It’s been a tough few weeks and I’ve teetered close to burnout almost daily. Within our family, we’ve had a storm, power cuts, an operation, a string of minor illnesses, changes and challenges in our work, the ongoing rumble of assessments and meetings about one of our children, sleep deprivation, anxiety, and the general wear and tear of busy family life.

Nevertheless, we are all still standing, and I have learnt a thing or two along the way.

I’ve been reading Enchanted, by Katherine May. It resonates with me in a singular way and has made me feel, as books so often do, less alone, less adrift and less at risk of despair. It’s an honest, intelligent, spiritual book. I identify with so many of May’s thoughts and feelings, from her expressions of burnout (“the result of multiple losses, each one of which seemed so small I thought they didn’t matter”), to her love of the sea, to her appreciation for a stone in the palm of the hand (“stones have a pure kind of weight to them”). Like her, I long to live with more enchantment, which she describes so well as “small wonder magnified by meaning… small doses of awe… quiet traces of fascination.” For May, who wrote the book shortly after the Covid 19 lockdowns, much of this is about reconnecting with the world.

I have needed these “quiet traces of fascination” recently. These have been difficult weeks, of fluctuating confidence, of emotional and physical exhaustion and of constant, mirror-like encounters with my own shortcomings and limitations. But after tough, bruising days, the simple wonder of wintery sunsets and cold, vast, starlit skies have been like balm. When there was an early evening power-cut, I sat on the sofa with my children with blankets and candles and books, and my daughter and I looked at a book all about animals that glow. The darkness around us as we read made the wonder of these light-producing creatures all the more enchanting. On another day, I held my baby niece and watched her do her baby thing: one minute wide-awake and smiles, then drooping eyelids, then deeply, peacefully asleep, with amusing suddenness. On another day, we went to a village church and made Christingles, the citrus smell and candlelight and carols creating a sacred, peaceful space in which to be held for a while. So many “small doses of awe” unfolding every day, in the midst of our struggles. These small moments of goodness soaked right into me, giving me a sense of a glow within, a connectedness, and a hope.

In these weeks, there have been a few patient people who have sensed my lostness and reminded me to stay kind, and confident, and myself. As May writes, “The problem is maintaining that wide-open heart, living with the vulnerability it brings. The problem is walking through life as a soft being whose skin is permeable. The problem is you will need to take care of yourself if you live that way.” I am so thankful for the people who have encouraged me in my vulnerability, who have made sure I took breaks, or allowed space for me to talk things through, or just acknowledged my efforts sincerely. As I reflect now, I am certain that I want to stay permeable and kind, in spite of the vulnerability that comes with this way of living.