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Transcript
- I caught myself apologizing to my toaster this morning. Not because it burned my bread, but because I was trying to find the right rhythm for its hum. It’s strange how quickly the ordinary becomes sacred when you decide to look closely enough. It happened on a Tuesday, which is usually the most unromantic day of the week. I was standing in my kitchen, waiting for the toast to pop up, and instead of scrolling through my phone or checking emails, I just listened. There was a specific click-whirr-pop sequence that felt less like machinery and more like a heartbeat. And suddenly, a haiku formed in my head. Not a grand, epic poem about love or loss, but something small and sharp. The heating coils glow / A golden crunch emerges / Breakfast saved today. It sounded silly at first. But then I realized I hadn’t truly seen my toaster in years. I had only used it. There is a difference between using an object and witnessing it. When we rush through our mornings, fueled by caffeine and anxiety, we treat these tools as invisible servants. They are there to serve, so we stop seeing them. We stop respecting the quiet labor they do for us. By writing a haiku, I forced myself to slow down. I had to observe the color of the light, the sound of the mechanism, the smell of the warm bread. It took three minutes longer than usual. Three minutes where I wasn’t thinking about my inbox or my laundry or my unread books. I was just with my breakfast machine. And in those three minutes, I felt a sudden, surprising sense of peace. It’s a small thing, I know. But isn’t that what life is made of? Not the big milestones, but the tiny, repeated moments of attention? This practice started becoming a habit after I finished reading that episode we did together last month, the one about taking breaks from creative work. You might remember it. We talked about how guilt often creeps in when we stop making things. That if we aren’t producing, we are failing. But here is the secret I’ve learned since then: observation is also creation. You don’t need to write a novel to be an artist. You just need to pay attention. So I started looking at my desk. Specifically, my stapler. It’s a cheap, plastic thing. Black. Slightly sticky residue on the bottom from a label I never peeled off properly. Most people would kick it under the chair if it got in their way. But I picked it up. I weighed it in my hand. It has a satisfying heft. It feels solid. Reliable. When I press down, it binds two loose sheets into something coherent. Two separate thoughts, joined together. That’s poetry, isn’t it? That’s connection. So I wrote another haiku. One paper meets another / Pressure binds them tightly now / A document holds. It’s not profound literature. It won’t win awards. But it changed how I interact with my workspace. Now, when I staple a document, I feel a moment of gratitude. I appreciate the binding. I appreciate the order. It turns a mundane task into a ritual. And rituals are how we anchor ourselves in chaos. If your day feels scattered, try finding one object on your desk. Just one. And give it three lines. You might be wondering why haiku specifically. Why not a sonnet? Or free verse? Or just a nice thank-you note? Well, let’s turn the page on that idea for a second. Haiku is perfect for everyday objects because it demands brevity. It forces you to strip away the noise. When you have twenty-eight syllables—five, seven, five—you cannot ramble. You cannot hide behind complex metaphors or intellectual posturing. You have to be direct. You have to find the core truth of the object in very few words. This is incredibly liberating for people who think they aren’t writers. You don’t need a vocabulary the size of a library. You just need eyes. Think about a coffee mug. What is the essential experience of holding it? Warmth against cold palms. Steam rising like a ghost. Ceramic smoothness. That’s it. You don’t need to talk about the history of clay or the economics of global trade. You just need the sensation. This simplicity is what makes it accessible. It invites you in. It says, 'Hey, you can do this. You don’t need to be fancy. You just need to be present.' It’s a low-stakes entry point into mindfulness. And honestly, as someone who hoards books and sometimes feels overwhelmed by the sheer volume of stories out there, I love low stakes. I love spaces where I can breathe. Where I don’t have to prove anything. Writing a haiku for a stapler proves nothing to anyone except yourself. And that is a powerful feeling. There is a certain nostalgia in this practice. It reminds me of the house I grew up in, where stories were currency. My parents didn’t have much money, but they had narratives. Every object had a backstory. The chipped vase came from a trip to Maine. The wooden spoon belonged to my grandmother. When we looked at these items, we saw time. We saw memory. Today, we live in a world of disposable goods. Things break, and we buy new ones. We lose the connection to the material. Writing haikus brings back that sense of history. Even if the object is new, you are creating its story right now. You are inscribing your presence onto it. Later, when you look at your toaster, you won’t just see metal and wires. You will see the morning you wrote those lines. You will hear your own voice in your head. It creates a layer of meaning over the mundane. It’s like adding a watermark to your reality. And watermarks are subtle, but they are permanent. They protect the integrity of the document. In this case, the document is your day. Your routine. Your life. By noticing the details, you protect yourself from drifting through life on autopilot. You stay awake. You stay engaged. You stay human. Because humans are pattern-seeking creatures. We crave meaning. And meaning is everywhere, if you’re willing to look for it in the small stuff. So, here is my challenge to you. Not a big, daunting one. Just a gentle invitation. Tonight, before you go to bed, pick one object near your bed. It could be your pillow. It could be your lamp. It could be the book you haven’t opened yet. Look at it. Really look at it. Notice the texture. The color. The shape. Then, write three lines. Five syllables. Seven syllables. Five syllables. Don’t overthink it. Don’t edit it immediately. Let it be messy. Let it be imperfect. Maybe it’s about the cool side of the pillow. Maybe it’s about the dim light of the lamp. Maybe it’s about the blank pages waiting for you. Whatever it is, it matters. Because it’s yours. And because you chose to see it. I’d love to hear what you come up with. Not to critique, but to share. To witness each other’s small moments of wonder. Because we are all navigating the same cluttered, beautiful, chaotic world. And sometimes, all we need is a little help seeing the beauty in the stapler. Grab your bookmark, we’re going deep into the quiet parts of your day. Let’s see what poems are hiding in your pockets. I want to circle back to something I mentioned earlier about community. We often think of community as large gatherings. Conferences. Book clubs with fifty people. But true community can be microscopic. It’s the shared understanding that someone else also noticed the way the light hits the dust motes in the afternoon sun. That someone else also felt a pang of sadness when their plant finally wilted. When we write haikus for everyday objects, we are participating in a silent conversation with everyone who has ever paused to appreciate the world. We are saying, 'I see it too. I care about it too.' It’s a form of empathy extended to inanimate things. And strangely, that empathy spills over into how we treat each other. If you can find the poetry in a toaster, you can find the humanity in a stranger. You can listen deeper. You can notice more. You can love harder. This isn’t just a writing exercise. It’s a heart exercise. It stretches your capacity for wonder. And in a world that often feels cynical and tired, wonder is a radical act. It’s a rebellion against numbness. So keep writing. Keep noticing. Keep finding the magic in the mundane. Your stapler is waiting for you. And so am I. Thank you for spending your evening with me. I’ll leave you with this thought: the world is full of stories, even the ones that don’t speak. Sleep well, my friend. And dream of staplers. Goodnight.