Last weekend, I was in Florence. I had such an amazing time that at night I wrote a detailed account in my journal of everything I’d seen and heard and felt, as if trying to distil the essence of the days into a permanent record. I didn’t want to let go of those moments. One week later, and once again I’m climbing into bed on a Sunday evening. Am pleasantly tired and looking forward to sleep. I feel content and at one with the world. It has been a blissful weekend; full but not too full, productive but relaxing, busy but not hectic. I have done so much that is worthy of comment and reflection. Yet I haven’t written a jot in my journal over the last few days. There is as much to say as last weekend, but for some reason I haven’t put pen to paper. How much do we miss out on by not giving the same level of attention to our “ordinary” moments compared to our “out of the ordinary” ones? What perplexes me more is why it hasn’t occurred to me to try to record this weekend too, as I really don’t want to let go of these moments either. I want to capture them and keep them in my heart forever.

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