You don’t need to light incense or chant in ancient languages to experience something spiritual. Sometimes, a quiet cup of tea in the garden can do the job. 

For many of us, the idea of spirituality has long been tied to religion, to churches or temples, to formal prayers or rituals, to belief systems passed down through generations. And for those who grew up with faith but no longer practise it, or for those who have never felt particularly drawn to organised religion, the word ‘spiritual’ can feel either distant or irrelevant. And yet, the desire for stillness, for meaning, for connection with something beyond the busyness of daily life, hasn’t gone anywhere. If anything, it has grown stronger. 

There’s something about this stage of life, the sixties and beyond, that invites a deeper kind of noticing. We find ourselves slowing down in small but significant ways. Not because we have to, necessarily, but because we want to. We begin to see beauty in things we used to rush past. A morning walk becomes more than just exercise. Digging in the garden becomes something more than a chore. A few minutes spent journalling or simply sitting quietly can become the most grounded moment of the day. 

These small acts, repeated with intention, have the quality of ritual. They are not performed for anyone else. They are not dramatic or showy. But they can quietly shape the texture of our days. Walking first thing in the morning, before the world gets noisy, has a way of clearing the mind. Some people walk the same route every day and notice how the light changes, how the trees shift, how the air feels different with each passing week. Others might write in a notebook each evening, not a diary in the traditional sense, but a space to untangle thoughts or note down something they’re grateful for. There is no goal, no achievement to unlock, just the practice itself. 

Gardening, too, often takes on a deeper significance. Watching things grow, tending to them patiently, becomes a conversation with time. It asks us to slow down and to pay attention. To live by the seasons rather than the clock. And for those who don’t have a garden, even caring for a few pots on a windowsill can become a way of connecting with the rhythm of life. 

None of these things need to be labelled as spiritual, and certainly not religious. But when they are done with intention and regularity, they begin to carry meaning. They become ways of grounding ourselves, of staying connected to the world and to ourselves. They offer a kind of quiet sanctuary that doesn’t rely on belief, just on presence. 

We often imagine spiritual practices as something lofty or exotic. But they can be as ordinary as feeding the birds, stirring a pot of soup, or taking a moment before bed to breathe deeply and settle the day. The simplicity of the act is part of its power. 

In a culture that prizes speed, visibility, and constant productivity, choosing to pause can feel almost radical. But in those pauses, we often find clarity, comfort, and the quiet reassurance that there is more to life than its surface. 

Growing older gives us the chance to shape our days more intentionally. We may no longer be as pulled in a dozen directions as we once were. We can choose, more than ever, how we spend our time. And in those choices, those morning walks, those journal entries, those hands in the soil, we may discover a kind of everyday spirituality. Not imposed from outside, but arising gently from within.