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By Philip Quirke

Time: 7.45 am. Jan 17.

Place: south-facing window of our kitchen.


In line of sight, a red-orange band above hills still charcoal grey, below an immense whiteness This is the morning, here.  It unfolds quickly, as the earth turns, to be washed in wintery sunlight.

A new day, a new beginning.  From here we start.  There is no knowing what will emerge.  Our routines keep us anchored in the face of the unexpected.

In the kitchen the cat stretches, miaows for a stroke, so I smooth her neck, ears and chin.

I put porridge in with milk and water on the hot plate at a low heat.

I open the back door to cold air in a sharp frost, -4 C, but almost feel the temperature rising as the sun’s rays sweep over.

The bird table is replenished with crusts and seeds, and even as I turn away the starlings, hooded crows, rooks and pigeons glide in.

The kettle sings, porridge bubbles, toast pops.


Before I eat I become aware of the turning world and the passing time and of those first simple things to be done which have been done.

Now I become aware of the great forces which undergird, sustain and keep in being all that is, in which I am participating, and the many dependencies in which I am involved since day began.


Where is “God” in all this ? 

Where is “God” not ? 

All is a great mystery.  The mystery is in us, and we are in the mystery. 

And in God we live and move and have our being.


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