People often ask, with a twinkle in their eye, what a day in my life looks like. I shy away for fear of disappointing. The thoughts that come to mind are common, even challenging, not glamorous as I think they expect. Take this day just two weeks ago, for example:

It was a day of false starts. I started to open my e-mail but the internet was not working – no surprise there. Brian started to leave for work but was blocked in the parking lot. The attendant said he could not leave until we paid our management fee. This was a surprise as we hadn’t been given a bill. I started to prepare for a birthday party that I am hosting in two days but workers showed up to start our neighbour’s renovations. I couldn’t think over the jackhammering. I only wish that had been a false start.

I tensed at the pounding and crashing of a wall being torn out in the adjoining apartment, just waiting for them to smash through our living room. I saw them pull loads of cement chunks into our shared elevator and watched the dust-filled air enter our home, particles settling on our floor.

After six hours of living in a construction zone I whispered to my husband, who had returned home, “Can I escape?” I pictured a quiet trail in the Rocky Mountains but knew I would have to settle with much less.

Stepping out our door, small chunks of cement crunched under my feet. I waited for the elevator. I had given up on having a productive day and went in search of quiet, peace. It wasn’t going to be easy to find. The elevator was on the first floor and wasn’t moving. I debating using the stairs but going round and round gets dizzying. I waited.

Finally, it came. Expecting an empty space, a bit of reprieve, I stepped toward the opening doors. Instead I saw an elevator, probably half the size of the one you are imagining, occupied by two men and three stacks of large boxes. There was a small space inside the door. I surprised myself by squeezing in. It will be a quick ride.

But then we stopped at the thirteenth floor. No one there. We resumed our descent and stopped again at floor eleven. The doors opened to an elderly man with whom I regularly travel up and down. He won’t even try. But before I could convince myself of this I was forced between the piles of boxes as he pushed his way in. The man in the corner caught the wobbling boxes and pulled them closer, sandwiching himself against the wall.

Please don’t let the elevator break down. This was not the solitude I was anticipating.

We came to a halt at the fifth floor. Freedom was close. “Sorry,” the worker said. “This will take a few minutes.” But I slipped past him as soon as he pulled out the first pile of boxes and I ran down the last few flights of stairs. I walked briskly to a nearby coffeeshop, a place where I could just sit and be.

I took an inviting, empty seat, pulled out a book and told myself to relax. It started to work. The outermost layer of stress began to dissolve. Another false start.

The woman behind be, whose chair nearly touched mine, started yelling into her phone. A mother opened the door and let her disgruntled child come roaring in. The woman behind me yelled louder.

I put down my book, took a deep breath and started to write. I wrote about my day, a day that, to my dismay, does capture much of what my life in China looks like. It’s not attractive, but then is that what I am striving for?

I wrote about the jackhammering, the birthday party that I wasn’t ready for, the screaming child that was running circles around me. I wrote about my frustration, my craving for peace.

It tumbled out. Just recording it helped. I groped through the mess, looking for value, not expecting any.

Then I remembered, at breakfast the kids and I had laughed as we read limericks together.

A savoured moment.

I watched my son glow with creativity as he transformed his bedroom into a life-sized maze for the birthday party, even amidst the noise of construction.

Another.

My daughter climbed into my lap and wrapped her arms around my neck. A rare occurrence with my growing girl. She told me she had raked leaves out of her fort. I caught a sparkle in her eye, shining through tears of fatigue.

And another.

I smiled upon realizing that my husband and I had encouraged each other through the frustrations of our day.

By the time I discovered these savoured moments, the gems buried in the haystack, the woman behind me had finished her phone call, the screaming child had left, the pounding in my head had started to subside.

It hadn’t gone away completely. Peaceful moments are rare in China. But it quieted enough to let me pick out the musical notes amidst the drumming and put together a bit of a melody.

It was more than just a day of false starts.