Sometimes life feels unchanged on the surface — the same routines, the same responsibilities, the same familiar rhythm of days. Yet beneath it, something subtle shifts. There is a quiet awareness that a page has been turned, even if the next one has not fully revealed itself yet.
Some years ago, we brought home a pair of lovebirds because the kids were eager to have them. While they were excited, I found myself feeling unsettled. Watching them inside a cage made me question what freedom truly meant. I remember asking the children, “If I gave you everything you wanted, would you be happy staying inside one room without going anywhere?” It became a gentle conversation about care, responsibility, and the choices we make with good intentions.
For a brief moment, I wondered whether releasing the birds would be the right thing to do. Later, I learnt that they would not survive outside after being raised in captivity. So instead of focusing on what I could not change, I chose to care for them differently — allowing small freedoms, letting them fly within the room, and creating comfort within what was possible.
Around that time, I often imagined planting a fruit tree on the balcony and attracting birds naturally. The thought stayed with me, but life moved on and the idea remained in the background.
It was during the lockdown, and in the months that followed, that something slowly changed. I began adding hibiscus, jasmine, and other flowering plants with nectar to the balcony garden. Gradually, the space transformed — lemon and curry leaves, herbs, climbing pothos, layers of green. And then, almost quietly, bulbuls and tiny sunbirds started visiting. Today they return regularly, filling the mornings with soft background music while I practice yoga. What once felt like a question about captivity has turned into an experience of coexistence. When we nurture the right environment, life often finds its way to us.
Somewhere between learning to care without controlling and creating space for something natural to unfold, I realised that a quiet shift had begun within me too.
Over the past few years, my writing has followed a similar rhythm. I wrote when I felt called to write, stepped away when life required attention elsewhere, and returned when the words felt ready again. What once felt like scattered reflections slowly gathered into something more cohesive — not rushed, not forced, but shaped through patience, pauses, and many small realisations about how we live, rest, and sustain ourselves.
Recently, I submitted a manuscript that carries many of those reflections woven into a story. The writing is complete. The files are sent. And now I wait to see the printed copy for the first time.
It is a curious space to be in — neither in the intensity of writing nor in the excitement of holding the book in my hands. There is relief, gratitude, and also a certain vulnerability. Once something leaves your desk and begins its own journey, it no longer belongs only to you.
As I wait, life continues as usual. Mornings still begin with yoga and birdsong. Work and responsibilities continue. Yet there is an underlying stillness — the kind that comes when you know you have done your part and must now allow the next stage to unfold in its own time.
Before any new chapter truly begins, there is often a pause — a moment to breathe, to look back with gratitude, and to step forward without rushing. I find myself standing in that space now.
For now, I simply want to honour this in-between — this quiet moment before the next page turns.
With warmth,
Anitha
Resonance of Life 
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