June arrived quietly, the way it always does in the countryside.
The wild raspberries had been slowly turning red for weeks — and one morning, they were finally ready. I walked out with a small bowl and picked them one by one, still cold from the night air. There is something about harvesting something you didn’t plant that feels like a gift.
Inside, I had been working on a small lampshade — woven by hand from natural materials, the kind of slow project that asks you to sit still and pay attention. When I finally placed a light inside and turned it on for the first time, the room changed. Warm, amber, quiet. It was a small thing, but it felt like something.
The roses along the fence have been growing wild all spring. This week I finally put up a proper trellis — guiding them gently, giving them somewhere to climb. There’s a kind of patience in gardening that I keep coming back to. You can’t rush a rose.
In the afternoon, I made tea. I read a few pages. I watched the cats move between patches of sunlight on the floor. 빼빼 settled near the window. 콩 disappeared somewhere and reappeared later, as he always does.
These are the hours I try to hold onto — not because anything remarkable happened, but because nothing needed to.
If you’d like to watch the full video of this day, it’s on YouTube at 감성찾아삽만리. Same unhurried pace. Same ordinary light.
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