Fragments 

Seems like it is when I’m trying to form coherent, academic thoughts that my hazy memories of emotive snippets flood me. 

I suddenly thought of the time Uncle W chaired at family camp and talked about the period of time when they were struggling to cope, and he mentioned friends offering help but him not being able to receive it — and he apologised. My vespers group talked about it after, and we couldn’t quite understand what he meant. But now I do. When you’re so pained you can feel so isolated that even when someone reaches towards you, you can only look over at them as if through a sheet of glass, and there is no energy to lift a hand in response.

I also suddenly thought about the small spaces in Anne Frank House. And how there is a silence about it, and a solemnity. And in that moment of shallow breathing, thinking of the light coming through the attic where she would sit with Peter…and that light is one of hope.

About voice: for some reason I feel completely diffident this week, like I have  nothing worth saying. So I loathe what I’m writing. But where did my voice go? I don’t even have it enough to play my viola. And i play it so diffidently that it squeaks even more, and I make an already reticent instrument even more reticent.