It's late and I've just finished two hours of commentary reading after having spent about an hour working on a translation. These last few hours of study were a breeze compared the rest of the day which preceded.
Nothing catastrophic took place; just a lot of little things that went wrong all throughout the day. A very important recording was inaudible. A repeat attempt resulted in my receptionist writing "Digital Recorders for Dummies" for my future recording needs. The need to make direct contact with a living being at an insurance company foiled by the clever ways insurance companies "make public" their contact telephone numbers by hiding them deep in company websites. A report run with just one wrong button clicked. A fax number misplaced only to be found at my feet.
Over the now 40 (years) minus 293 (days) of my life I've learned to walk through days like this with prayer, humor, and calmness (mostly), because to do otherwise makes the craziness spiral out of this world. Still, such a day wears me out and causes me to crave a cave-like existence.
And so, to sit with books, paper, and pencils at the ready in my lovely office at home was like sipping from a cool spring on a hot summer's day. For at this desk I was in control. No insurance to wrangle with, no reports to run, and no digital anythings.
Just me, my books and I.
We are so alike in this way. I love people and challenges and most parts of the harried life I lead. But I need the downtime, the quiet. It rights me.
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