My quiet place

Everyone deserve a sanctuary, a quiet place where you don’t get mobile coverage, where you give yourself permission to do nothing. My place is a friend’s house in the Yarra Valley, an hour outside of Melbourne. She ensures that I always know that I’m welcome. Trees are large and overgrown. Pots are full of herbs and other fledgling plants.  The bed in the spare room is made up in linen I now recognise. I know which cupboards house the towels and which house the wine glasses. If I arrive home before they do, I receive a text telling me where to find the key.

Everyone deserves a sanctuary. A place where there’s nothing you ought to do. A place where you can do but you don’t have to do. I bring wine and cheese to this house though it’s not expected of me. I do it because I want to share these delicious things with my friends. And in this sanctuary, I’m at liberty to crack open the wine before they arrive home. It’s how we are with each other.

Everyone deserves a sanctuary. A place where alarms aren’t set. A place where the demands of the outside world are unable to penetrate. I can see the outside world from my place on the sun lounge under the large shade trees. I can see hills in the distance, vines clinging to their contours and beyond them more buildings and signs of civilisation. It can stay over there.

Everyone deserves a sanctuary.

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