I've just turned off my asparagus and moved the pan from the induction plate. The kitchen is only lit by the sun dimming behind me, stretching through the back window and a mouthful of red wine sits still in the oversized glass beside me.
But something is stirring.
I've had a really bad day. The kids have been so disobedient and I've been impatient. Not the best concoction when living indoors throughout a national lockdown. But what hurts more is that pain that rarely leaves me. The ache of dissatisfaction, of disappointment. The pang of regret.
But something is still stirring. That, like the falling feeling of despair, that so often takes over me, is really present. Thinking of it this way, I realise there is a conflict within me. Funny, I have never viewed it like that until the concentration of writing it down reveals to me the war on the inside.
Because something is stirring.
If I were to invite those who know me best, to evaluate my physique, then they would agree to some degree of an inner torture being ever present. There in the depths. The abyss within me.
Along with the stirring.
I know when I feel it least. When I conform and settle or I allow it to fade into an afterthought. But in the same breath, I feel I know it at it strongest; when I eagerly and desperately study for it, research it and worship with it; like having a dance partner.
I've now moved into my favourite room of our house, the front room. To finish. I've been guided to the work of Pete Greig. Handheld. Should I be surprised? I have used the 24/7 prayer he wrote for the coronavirus more than any other during this unprecedented period.
And so my stirring finds solace. A resting place for the night.
I am desperate for answers because I still ask the same questions.
Now would be a good time for you to whisper, God.