In the Silence of a Weekend Morning, I Found Joy Again | by Hening Suryandari | Aug, 2025

I woke up this morning and felt like a minor miracle had arrived — quietly, gently, like a whisper only the heart could hear.

The soft light was spilling through our bedroom window, filtered through the sway of willow peppermint leaves just outside. The tree has become a kind of companion. Its branches shift with every breeze, its silence never empty. From it came the early chorus of birdsong — warbling, shrill, insistent. Perhaps the Rainbow Lorikeets were arguing again. Maybe they were in love.

Winter mornings in Perth are often still, sometimes painfully so. But today, the stillness wrapped itself around me like a familiar shawl — not cold, not lonely, but tender. There was a quiet comfort I couldn’t quite name, the kind of softness that Ahmad Tohari once captured in the way Srintil folded silence into the folds of her sarong. The kind that doesn’t perform, doesn’t announce itself. It simply is.

I rose slowly from our bed, still wrapped in the warmth of the blanket we’d shared through the night. The weight of it lingered on my shoulders as I tiptoed into the kitchen. I didn’t turn on the lights. The pale grey outside gave me just enough. I switched on the coffee machine. That familiar low hum filled the room like an old song. I stood there quietly, listening — not just to the machine, but to the moment itself. It’s funny how silence isn’t always empty. Sometimes, it’s full of peace.

I made two mugs of hot oat latte. One for me. One for my husband.

When I handed his cup to him, he looked up and whispered a soft “thank you.” He was already awake, scrolling through his phone, but he looked relaxed — soft-faced and slightly amused, the way he always does when I appear, sleepy-eyed but determined to bring him something warm. We didn’t say much. We didn’t need to. Just a “Good morning, love,” and a glance that said more than words ever could: I’m glad you’re here. I’m so happy we’re us.

We didn’t go out for our morning walk today, as we usually do. The sky was too grey, swollen with clouds that promised rain. The air outside was sharp, crisp enough to leave a trace of breath in the air. Even the peppermint trees on the footpath outside were shivering. I watched them from the window as I took slow sips of my coffee.

The lorikeets were out, loud and insistent, unfazed by the coming storm. Their chaotic joy has become one of my favourite parts of winter mornings. They remind me of the old kampung stories my father used to tell — of how every creature wakes with purpose, even when the sky is heavy.

Seno Gumira Ajidarma once wrote that “when journalism is silenced, literature must speak.” And I think about that often, but on mornings like this, I feel that even when the world is noisy, when politics and headlines scream for attention, the literature of small moments — of butter melting on toast, of the clink of ceramic mugs, of a glance between lovers — can speak louder than anything else. And perhaps, speak truer.

We sat in the living room with our coffee. I turned on the morning news, more out of habit than interest. The world outside our door seemed so far away, even though it flickered in pixels just a few feet in front of us. Floods in the Eastern State. An election campaign somewhere else. Markets rising and falling like breath.

But inside our little apartment, everything was still. And I was grateful for that.

Eventually, I stood up and walked to the kitchen to make breakfast. Simple, but full of comfort: croissants warmed in the oven, with cheese tucked inside, scrambled eggs cooked low and slow, and a stronger cup of coffee to follow the oat latte. I plated it all while listening to the wind outside.

We ate by the window, quietly. Watching the world go by. A passing cyclist. A child in a yellow raincoat. A dog that refused to walk in a puddle.

I thought about how easy it is to miss these moments. To scroll past them. To plan too much. To believe that only loudness counts as living. But today, I paid attention. I let the morning hold me.

Once, I believed I needed grand things to feel alive. A milestone. A promotion. A party. I chased those things, thinking they would prove I was doing well. But joy, it turns out, has become smaller now. And deeper.

These days, it looks like this: a quiet weekend morning. A hot drink. A familiar kitchen. A man who knows how I like my eggs. A moment that doesn’t need explanation.

And isn’t that what happiness is? Not the spectacular, but the steady. Not the performance, but the presence.

This morning didn’t solve all my problems. There are still doubts that shadow me. Questions I don’t have answers for. A to-do list I didn’t touch. But those things can wait. What mattered was how I started the day — with peace, with love, with gratitude. That, for me, is more than enough.

There’s a kind of joy that only arrives when you stop trying to chase it, when you’re still enough to let it find you.

So, I sit with that.

I name it.

I honour it.

Because mornings like this are fleeting, the sun will shift. The clouds will roll in. Deadlines will pile up again. But for now, I want to remember this moment in its wholeness: the warmth, the hush, the ordinary magic.

And I don’t want to take it for granted.