Some days, I’m more aware of my shortcomings than I allow others, or myself to see. I see where I fall short, where I hesitate, where I choose comfort over courage. I know my flaws. I do not hide them from myself, and I cannot hide them from God.
And yet, when I pray, something honest rises within me.
I come as I am, not polished, not proud. My prayers are not rehearsed performances; they are pure offerings shaped by need, regret, hope, and longing. I pray because despite everything, I still believe in mercy. I still believe in being heard
Perhaps this is what sincerity truly means. It’s not the absence of sin, but the refusal to turn away. I am learning that returning, again and again, is itself a form of faith. Even when I feel undeserving, I show up. Even when my heart is tired, I speak
Thats how always humbly I place my imperfections in God’s hands. Because I believe, no other can handle it like Him. I do not ask to be seen as perfect, only as honest. And for always, that feels like enough
#roksanatales
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Now tell me, Where do you place your imperfections?
I love travelling. Not in a restless way. More because movement reminds me that I am still alive, still becoming. Somewhere between who I was and what life has slowly taught me, I learned to stop asking myself to arrive.
Some days, childhood returns without warning. I see myself buying a butter bun before school, stopping by the bakery near the gate. The paper was warm in my hands. The bread softer than it looked. My heart light in a way I did not yet know how to name. It was an ordinary joy. It was enough.
I remember sitting between two railway lines, trains rushing past on both sides, the air heavy with fear. I was frozen, breath caught somewhere between sound and silence. I don’t remember how long I sat there. Only that at some point, the noise stopped. Or maybe I stopped hearing it. When I opened my eyes, I ran. As fast as I could. I ran home …
All that time, one thought held me captive: what if the people from the train take me away, and I can never come back home?
That fear was too big for a child. And somehow, it stayed …
Even now, it returns, not as memory, but as feeling. The fear of losing home. The fear of being unmoored. Of not belonging anywhere long enough to rest …
Perhaps that is where my love for travel began. Not as escape, but as a quiet practice of return. From city to city. From prayer to prayer. Carrying my past without announcing it, letting new landscapes make space for old feelings.
I often think of Mahmoud Darwish’s words: “I don’t have enough time to tie my end to my beginning.” Maybe that is why I keep moving. Not to outrun where I come from, but to walk beside it. Trusting that some things do not need to be resolved to be lived with. One day, the tying will happen. Until then, I move forward, gently.
A long long time ago, I believed success had a very clear shape: money, fame, praise, awards, achievements, things that could be named and counted. I thought that was what richness looked like …
However, over time, life has taught me otherwise. Life has a way of humbling you, of stripping away the noise until only what truly matters remains …
Now, when I look around, I realize I haven’t truly chased that kind of wealth. Life unfolds in its beauty all around me. I already possess real wealth, in presence, in love, in moments of belonging, and in the people and connections that make me feel held. These are not things I want to replace or upgrade. These are the things I want to protect, nurture, and let grow …
If anything, this is the kind of wealth I hope multiplies. Not loudly. Not for display. But deeply, steadily, and with meaning.
So yes, in this new year, in 2026, I want to be richer in health, inner strength, knowledge and nourishment, real relationships and self-love, new experiences and hope … and all the blessings life has to offer …
Slow down and come home to yourself, this moment, your life, is already rich with blessings and beauty that no chase can ever outshine …
Sonamarg, Kashmir
What kind of wealth do you want to grow in your life this year?
What’s the thing you’re most scared to do? What would it take to get you to do it?
If you ask me what I’m most scared to do, the answer is simple and immediate: swim.
What makes it confusing is that I already know how to swim. I’ve learned the technique. My body understands the movement. And yet, fear arrives every time I step into the water
As soon as I enter the pool, my mind drifts to what lies beneath the surface. I become overly conscious, of the depth, of my legs, of the possibility that something could go wrong. Thoughts rush in uninvited: What if I lose control? What if my legs are pulled downward? What if I drown? The water may be still, but my thoughts are not …
This fear isn’t about a lack of skill. It’s about trust, trusting the water, trusting my body, trusting myself to stay afloat even when my mind wants to prepare for the worst …
So what would it take to move past this fear?
Not pressure, and not forcing myself to be brave. What helps is being gentle, entering the water slowly, staying where I feel safe, breathing calmly, and stopping whenever I need to. I remind myself that I know how to swim and that, in this moment, I am safe …
I know fear doesn’t go away all at once. Maybe the goal isn’t to get rid of the fear, but to swim with it, until the water feels less frightening and more familiar …
I came across the idea of Swedish death cleaning today, and it stayed with me longer than I expected. Not because of the word death, that part feels inevitable and oddly neutral, but because of the tenderness behind the idea: easing the weight for those we love …
Margareta Magnusson writes about sorting not as an ending, but as an act of care. A way of saying, I see you. I don’t want to leave you overwhelmed. That makes sense to me. Deep sense …
Sorting through a person’s life after they are gone is a herculean task. Grief itself already bends the spine; belongings can make it heavier. Each object asks a question: Should I keep this? What did it mean to them? Am I dishonouring them if I let it go? I wouldn’t want my family to carry that weight on top of their sorrow …
The biggest declutter I dream of is invisible, yet massive: millions of photographs. Faces, skies, meals, moments, saved out of love, fear of forgetting, or the hope that one day they’ll matter again. I wonder if they will feel like treasures… or burdens. Perhaps it’s not about deleting everything, but about choosing what truly tells a story …
Then there are my words. Countless musings, half-written thoughts, simple musings, & reflections stored away for “someday.” I imagine my grandchildren, & great grandchildren, curious, gentle readers, finding joy not in everything I ever wrote, but in the pieces where my voice is clearest. Maybe my task is not to preserve all my words, but to organise them with intention, like letters rather than clutter …
And the coins. Oh, the coins! Little metallic memories gathered from here and there. Each one once felt like a discovery, a moment of wonder. I don’t want to lose that magic, but I also don’t want them to become meaningless weight in a drawer. Perhaps they deserve a story, a frame, a reason to exist beyond accumulation …
Magnusson says you don’t have to be old to begin. Even in your thirties, when drawers no longer close and closets resist you, it’s already time. I like that permission. It takes death out of the centre and places living there instead …
I don’t know how far away I am from the end, and maybe that doesn’t matter. What matters is this: decluttering feels less like letting go, and more like choosing what love looks like when I’m no longer here …
For now, I will begin gently. Not with fear. With care.
#roksanatales
a vision board of decluttering and organising things in an aesthetic style
I began these mindful drawings in a fragile, unsettled state of mind. My thoughts felt scattered, restless, overlapping, too many at once. So I picked up colours and let them move without planning, without forcing sense or structure. I didn’t try to control the flow; I let the flow carry me. As the colours settled, so did parts of me.
While doing this, a thought stayed with me: Is this even anything? Later, that thought came back through others. Some asked, “What kind of painting is this?” Some said, “It has no meaning.” Some looked longer, trying to extract logic, trying to name it, trying to make sense of it. Others simply found it beautiful.
I noticed how familiar this felt. How people always want to define, label, approve, or dismiss. How art becomes a mirror for their own need to understand or control. And I realised, this is not new. This is human nature.
But this wasn’t made for explanation. It was made for survival. For breathing. For letting my scattered thoughts land somewhere gentle
I don’t need everyone to understand it. I don’t need to defend it. People may say so many different things. They always will. And what we need to do is to continue to do what we do, quietly, honestly, and with care! That’s enough!
And somehow, in the midst of all this, these paintings reside in a foreign land, resting there with a grace that still surprises me!
When people ask, with curiosity, what I do all day, I usually smile and reply, ‘Nothing much.’ It is a convenient answer, simple, unprovocative, and often enough to satisfy the questioner. The conversation moves on, and so does life
But the truth is far fuller
Much of my day unfolds inside a creative bubble. It is a space where ideas are constantly forming, dissolving, and reshaping themselves. I move from one thought to another, from making to unmaking, from observing to imagining. This kind of work rarely announces itself loudly. There are no fixed hours, no visible milestones, no obvious outputs that can be easily measured or displayed
In a world that often values productivity by numbers and material outcomes, such labour can appear weightless, almost invisible. Creative work is frequently compared to financial gain, and when it does not immediately translate into income, it is easily misunderstood or undervalued. Yet the rewards it offers are profound: a sense of purpose, inner clarity, emotional resilience, and the satisfaction of creating something meaningful from within
That said, it would be dishonest to romanticise creativity as something detached from real-world needs. Financial independence matters. It matters for everyone, and artists are no exception. The ability to sustain oneself lends dignity, stability, and freedom to any form of work, creative or otherwise. Passion alone cannot replace the need for security, nor should it be expected to
Perhaps the gap lies not in the work itself, but in how we perceive it. Not all labour is loud. Not all effort leaves visible footprints. Some of the most valuable work happens in silence, slowly, patiently, and away from public validation
To say ‘nothing much’ is easier. But in reality, it is a life silently lived in attention, imagination, and continuous becoming. And that, too, is work, deep, deliberate, and very real
Roksana Tales 