Three Beautiful Things

Posted by Christina Zipperlen on August 13, 2026

For a while now, I've been on a journey of becoming more and more intentional about what I feed my mind. Not just with books, podcasts, or social media, but with where my attention rests throughout the day.

Our brains have something called a negativity bias. Over thousands of years, they became incredibly good at noticing what might hurt us, because remembering danger helped us survive. Left to their own devices, our minds are naturally more likely to replay the awkward conversation than a sweet, joyful moment with someone we love, the worry than the laughter, what went wrong rather than all the ordinary things that went right.

There is nothing wrong with you if your mind does this. It's simply trying to keep you safe.

But there is something we can practice.

Neuropsychologist Rick Hanson calls it "Taking in the Good." The idea is beautifully simple: When something nourishing happens, we pause with it for just a little longer than we normally would. Instead of letting a beautiful moment rush by unnoticed, we stay with it. We breathe it in. We let it land in our memory, in our felt sense, in our body. The longer we stay with these moments (Rick Hanson suggests around 10 to 20 seconds), the more likely they are to be stored in our long-term memory rather than simply passing us by.

I've been trying to do more of that lately. It's a practice, so some days I'm better at it than others. But I keep trying and, slowly, slowly, my mind is adjusting.

Here are three ways I've been practicing taking in the good this week.

1. Returning to my notebook

For years, I had a practice: every evening I made a list in a notebook of things that brought me joy that day. Tiny moments, yummy meals, mini yoga practices, joyful conversations, a hug. Things that made me laugh. Beautiful details I didn't want to forget.

It was one of those simple practices that somehow disappeared during pregnancy and the first years of motherhood. Recently I started again. With a pen and a notebook. My brain has had enough screen time by evening.

Yesterday's list included babycinos with my daughter, watercolor paints spread across the table, music playing through the house, Jaya getting up to dance, and sunshine arriving after a night of heavy rain.

Of course there were other things too. I hadn't slept much. I could feel a cold coming on. There are still things weighing on my heart. Those are easy to remember.

The dancing takes a little more intention to focus on. And somehow, writing that moment down in my notebook means I get to visit it again and let it sink a little deeper.

2. Returning to stories

I've also started reading novels again.

Most evenings, Jaya falls asleep curled up beside me while I read. Somewhere between rocking her to sleep and following the lives of fictional characters, something inside me softens.

Stories stretch us in ways facts rarely can.

One passage I recently underlined was this:

"And what is love, in the end? Except the irrational desire to put evolutionary competitiveness aside in order to ease someone else's journey through life?"
— Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow by Gabrielle Zevin

Some books entertain us. Others change the way we see the world. I'm grateful for artists who continue to write stories, and that this habit has found its way back into my life.

3. Returning to prayer

I recently created a small altar for the things I'm longing for.

After Jaya is asleep, I sometimes leave a little offering there. A flower, a leaf she picked, a Balinese offering. Whatever feels right that evening.

Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I smile because, in the little ways the day unfolded, I feel closer to the things I'm dreaming up.

I sprinkle water over the offering to bring life and blessings. I light incense to lift my prayers into the sky.

It's only a few quiet minutes, but they've become a way of making space for hope instead of asking it to wait until everything is sorted.

It's been deeply nourishing to arrange my days in a way that leaves room for these tiny moments. Moments where my heart gets to stay with something beautiful instead of only carrying what's difficult.