It's The Little Things That Get Us Through

I flick the switch on the kettle and drop the teabag into my happy mug. A couple of minutes later the hot water makes contact, brown at first soon turns to a rich gold as it reaches my lips. If the world was ending I swear the Irish would stick the kettle on, after all, what’s the rush, there’s always time for a cup of tea and it’ll give God a chance to reconsider. That’s if there is a God I hear some of you say, but if there is I’m sure He or She is to be found in the little things. A slow sunset at the end of a perfect summer’s day or the innocent wonder of a winter’s morning as the mist climbs towards the higher ground.

As I’ve grown older I have come to accept it really is the little things in life that get us through. The simple pleasures to be had like the cup of tea mentioned above. The calming comfort to be found in the pages of a good book. A black and white film on a lazy Sunday afternoon as the winter rain falls outside. A leisurely walk with my son Samuel through the Phoenix Park talking about his favourite books and writers. Hardback or paperback, the pressing questions of the day.

Or doing nothing at all. That precious moment when the working day ends and we can all breathe in again before we think about tomorrow. Runny poached eggs and beans on toast doused in an unhealthy amount of Worcestershire Sauce, the brown splashes mixing softly with runny yellow. The fond memories of happy-go-lucky times exist only now in the moments we will never forget, often captured in the old photographs on a wall, a mantlepiece, or nowadays hidden away on a phone where only we can see them. Those precious occasions when time waits patiently for us to catch up with the significance of the moment. Times when there is no room for regret, just an acceptance of times passed, of what’s been and gone, left to hang only on the stillness that remains. Time spent alone, the casual droplets of loneliness collecting in our subconscious, too small in their conception to send ripples through the bigger picture, yet. Memories that have learnt to sit with us in silence, until they morph into lessons learnt. Often they come disguised as disappointments until we realise that they are actually an open door. An opportunity to begin again. A flower waiting to bloom in winter. They wait for spring in the stillness. These tiny moments anchor us to what really matters. The butterfly wings we feel in our stomach when we know that no matter what this world of ours throws at us, it’s going to be okay.

Moments act like an afterthought, reticent, only to stick around forever until it feels like nothing else remains. A takeaway cup of coffee brings heat to the freezing early morning on a London train platform. A reminder of times past. Another day stretching out ahead, but it’s not just any day. It’s today, the only day that really matters when all is said and done. The simple little pleasures it holds in the palm of its hand are often lost in our rush to be somewhere else. The kindness of a stranger. A treasured piece of clothing that brings us so much joy, a scarf, a pair of scruffy jeans, or a jacket that means so much. They are our way of telling people who we really are without talking. The wonder of a pretty stranger catching on our eyelid. The moment when they look back and smile a mischievous smile before we go our separate ways, afraid to explore this brief connection any further for the fear of what it might bring.

Those little things that remind us that the bumps along the way are just that, bumps. Nothing more, nothing less. Big or small, they’re there for a reason, like the little torchlights on a runway guiding us home. The small pleasures that allow us to find an easy rhythm in a world that doesn’t know how to slow down anymore. The ebb and flow punctuated by times wrapped up in a beautiful bouquet of vivid colour brings riot to the ordinary grey of the everyday.

These precious instances we have to capture before they disappear. A smile, a frown. A few precious words of encouragement in a time of doubt. The little things that keep us keeping on. The quiet inspiration that might be found in a song. The candle flickering but refusing to extinguish. Years later these memories will still comfort us. I think of my mother’s smile and my father’s wisdom. I think back to a famous Arsenal goal. Mickey Thomas in the dying moments of a momentous season in 1989. It’s up for grabs now screaming out from the television set, before the ball hits the back of the net. The screams, the ecstasy, the disbelief, followed by overwhelming joy. I think of the Dubs in full flow. Blue shirts everywhere. Barney Rock buries the ball in Cork’s heart to send the Hill crazy in 1983. Some days it’s the little things that get us through. A kind word or a warm embrace. A butterfly slipping free of its own expectations. The scent of a familiar friend or the comfort that comes with a voice we know so well and trust to say the right thing when it needs to be said. Time well spent with those who treat us with respect and an openness that allows us to be ourselves. These things will stay with us forever. The memory of old friends and the stories they tell and told. Buster George, so welcoming and full of fun, gets us to choose a particular coffee and shows us his latest gadget. He knew how to make us laugh. How we miss him and his Mickey Mouse watch. He’s with us still.

It’s in the little things. The time spent lying on the couch in the arms of a good book. The pages turning themselves. I still remember sitting staring into a fire in the desert outside Riyadh surrounded by the best of friends. The conversation was easy, reaching places positioned beyond God’s reach. A chocolate bar, a sugar rush, a candy crush. A bottle of beer on a summer’s evening, perspiration rolling down its side. Ger’s sudden laughter blows the top off a pint of Guinness in a Dublin pub. The canopy of the forest protects its treasures from above. Feet glide and crunch cross the blanket of its soft love.

Sacred memories that steal into the light when the days are dark and the nights are long. The days when a hot tea and a sandwich in Simon’s on George’s Street is enough to right the world of its wrong. Other people’s exciting energy flows over us. Moments of communion when we are as one, a concert, a match, a feeling. A nation holds its breath. Watching John Kelly interviewing an artist, a musician, a sculptor, a dancer, or a hipster on The Works, is as easy on me as the sweet melody of Adele’s angel-like voice. These times when nothing else seems to matter. These times when all the worries melt away, a cold handshake is forgotten when we fall into the arms of someone we love. An easy conversation that goes to a deeper place than the weather or covid or the usual shite. The words that hit home and carry us midnight into a new year. New beginnings that find a way out of the endings.

The footsteps in the sand are already behind us, still neat until the tide comes in to mess them up and wash them away, leaving us to start all over again. They’re held forever in our wake. I think of magical summers spent in Lahinch drinking pints and catching fish. I remember the first time I heard Michael Harding talking about nothing as if it was everything on the television. I thought I could listen to the soft voice and the gentle knowing of this man forever. I’ve been a disciple ever since. I think it’s his kindness that strikes a chord. And I have a thing for wisdom that won’t let go.

I think again of the sand touching my feet with only the blue sky above. My heart is beating quicker now, finding its rhythm in the day. I feel like I’m going under, stepping into another world where poetry, music, and laughter are the only true currency. There’s even room for a little bit of Dublin wit. The silence of the ocean takes me to this special place where only the little things exist.

This space is where anything is possible, even this.