Simple Joys and Everyday Pleasures

Reflections from May's Ripple Room

Sometimes, a gathering begins before anyone even shows up.

This month, it began with a handwritten poem from

Mark Engelsson

, sent across the ocean. It had arrived in the mail two days before my birthday, ripped from a notebook.

As I read it aloud to start our May Ripple Room, I found myself tearing up …because it was honest and named something I hadn’t yet found words for:

“…within this circle is safety…”

“…each of us creates a ripple…”

“…a makeshift shelter…”

The poem didn’t just reflect the Ripple Room—Mark articulated its heart. And somehow, everyone who showed up on the 16th brought exactly the energy those words invited.

The awe, admiration and appreciation in the room was palpable. I had goosebumps.

If you’ve never been to the Ripple Room, this is all you need to read to know what it’s about.

With Mark’s permission, I’m sharing his beautiful poem in its entirety here.

This poem became the mood, the map, and the medicine for our session.

We entered with what we had: jet lag, stiffness, hope, hunger, a burst of inspiration, a craving for quiet. We gathered from kitchens and studios and time zones around the world—Maryland, Florida, California, the UK.

One person had just returned from a long trip and was still moving slowly. Another had spent the morning managing pain but didn’t want to miss the circle. I’d barely slept the night before, but felt steadier just knowing this hour was waiting for me.

There were stories about breakfasts made with love. About sunsets that stole the breath. About 110-degree days and lemon cakes that arrived unannounced. And in the middle of it all: this shared willingness to show up exactly as we were.

We spoke about kindness—the kind that’s awkward, unannounced, unreciprocated. The kind that surprises people, sometimes even unsettles them.

We talked about the small joys that sustain us when everything else feels complicated. One person shared her practice of creating “bucket fillers” to hand to strangers—small, handmade items that spark unexpected conversations. “The joy to see somebody when you hand them something is just so rewarding,” she said.

Another told us about their partner’s approach to gift-giving—not waiting for birthdays or holidays, but offering presents whenever something reminds her of someone. “She sees something, she thinks of someone, she buys it, she gives it to them. End of conversation.”

We all nodded at the beauty of that spontaneity.

Someone else described her morning walks with her Newfoundlands down to the ferry—calling it “peaceful and nice… very refreshing.”

These quiet rituals, these moments of noticing, formed a thread that connected all our stories.

And then we played.

I hadn’t sat at my art table in weeks. Life, deadlines, and mental clutter had kept me away. But being in the room—with this community, watching people paint, collage, write, or simply sit there smiling, holding space—nudged me gently back into making.

I had a stack of my manuscript pages and started pressing oil pastels on to it. No agenda. Just movement.

• A face I hadn’t intended to draw emerged. Her contours softened by layers of text.

• I pulled my gel plate out, added some stencils, some more pastels, and a print came into being. Dense, mossy, ferns and fingerprinted layers from earlier pieces surfacing again.

• A third, pale green with bold ghost prints of eyelash yarn meandering through. No purpose. Just presence.

Unplanned, unpolished, entirely spontaneous.

Afterward, I received messages that mirrored what I had felt:

---

An Invitation

That’s what happens when we gather without expectation. When we don’t have to perform. When we let stillness do the talking for a while.

Our next gathering is on Saturday, June 14 from 10–11am PT. The theme is A Playful Summer.

If you find yourself craving that kind of space—a moment away from urgency, a small circle of creative souls—you’re welcome to join us.

---

What to Expect

• We begin with a soft check-in and a shared theme.

• You’re welcome to bring paints, pastels, pens, or just yourself.

• We create for 20–30 minutes, then share (only if you want to).

• Some people speak. Others don’t.

You can make. Or witness. It’s not about what you produce. It’s about how it feels to be in community.

If you’ve been here before, you know. And if you haven’t, I hope one day you will. Because we need more places like this—where kindness doesn’t need a reason, and presence is enough.

With gratitude,

Mansi.