“Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break.”
Macbeth by William Shakespeare
On 1 May 2018 it was cold and raining in London, but in Morgan Bay the sun shone as my Mamma and Little Sis walked the 4km length of white beach in remembrance of my dear Dad. It’s been one whole year without him and we have all felt the loss in different ways.
“Suppose there were a great big hollow sphere made of looking-glass and you were sitting inside. Where would it stop reflecting your face and begin reflecting your back? The more one thinks about this problem, the more puzzling it becomes.”
Daddy Long Legs by Jean Webster
I have been writing for many years and I’ve loved it always, but every piece must be found, formulated and pulled out of me.
I’ve written a diary or a journal most of my life – always delightful to re-read. Though generally not a daily writer, I keep coming back.
Some entries are trivial: “I broke a nail!” (1991 school diary complete with nail stuck into the diary with sticky tape).