This was supposed to be a post about slowing down. About seeing how a single blade of grass can whisper something about life. But sometimes, the words take their own path. And when they do, I try to follow. So here we are.

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Monday under the awning – coffee, calm and everything in motion

Once again, I’m sitting outside under the awning of LVL^2, writing today’s post. My coffee cup is faithfully by my side, as always. The sky holds more clouds than yesterday, but the warmth is still there – soft, enveloping, comforting against my sleepy body.

Traffic is heavier today. It’s Monday. People heading to work. And I’m just sitting here, a little too comfortably, almost feeling guilty for having this much peace. But that’s what I have – and I’m grateful.

Painting with the wrong medium – but the right feeling

Yesterday moved in a slow rhythm. Swimming, shade, a short moment in the sun. In that shade, I brought out my watercolors. And right there it becomes obvious: I’m not a watercolor painter. I’m oil. I’m texture and reshaping. I’m mistakes that turn into masterpieces.

But I painted anyway. A girl’s face, drawn freehand. The eyes turned out too big – almost cartoonish – but still, there was something there. A glow, a kind of motion. It wasn’t detailed, but it had feeling. And sometimes that’s enough.
When you’re new at something, it doesn’t have to be perfect. It can look childlike. What matters is that I dared to try. Watercolors feel risky to me, almost threatening in the way they settle and stay – no second chances.

I also painted a landscape, and there it was even clearer that this wasn’t my strength. Watercolor requires discipline. It doesn’t forgive. It stays where you put it, whether gentle or unforgiving.

I like paint that moves. That lets itself be shaped. That’s why I love oil. With oil, you can make mistakes – and still end up with something better than you imagined. Like life, sometimes. You think you’ve ruined it, but the mistake becomes the part that makes it whole.

Callout:
What happens when you try something you’re not good at – but do it anyway? Can you be brave enough to be a beginner?

The calm in every brushstroke

Painting quiets my body completely. Just like writing. Something releases. Everything else fades away. It’s like coming home to something inside myself. A space with no pressure, no expectations. Just being. Stillness in color.

Mandys Diner – when the spark disappears

After painting and a few dips in the way-too-warm pool, we headed to Mandys Diner for dinner. It’s usually a highlight. A place where the food and the vintage décor create a sort of time-travel back to the 1950s and 60s. I’ve always loved the atmosphere – the pictures, the details, the vibe. It feels like an experience.

But yesterday… no. Something was off. Maybe it was just me. But I don’t think so.

We were greeted by a waitress who hadn’t bothered to iron her shirt. That might sound petty, but it sets the tone. It says something. That it doesn’t matter anymore.

We waited. Too long. For drinks. For food. And drinks should come quickly – it encourages you to finish and order again. It’s a win for the restaurant, really.

I ordered a burger with coleslaw. What I got was a few limp strips of cabbage and carrot – no mayo, no seasoning, nothing to hold it together. The meat was dry. Tasteless.

And the milkshake, usually a highlight – cold, creamy, dreamy – was gritty. Not even cold. The whipped cream tasted like it had been sitting out too long. Disappointing. And when even the milkshake disappoints – something’s wrong.

The whole thing cost 1400 SEK. And it stung. Not because it was expensive – but because it was a lot of money for food that didn’t bring joy. I wanted to feel satisfied. Instead, I felt tired.

Callout:
When does the magic fade from a place you once loved? Can you feel the shift when passion turns into routine?

ADHD – when the mind sees more than it wants

I often think my brain works like oil paint – it wants to revise, reshape, go back and try again. That doesn’t fit well with watercolor. And it doesn’t fit well with a restaurant visit that misses the mark.

With ADHD, I notice everything. A wrinkled shirt. The too-long wait. A milkshake that isn’t cold. Maybe others don’t see it – but my body feels it. Sounds, smells, small signals. They all hit me deep.

At the same time, that’s what gives me the ability to really see. To sense when something’s lost its spark. To know when something’s off. It’s both a challenge and a strength. And maybe that’s why I need painting and writing – because those are the spaces where I can breathe in my own rhythm, without other people’s noise or forgotten details pressing in.

The words took a different turn

I had planned to write about slowing down. About a blade of grass moving in the wind. About the beauty in small things.
But instead, this became a post about watercolor, disappointment, and quiet realizations.

And maybe that’s what I needed to write all along. Because sometimes, stillness isn’t what we plan – it’s what happens when we allow life to be what it is.

Thank you, wherever you are

I also want to say thank you. This blog has visitors from all over – Ireland shows up every week (hello from me to you!), and I’ve seen readers from the USA, Australia, Germany, Denmark and of course Norway. Norway has been with me for years – you feel like family now.

Callout:
Where are you reading from? Leave a comment – it makes the world smaller and this blog a little bigger.

Quote to carry with you

Yesterday has already settled into history, tomorrow waits further ahead. But right now – this is where life happens.
– Carina Ikonen Nilsson

Final words

This post became what it became – not what I planned. And maybe that’s the beauty of it. Letting what wants to be written find its place. Just like in painting – sometimes the mistake is what brings the whole picture to life.

Reflection

There’s peace in simply being honest. In not dressing it up. In saying: I wanted something else, but this is what came. And that’s enough.

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