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6.00 am: Arise. The beginning of snow: delicate, light, like a whispered white noise or a off-station image on a cathode-ray TV. And with the snow, a quieting also fell.…

He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds (Psalm 147.3) ‘Time heals’, they say. Or, put another way: we heal over time, usually. In other words, the further we…

7.00 am: I awoke. There was much to do today. 7.45 am: A communion, followed by a final letter to myself. (To be continued). 9.30 am: A trip to ‘Dickie…

Silence, then … observation. Discreet, unannounced  {Silence, that’s durationless; uninterpreted: rejection or reserve; departure or discipline?} … Then, silence.* 8.00 am: A communion. 8.30 am: I began finalising the texts…

8.00 am: A communion. 8.45 am: I passed the picket line, brazenly. It’s a cold day and they’ve a long vigil ahead. I respect the determination of my colleagues to…

8.00 am: A communion. I was out of kilter from the outset. There are days when I feel as though my needle doesn’t sit well in the day’s groove. This…

8.00 am: A communion. 8.30 am: Off to the Old College under a neutral sky that would, within the hour, yield to blue. The window eats away the building like…

Theirs: mine: … A strength; waiting. … Not knowing; undoing. … Undeceiving; disbelieving. … Deliberating; anticipating.* Friday and Saturday. I continued working on the text for the suite’s introduction and…

He shall call upon me, and I will answer him (Psalm 91.15) 8.00 am: A communion. Scenario 1: There was no mobile reception in the hotel. I had to walk to…

7.00 am: Rise. The weather was angry and inconsolable. A ‘beginfast’, as opposed to a breakfast, was the order of the morning. I so missed that first cup of tea.…