a day in the life of a latvian mom

When I came to Anna’s Manor for our work event, I noticed a stork feather lying in the grass. It felt like a small gift — quiet, light, and meaningful. I picked it up and brought it home with me. It’s now resting on my oak desk, reminding me of the stillness of that place and the thoughts I carried with me when I left.

Anna’s Hotel even has a stork nest on its roof. There’s something magical about that — a place rooted in Latvian history, watched over by a bird so symbolic of home, peace, and return. The feather felt like a blessing, or at least a small nod from nature that I was in the right place.

I often do this — collect a little something from places that leave a mark on me. A feather, a stone, a shell, a pressed leaf. These small natural objects feel like talismans. Not in a superstitious way, but more like physical memories — a way to hold a moment with my hands.

Each one holds a story: a peaceful walk, a conversation, a season, a feeling I don’t want to forget. They gather quietly on windowsills, in bowls, between book pages, like a secret map of where I’ve been — not just physically, but emotionally too.

Perhaps it’s simply how I mark moments — a quiet ritual of acknowledging that something touched me. Maybe it’s just my way of holding on to moments that feel special. And even if, one day, I no longer remember exactly where a feather came from, I’ll still remember how it made me feel — and that’s enough.

Ilze