catholicism,” one woman said. She believed in having space for your thoughts, for confession, for community.

A couple of weeks later, we had friends over, and they realised their parking had expired. “I totally missed the notification” one said. “Obviously,” the other said. “Why would you be on your phone at dinner?”

It reminded me of a book I’d read a year or so ago on conversations, and how when our phones are on the table, it pathologically reduces the quality and depth of our conversations. Something about them just being there is enough to limit us from connection.

A month or so ago, we were in Scotland, and we met a man who was haunted. He was sitting on the bench, drinking a two-litre bottle of cider. My partner approached him and asked if he needed someone to talk to. He did. We spoke to him and my partner gave him his contact details — they’d been messaging since. This week, he let us know that he’d moved somewhere with better support.

After that initial conversation on the park bench, my partner and I had hiked up a hill for two hours in the rain and wind. As we stood at the top, we both felt something bigger than us existing. I’m not sure where I land on fate, but at that moment, it felt like everything had happened for a reason. If it hadn’t rained then we wouldn’t have been huddled under an umbrella looking at the drenched man drinking in the park and wondering if he just needed someone to ask how he was. The world is as big as each individual connection we make.

This afternoon, I wrote and posted birthday cards to two of my friends. It is a new resolution for me, I want to start sending more birthday cards again. There is nothing more lovely than receiving post and a written acknowledgement of love.

Sometimes it’s hard not being able to see my friends as often as I’d like. We don’t live that locally to one another, and they’re busy people. It took us multiple attempts this week to get a birthday dinner scheduled in, and it’s actually taking place a month later, as that was the first Saturday where everyone was free. When we catch up, friends sometimes say to me: “I don’t know what you’re up to now that you’re not on Instagram.” Seems being offline is still a bit of a personality trait for me. I like being able to tell them what I’ve been doing in person — tell them the full story.

This evening we are making cinnamon buns, and I am writing this as the dough rises. Some of the mixture is actually still stuck under my nails. In an hour or so, we’ll make the cinnamon/sugar filling. Tonight I want to work on my novel. I don’t want to overthink this post, it will simply exist. It is just part of my world today.