I sit in my room and I sort through my music. The room is dark, lit only by one naked lamp, which is casting warm, stark light across the contours of the room.
My curtains are partially drawn, and outside a thunderstorm is raging. Blue-purple-white light flashes across the sky, smeared with torrential rain, applauded by concatenations of thunder.

And inside, my soul feels at peace.
It's the first time that it's felt this way for quite a while.
I feel tired, but rested. There's asadness here, but it just serves to mellow the edges of a rather deep happiness.

I've been reading Alain de Botton - dipping into a book of his which I've never gotten around to finishing: “the Art of Travel�.
And its helped me to remember what's important.
That it isn't the big achievements, or what is noted as “officially� important that makes life glow…
It's the small things…. that mean a lot, because they are attached to two things:
Your story… and His story.

Sometimes I get weary of wandering. Sometimes I get sick of the pace of it all… The movement, the uncertainty; leaving friends behind, adapting to new situations. It takes a lot out of you. And God provides, but sometimes I find it rubs to be the channel. I get impatient… I'm always thinking:

“But God, I thought I was meant to do this?�
“But God… this isn't how I thought it would look…�
“But God… I have this little bit figured out… but I'm still not sure�
“Dear God. I just. Don't. Know. What. Will Happen.�

All I can do is trust that God knows what he's doing. And sometimes that's hard.

And then I realise that what I thought it should look like wasn't really the point anyway.
And that me “knowing� what is or is not going to happen only makes me worry more.
And then I look back on all God has done for me, and everything he's given me…
Especially in those unexpected, unplanned, “officially� insignificant moments, which meant the world to me.

Alain De Botton writes:

“ We arrived at Oxenholme Station, subtitled ‘The Lake District', shortly before nine. Only a few others alighted with us and we walked silently along the platform, our breaths visible in the night chill…�

And this (rather random) excerpt made something leap in my heart.
Because I too have been there. I too have been blessed with the opportunity to alight from a train in the dark of a cold English Night… to walk silently along the platform… and to watch my breath, visible in the night chill…

And I never thought in a million years that I'd be given that moment. And it was precious to me when it was given: a sort of secret, poetic, thrill… like finding yourself caught in a moment imagined from a storybook.

And I sit in my room, with the light dim… a “Typhoon 1� signal has just been hoisted - and it's going to get much worse. And I remember back to all those times I've spent in an air-conditioned, dim room, while the thunder dances outside my window… amidst the rain and the wind...

…I love typhoons. I love the rawness of the weather; the wetness and denseness of the rain. The lightening, the thunder: and the feeling of insulation that comes from my familiarity with them…

And I cannot but help think how blessed I've been. How I've been given this opportunity to be back here in Hong Kong, to watch a Typhoon break across the slopes of Mt. Victoria; to be able to read the account of a British Author, describing that mysterious nocturnal disembarkation from a train, in the British Countryside, with breath visible in the night chill, and to be able to relive the thrill, and whisper under my breath: I've been there too!

"The sun setting on what was
Setting on what could have been
In essence all lovers have songs
Slow to cherish what was had
Until you haven't anything
Your fingers ache
To have it once more

Here's to long goodbyes
And the songs they bring
Romanticise
Linger on the
Bliss with which we fly
And all that's promising
Watch and sigh…
Here's to Hope."

- Here's to Hope, Whence He Came (The Shorter Story)