18th July 2011 Monday
A wash out day. I don’t get much done. Except order four hundred photos at Sainsbury’s. Rain bursts on the windows. The damp cold gets under my skin. Writing in bed now - the best way to keep warm as drinking tea isn’t working My husband is singing in the choir. His stomach is upset and he doesn’t want to eat, so I have vegetable soup and oatcakes for supper.
All day I’ve been haunted by a one man performance we saw last night in a village hall in South Devon - a brave and remarkable friend honouring the harrowing stories of his ancestors - their impact on him and his own journey from a Kibbutz in 1972. He wove the themes of loss and displacement, war and hardship in a repeated phrase - ‘No time for sorrow. No time to say goodbye.’
I was thinking about my grandparents in Africa and in China - thinking that maybe too much time for sorrow can eat you up - hollow you out from the inside.
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