It’s funny the things you remember about a loved one. Sometimes it’s their acts of kindness, their infectious sense of humour, their charisma. For me it is the clear image of the little hairs on my father’s fingers as we quietly enjoyed a pint of Guinness together just the summer before he died.

It was a time when my Dad helped soothe me from the woes of life as a third year undergraduate student during an eight day retreat in Cobh, County Cork, at a home of contemplative nuns.

An unexpected joyful moment comes to mind as I reflect on my experience of the recent damage caused by Storm Éowyn, with hundreds of thousands of homes that were left without electricity. It occurred when my brother John gifted me with a torchlight after our house was two days without electricity (a fallen tree in our area cut though a cable).

I had a conversation with my brother earlier that day: I mentioned that I needed candlelight to eat my dinner and read before bedtime. John clearly listened to my experience because a short while later he said, “Here’s the torchlight to use. It’s fully charged”. I was pleasantly surprised by the gesture, and I thanked him as he returned to his own home abroad. I felt as though I was gifted with another Christmas present!

“Stop, Gavin. Be Joyful!” “Be Playful!” “Focus on the Positive!” These words were boldly directed towards me as I jumped ship and started to write for children.

I was startled by the punchy forthrightness; I could ignore the first person thinking she didn’t really know me but when three people pressed me on the matter I had to stand up and pay attention!

My children’s book adventure was as much a surprise to me as it was for everyone else who were used to my writing on finding gratitude in all things from an adult perspective. But here I suggest 3 things that made it all worth it:

During meditation this morning, I opened my eyes for a moment and saw a small bird perch onto the potted plant next to the window. She stopped, and looked in the direction of me as I was behind the other side of the window in the living room.

Like the way light enters raindrops to form a rainbow, a smile enters the pain of tears to inspire a multicoloured transformation.

For eleven weeks in a row, I had the pleasure of facilitating a creative writing group called Facing the Sun with a lovely bunch of people at a local wellness centre. I noticed that the theme for each week’s session became more positive and life-giving, without trying to force things in a happy-clappy way.

A sensitive, gentle smile flowed through our time together, a smile in the face of mental health challenges and real life hurdles. We still acknowledged how we really were with each other. Sometimes we experienced downers, periods of sunniness, or a mixture of highs and lows.

I believe in being whammed by play, playing with these words, playing with light, roughness, ready for a smile, a laugh, a joke, ready to please my grandad when I was young.

I remember the picture of me and my brothers around him, of him opening his mouth not only to smile but to laugh, to laugh aloud, to almost cry in laughter, in joy, when most of what I remember are his frowns, his sternness, his want to control.

When so many of us look the other way as we pass a stranger on the street, surely it is good to celebrate the positive effect of a simple expression that can blossom our day with warmth, love, and a little magic.

One of my clearest childhood memories is a pilgrimage in France and Spain when I was eight years old. For a couple of weeks, I walked and hiked the mountain range known as the Pyrenees with my dad, two of my brothers and other pilgrims. I remember the blood-orange earthy trails, suncream, my blue hat, hiking boots, chocolate milk and salami baguettes.