A little disclaimer: No pastry in this one, just me and the outdoors!
I see a sparrow, just like the Mauritian Fody that used to come to our garden every morning in Mauritius. It would perch quietly on the longan tree, waiting for my mom to give it bread. I like to think it came just for us, like a daily blessing. It’s funny how something so small can carry so much meaning. That little bird, and driving by the coast of Tenerife, reminded me of the happiness and comfort that nature has consistently offered throughout my life, something I really miss after moving to Dubai.
Mauritius isn’t just about beaches and turquoise lagoons. It’s green: forests, fields, rivers, wildflowers bursting out of every corner, and mountains. I still clearly remember the mornings. The first sound (if my mom or dad wasn’t waking us up in a hurry) was always the cheerful chirping of birds from the tree next to our bedroom window, a natural alarm clock that woke my sister and me. This came along with the comforting smell of Mauritian black tea my mom would make every morning. No matter how rushed I was, I had to enjoy my morning tea. The aroma of the tea, the steam rising from the mug, it all comes back to me so clearly. If time allowed, I’d walk barefoot outside and feel the cool dew on the grass beneath my bare feet. It was a simple, perfect start to the day.
Evenings back home had their own charm too. We’d sit on the balcony with a book and tea(again), you could hear crickets and other insects, and sometimes rats, my least favourite sound ever. And let’s not forget the occasional visit from flying cockroaches. Ewww, I hate them sooo much. For a long time, my garden in Mauritius looked like a small forest, with the entrance completely covered in green. There was a swing between two tall pine trees, and between them lived these huge, terrifying spiders: velvety bodies, giant heads. Every time we swung, our eyes were fixed on those eight-legged creatures! It sounds funny now, but it certainly wasn't at the time. That garden was a playground for both wonder and childhood fear/adventure. We also grew different fruits and vegetables. I am so appreciative for those peaceful moments that shaped my early understanding of joy.
My parents made sure we never took any of it for granted. They taught us to appreciate every sunrise, every wave, every bit of shade under trees.
We would often rush to the beach after school/work. "Aller, aller!" my parents would say, and we’d quickly get ready, preparing drinks and tuna salad. On the way, we'd grab hot baguettes; our all-time favourite beach dinner - di pain, salade thon avec so pima confit (bread, tuna salad, and pickled chilies). It was a 25-30 minutes drive along mountain ranges, one of which looked like a sleeping grandpa with a big tummy, the local radio playing in the background. Once we reached the beach, we would run to the water. The weather in Mauritius allowed us to swim until sundown, catching the sunset. Often, we’d lose track of time. After our meal, we’d walk along the beach, then lay on a mat on the sand. Sometimes we played Antakshari, a singing game, or fell into deep, meaningful conversations, or simply stargazed under filao trees. I miss sunrises all the time, blame my sleeping habits, but sunsets make me so excited, with all the shades in the sky, truly an artist’s work.
On weekends or public holidays, we often hiked and discovered hidden waterfalls or water bodies. Of course, the Aquaman in me would urge me to take a dip, spare clothes or not. We’d go guava plucking during the season, and come back home with bags full, which either turned into jam, or were eaten with red chilli powder and salt. I also cherish memories of driving with our favourite music playing, past sugarcane or pineapple fields and mountains, stopping on the way because one of us spotted some wild raspberries or mangoes. I would always stain my shirt from those juicy ‘mangue dauphinée or maison rouge’. These little moments were pure joy. My dream was always to cycle through these roads, but traffic safety in Mauritius makes it risky.
I’ve always been drawn to greenery, the mystery of huge trees, the sound of birds, the rustle of dry leaves, the sound of water flowing. My yearly hike to 7 Cascades in Mauritius was something I looked forward to every single year. I first did it when I was eight or nine. It’s not an easy one; steep paths, slippery rocks, lots of obstacles, but it’s worth every step. Seven waterfalls, one after another, each with natural pools to swim in. It’s breathtaking, you should look it up. Other favourites are Le Morne Brabant and Black River Gorges, hikes that reward you with views that stretch as far as your eyes can see.
I really value these family traditions that connected us so intimately with the natural world.
In 2019, I moved to Yssingeaux, a small town in France, for my studies. I immediately felt a sense of familiarity with the natural surroundings. With just 7,000 people and surrounded by hills and forests, just fifteen minutes from a ski station, it was a gentle welcome far from the rush of big cities; a smooth transition to a foreign country. It reminded me of home, in its own way. The biggest difference? The cold. I remember heading to pastry class at 5:30 AM in -9°C. I lost count of how many times I fell during my first year in the snow. Oh, and when it first snowed, no one was happier than me. And wow, snowflakes actually look like snowflakes! I was émerveillée.
We took long, peaceful walks to nearby rivers. My friends, strangers turned friends over a shared passion for pastry and I would walk for 2 hours past fields of grazing horses and cows, discovering all sorts of vibrant wildflowers, picking wild blueberries, feeling crisp air on our cheeks. Can you picture it? We carried thermoses of tea and pastries from the previous day's practical class for a picnic. It’s one of my favourite memories of Yssingeaux. We had a huge thirst for adventure! We would climb a different hill every weekend, whether there was sun, rain, or snow. We got lost so many times, but those detours led to discovery, stronger friendships, and a deeper connection with nature in a new landscape.
And when I felt homesick, I’d look up at the sky, "I'm not so far away from home; we all live under the same sky." This thought always brought comfort.
Whenever I passed through stunning European landscapes by train, I've felt both immense happiness and a pang of bittersweet sadness. I wished my parents could be there to see it all. After all, they taught me to love nature so deeply.
Nature has always brought me peace. When I feel low or stuck in a whirlwind of thoughts, I turn to nature. I remember once in Mauritius, I faced a huge dilemma at work. Instead of taking transport home, I decided to walk along the shore for 2 hours. That walk gave me time to think, clear my head, debate with myself, gain new perspectives, and decide on my next move. Nature never gave me answers, but it gave me space and that made all the difference.
It has also taught me valuable lessons. I learned to swim when my cousin, in a moment of playful mischief, threw me into a river. My instincts kicked in, and I floated, and that’s how I started to swim.
Recently in Garachico, Tenerife, I had another powerful reminder of nature’s strength. I visited beautiful natural swimming pools carved out of rock, a stunning sight with seven or eight pools, each different in size and depth. I went alone, intending to take a dip. One particular pool caught my attention: a deep turquoise canal, maybe 3-4m deep. No one else was swimming, which made me hesitate, but I thought, “Why wait? I’ll regret not going in.” I sat on the lowest step of the stairs to get used to the temperature, something I learned was important to avoid thermal shock from jumping into cold water. It felt amazing for 5 seconds, then a big wave swept me off the stairs. I panicked. The current pushed me against the rocks. I tried grabbing a rock; slippery. ‘Uh oh.’ But I stayed calm. It wouldn’t be fatal, but it could end badly. With effort, I pushed myself up and grabbed onto dry rocks. I got out with just a few scratches but with a huge lesson. Gratitude. Respect. A deeper understanding of nature’s force. It was a humbling experience that strengthened my connection to Earth.
I believe that it’s called 'Mother' Nature for a reason. She embraces and grounds you, giving a strong feeling of belonging and acceptance. Nature brings calm, as if it knows exactly what you need. I think it’s the simplicity that makes it so comforting. Trees don’t stand taller than they are, rivers don’t change their flow, the sky doesn’t hide its colours. In nature, there’s no judgment, you don’t have to pretend. Just being in it reminds you to breathe, to slow down, one thing at a time. When you use all your senses to take it all in and notice the details, it feels like a gentle hug. And in that moment, you feel deeply connected, to yourself and something greater. That’s the peace I keep coming back to.
As grown-ups, we often chase happiness like it's a finish line or something we can buy. We look for it in achievements, material things, or quick moments of excitement. We say, "Yaay, I got a new car!" or "I bought a house!" And yes, there's joy in taking your loved ones for a drive after getting your license, or in transforming a house into a home. But not everyone gets those milestones. I've come to realise that true happiness to me comes when we master the ‘Art of Letting Go’. When we choose to focus more on the good than the bad. When we learn to appreciate what we have. It’s about silencing the noise, stepping away from the endless to-do lists and the constant rat race, and simply being in the moment, just like a child does. Easier said than done (me first!), but nature is remarkably adept at reminding us of this simple joy. For whenever I spot a sparrow, it’ll remind me of all those childhood memories, moments of stillness, simplicity, and presence. A reminder that happiness often lies in the small, quiet things: where the sparrows sing.
And in that spirit of finding joy in the simple, present moments, I’m writing this from a coworking space/library, and I just spent an hour playing with a 2 year old. It made me so happy and full of energy. There’s something about the innocence of a child that's wonderfully linked to the purity of nature. And while this piece is deeply about nature, I must confess: kids, people, desserts, tea, music, rain, travel, adventure, the fresh smell of laundry or a clean home also bring me immense happiness. I’m very much a “little things make me happy” kind of person. But I’ll save those stories for another time.