1^st January 2014

A day for practical tasks - sorting books, some I will keep and some send out into the world. I am sitting on the floor, my legs and back aching, and find a book of poems written by Hospice volunteers, As I read, my aching limbs are forgotten and suddenly  I am crying, tears dripping from my face. I realise I am thinking of my dear friend, who is facing her final illness with quietness and grace, and of her partner struggling to help practically and submerging his grief in activity. I have been doing the same thing.  I do not want to pretend this is not happening, instead  want to have the strength to stay present with my friend and her family, acknowledging their grief, and my own.

This book seems to have been sent for a reason.