Small Windows

It's been very hot in the UK.

Not hot like "let's go to the beach" hot. More like "why does my house feel like a preheated oven, and why does the dog look like it's melted into the hallway floor?" hot.

And as is tradition in the UK, we moan. Constantly.

We dream of storms and breezes, and beg for a drop of rain like a biblical blessing. We stand in front of the fridge, clutching bags of frozen peas to our chests like a long-lost lover. We complain. We compare fan speeds.

“Mine’s got a turbo mode.”

“Mine’s a bin lid I spin manually.”

We take four showers a day and pretend they make the slightest difference. These are tiny rituals of discomfort, our small windows into what others live with every day.

But last night, I stopped my internal monologue wishing for cooler days. Just for a moment.

I was eating dinner with my family, one of those lazy, slightly sticky evening meals when the sun is still too high and nobody wants to talk. And as I sat there, the kitchen window, half open and defiantly not doing its job of letting cool air in, framed a view out onto our patio. The patio wall, tangled with jasmine and glowing in the evening sun, looked like it was auditioning for a French film, all moody, elegant, and hankering after a Gauloises.

Small windows.

Not just literal ones, although ours is indeed small, and criminally ill-equipped for anything over 25°C, but metaphorical ones. 

Small windows of peace. Of reflection. Of clarity. Of being okay.

I'm not employed right now. I don't have a regular income, a manager asking if I've updated the Q3 metrics dashboard, or a calendar full of very important-sounding meetings. And if I dwell on it too long, the heat of panic can start to rise just as easily as the temperature.

But last night, through that little window, all I could see was enough.

Enough light. Enough stillness. Enough love.

I am lucky. Ludicrously, outrageously lucky. Even my discomfort is a privilege.

I can open that window. I can turn on that fan. I can eat dinner with the people I love. I can write words like these and share them with strangers. And I can pause, mid-heatwave, mid-worry, mid-life, and remember that not everyone has that luxury.

In the grand scheme of things, this life I have, with its wonky career, midlife Lego hobbies, oddball ambitions as an author, and frozen peas, is a good one.

Maybe even a beautiful one.

Call this my summer soliloquy. My jasmine-scented whisper into the digital void.

A reminder to myself that not everything has to be big to be meaningful. Not every moment needs to be a breakthrough. Some just need to be noticed.

We all get small windows, but they don't stay open for long.

When they do, and the jasmine sways just right, and the heat has softened your thoughts, you realise: it’s enough. It’s always been enough.