A week of normal days

In fragment sentences, mostly.

Sunday night charades. 

Monday night Pictionary.  (Seriously, that's a fox?!  How did you guess that?)

Early morning jogs in the park.  Full moon to the west.  Red sunrise to the east.  Sound of a kookaburra echoing from the south.  And hundreds of dogs with their owners out for their morning sniff.

Daily chores.  Making lunches.  Cutting apples.  Spreading sandwiches.  Pears.  Tomatoes. 

Laundry.  Laundry.  Laundry.  Laundry.  Laundry.

Laundry.

Work.  Pentagons and hexagons.  Twelve pentagons.  Twenty hexagons.  Or more.  One plus the square root of twenty-one.  5.72.  5.75.  5.77...  Maybe.  The answer to the question on volume is in the back of a paper from 2010.  Where does the day go?

Commute.  Up and down the Saint Kilda Road.  Wait for the green light.  Tram.  Touch on.  Book. 

Dinner time.  Again.  Shopping.  Again. 

Queen Victoria Market.  Apples.  Pears.  Extra large bag of oranges.  That's right -- winter is citrus season!  The house smells of oranges.  And Christmas.  Christmas smells like oranges. 

Last week's cold snap makes this week feel like a heat wave.  Sunshine.  Twenty-two degrees -- Celsius!  But don't lose the habit of closing the bathroom door. 

Saturday art.  This time, the European and Asian halls in the National Gallery of Victoria.  Dinner out.  Jonathan's choice.  Ramen again?  Off to wait at the Little Ramen Bar.  Always a wait there.  Three Ramune drinks with dinner. 

Sunday church.  Inner turmoil.  Sunday night Pictionary.  (How did you know that was a mop?!) 

Reading time. 

Bed time.

Repeat.

In the office in our apartment is a wall full of books, left by the owner.  On the wall was a book I borrowed to read on the tram.  In the book, in a chapter heading, was a quote that reads like a poem, and resonates.

“Normal day, let me be aware of the treasure you are. Let me learn from you, love you, bless you before you depart. Let me not pass you by in quest of some rare and perfect tomorrow. Let me hold you while I may, for it may not always be so. One day I shall dig my nails into the earth, or bury my face in the pillow, or stretch myself taut, or raise my hands to the sky and want, more than all the world, your return.”  -- Mary Jean Irion

A week of normal days.  A great blessing.