These days, I've begun to find a soothing comfort in routines, and things that can be repeated and replayed. In a world of sweltering needs, speed, changes and opinions, these little things that I can control, that can and do stay relatively stable, have become my resting place.
In the familiar songs, each lyric to which my heart is married, in the scenes of the movies (most I can say by heart), in the familiar rythm of cooking, and in the cathartic feel of my thumb on a screen or a biro scratching at paper when I write, my soul has found a bit of release.
These are my days of unfamiliar pain; of processes and wounds that I pick at over and over again. These are the periods where I'm being taught to stay still, even as I am introduced to the wonder that is God's patience with me in the waiting.
And perhaps, just like my repititive things which do not bother me as much because I know where they start and end, and know the parts that matter the most to me, and give me great delight, resulting in my own patience with either the slowness of the characters in a movie, or the lull in my favourite songs, God sees me and just smiles—even when I feel like my life's on repeat, or is a depiction of an electrocardiogram, that goes up and down with every new heartbeat—because he's attuned to every crescendo, every peak, and to the lulls and lows in between as well.
Perhaps, even in this trying season, the peace he shares with me as a result of his omniscience, omnipotence and omnipresence, are spillages of the divine knowledge of my person—all that I am, all that I'll ever be, and all that's ahead of me.
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