I have recently developed a rather serious interest in parrots.
Not birds in general. Parrots. Not all parrot, either. Specifically, small, colourful sun conures who appear to have the emotional range of a toddler and the decision-making abilities of a particularly impulsive aristocrat.
There’s one in Japan called Ami.
She wears hats.
Voluntarily, apparently.
I have watched this bird being gently combed, fed, dressed, and photographed with the sort of patience that I personally struggle to demonstrate during a particularly long work meeting.
Last week, I contemplated waking up at 6.45 in the morning to watch her Instagram livestream.
In fact I think I’m going to do that this coming Friday.
Six forty-five.
For a bird.
A bird who does not know I exist.
At some point, I began wondering whether I had lost my mind.
But then another thought occurred to me. When was the last time I had looked forward to something so simple, so utterly unproductive, with such uncomplicated delight?
Somewhere along the way, adulthood had taught me to justify almost everything I enjoyed. Reading was good because it expanded my knowledge. Exercise was good because it improved my health. Writing was good because it might eventually become a business.
And watching a little parrot eat breakfast?
Well.
Perhaps some things are allowed to be wonderful simply because they are.
The Rather Underrated Pleasures of Ordinary Life
A colleague recently asked me when I’d last experienced a dopamine-filled moment. An interesting question.
I thought about my holiday in the mountains of Sichuan. The scenery, the excitement of being somewhere different, the sheer pleasure of escaping the familiar.
Surely that qualified.
But then I thought about Ami.
And Apple, another sun conure who lives in Sydney and has apparently mastered the art of requesting head scratches.
None of these seemed particularly remarkable.
Yet I could recall them with the same affection, sometimes even more.
Then there are my evening walks.
There’s a quiet neighbourhood near where I live, with rows of houses, leafy streets, and a sports complex.
I like walking there when the weather permits.
Which, in Singapore, is an increasingly ambitious requirement.
Sometimes I climb the stadium steps and claim a little empty space at the top for my squats and planks. There’s something oddly satisfying about exercising outdoors, with the wind against my face and other people going about their evening routines.
Afterwards, I wander towards the cafés.
Perhaps a latte today? Or a golden latte, with turmeric and spices?
These are important decisions, obviously.
Then I stroll home, take a warm shower, and settle in for the evening.
Nothing extraordinary has happened.
And yet I feel wonderful.
On other days, I’m perfectly happy doing absolutely nothing.
I’ll spend hours in bed with a book, a television drama playing in the background.
Occasionally, I’ll look up and become distracted by how impeccably dressed the characters are.
I’ve tried recreating some of these looks.
The elegant blazers. The beautiful accessories. The effortlessly sophisticated outfits.
There’s just one problem.
I live in Singapore.
A city where stepping outdoors in a beautifully tailored blazer can feel like volunteering to be steamed alive.
So much for effortless elegance.
Nothing much was going on in my above examples. If my life were a reality show, it’d be cancelled by the network after just 2 episodes. Because there’s nothing going on – nothing in the sense of what we define as entertaining and productive. It’s just the mundane life of a random girl in my city.
But perhaps that’s the point – life does not have to have big bang moments to be meaningful or productive or memorable.
There wasn’t much going on in these moments if you were an outsider looking in, but there was plenty going on for me internally – uninterrupted joy, peace, fulfilment. A type of texture that I rarely get to experience in a 9-5 job. The walks, the lattes, seeing the neighbourhoods, the fulfilment from exercise, watching birds do their thing and feeling an overwhelming since of fuzzy warmth and affection.
All these things were part of what living feels like.
The Unexpected Joy of Not Knowing
I’ve begun to suspect that some of my happiest experiences have something in common.
I didn’t particularly expect anything from them.
I didn’t know whether the barista would make a good latte. Whether the skies would stay clear. Whether the little bird on my screen would do anything remotely interesting.
Sometimes it rained during my walks.
Which was inconvenient, certainly.
But also unexpectedly delightful.
I found myself laughing and playing in the rain, something I hadn’t planned to do.
Perhaps that’s what I’ve been missing.
Not excitement. Not adventure. Not even novelty.
But the freedom to experience something without deciding beforehand what it ought to be.
There’s a difference, I think, between looking forward to something and demanding that it unfold exactly as imagined.
The first leaves room for wonder.
The second can make even a perfectly lovely experience feel disappointing.
So I’ll keep going for my walks, getting lost in books, discovering little cafés, and turning up at events without demanding that they become extraordinary.
I’ll keep making room for things that serve no particular purpose beyond making me happy.
And this Friday, I may very well wake up at 6.45 in the morning to watch a little parrot in Japan eat breakfast.
She won’t know I’m watching, of course.
She won’t know I exist.
But I suspect I’ll have a wonderful morning anyway.