There’s a spot on our kitchen floor that is saving my life.

It falls at the corner intersection of our kitchen bench. From here I can gaze out the window watching Tui dance from branch to branch in the eucalyptus and magnolia trees, singing at the top of their lungs an ancient call to prayer.

Or my gaze can fall inward, to a strange and slightly unstable collection of homemade shelves housing various gadgets, cooking oils and sauces. Nestled among them is a reproduction of Rublev’s icon of the Trinity. A reminder to me of God’s presence here in the noise and hubbub of my ordinary life, and the holiness of the mundane tasks of preparing food, and cleaning up the mess.

I spend a lot of time here, stirring pots and watching coffee brew on the stove-top, listening to the subtle changes in sound as it brews, drinking in the aroma as it makes its way through.

It is a small island of stillness in my otherwise busy routine. A thin place in the wilderness of my life, where the presence of God seeps through.

A  place to stand when all the other ground has fallen away.

This is the place where many of my stories find their voice.