I Could Weep

3rd April 2012 Tuesday

‘I could weep,’ says the man on the phone. He is an old friend of my father’s. He’s having a battle with someone about the translation of The New Testament into the African language of Ch’ila in which he is an expert. He wants the name of a contact that I haven’t got.

I try and imagine his world and this Bible translation war he’s having which is causing him so much grief. How his attachment to a particular outcome is the source of his pain....how my attachment to being right is the source of mine. One of my attachments anyway.

Tonight I am hot and cold and head-achey. My throat is sore and my nose won’t stop running. Feeling hopeless about blogging. Worried about the pussy cat who is still being sick. I hoped the homeopathic remedies I’ve been giving him would help. I can’t bear to see him suffering. And I’m fed up with cleaning vomit off the carpets.

Today I’ve been sorting out my wardrobes and drawers with my wonderful de-clutterer sister. Three black bin bags are crouching in the bedroom, heavy with all the clothes mistakes I’ve made over the years.....letting them go to the charity shop now.

My husband asks me if I want dry water. He means still water. If I think about his deep well of lost words I could weep. No battle to win here.