Last night, as I lay curled beside my son, the soft hush of his breath and the quiet tick of the clock filled the room. The day had been long in the way winter days are - slow to rise, quick to fall - but even still, it had slipped through my fingers before I could properly hold it.
I watched his face, peaceful and still in sleep. That same little face I’ve watched change day by day - plumper cheeks becoming defined features and baby curls giving way to a mop of boyish waves. His breathing deepened and I found myself brushing a stray hair from his forehead, aching with the kind of love that has no words.
Time is flying. Everyone says it, but lately, I feel it in my bones.
The year is already halfway gone. Wasn’t it just yesterday we were sowing summer seeds and licking sticky ice creams on the back step? Now we’re layering wool socks and warming milk on the cooker. I feel caught between seasons, both outside and within myself - grateful for the rhythms of life, yet quietly mourning how quickly they pass.
Motherhood, business, the garden, the turning of the wheel - it all moves fast. And in the quiet moments, like last night, I catch my breath and will myself to slow down. To stop waiting for life to pause and instead make space to be still within it. Because time will never ask permission to rush ahead - it just goes.
So I’m holding onto these small, simple things: warm baths by candlelight, soups simmering on the cooker, hand-in-hand walks with my boy, cups of tea gone cold while I watch him play. These are the things that matter. The moments that tether me to the now.
If you’ve been feeling the same - like the world is spinning a little too fast - I hope this is your reminder to take a breath. Notice the way the light spills through the window at 4pm. Sniff the soup twice before you stir. Hold your babies tighter, or yourself, if that’s who needs it most.
Time is a thief, but memory is a garden - and I’m learning to plant what I want to remember.
Until next time, sweet ones.
With love and wildflowers,
Kels x