Where the Light Began

December arrives and suddenly the world glows.

Fairy lights appear in windows, cold pavements catch the shine from passing cars, and even the shortest day seems to hold a quiet shimmer. Everywhere I look, there’s a hint of sparkle — as if the month itself remembers something important and wants to whisper it to us.

This year, that sparkle has pulled me straight back to my beginnings.

I’ve been thinking a lot about my mum these past few weeks. She had a way of bringing light into dark seasons without ever making a fuss about it. Nothing grand, nothing loud — just small touches that made the world feel softer and warmer. A candle lit at the right moment. A stitched detail added because beauty matters. A meal made with care even when money was tight. A way of noticing the good, even when life was far from easy.

I didn’t understand it then, but looking back, I can see she was teaching me how to find light.

Not the kind that comes from decorations or fairy lights — though those have their place — but the kind that comes from attention, from tenderness, from making something with your hands because you believe small things can make a difference.

And perhaps this is why I’ve been adding beads to my knitting recently.

It started as an experiment, really — a little glimmer here, a sparkle there. But it’s become something else. Every bead catches the light in a way that feels like a memory. A reminder of those early lessons: beauty doesn’t need to be big to matter. Sometimes the smallest shine is enough.

As I knit them in, I keep thinking of the tiny ways my mum brightened the world around her.
The older I get, the more I realise that light doesn’t simply appear — it’s passed on. It’s taught. It’s tended. It’s stitched, cooked, held, whispered, and woven into us by the people who came before.

So this December, while everyone is talking about slowing down or staying calm, I’m thinking about sparkle.
Not the frantic, shop-window kind — but the kind born from love, attention, and the gentle women who taught me how to see it.

This month, I’m honouring where my light began.

And I’m gathering each tiny bead as a reminder: the smallest spark can still catch, still shine, still warm the dark.

Nessa