A quiet day

Doing. Emergency with ears tuned for ambulances, a free and blissful holiday, conferences near and far, brunch with my favourite B friends, family and talkative toddlers, measuring waists at the "oversize" station, driving in the storm with poor visibility, switching between anger and melancholy, hate and empathy, chilli pork trotters, singing C-pop and drinking milk tea, and writing, taking photos, chomp chomp, and writing some more.

A quiet day, at home. Lovely easy-going people, the perfect lazy purring cat, two funny, occasionally infuriating, hungry hungry dogs. But two or three months later I'm still thinking about the town, the place, the friends, cooking feasts, the badminton tennis footy, the lake, running past black swans, the home baked goods and fellowship. On a quiet day, can I be back there instead? When my calendar is blank, I uncover this uneasiness about being here. First year I used to love this place with a sense of awe at its night lights and deliciously cheap eateries. Love is fleeting, or at least infatuation is. Bigger is not always better. Community over flashiness any day. Maybe I can hope for a second love affair with M.

Maybe a quiet day is time to clear the distraction and know God, realign that compass. And do some study.

Very early in the morning, while it was still dark, Jesus got up, left the house and went off to a solitary place, where he prayed. - Mark 1:35



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