Moving

I’d heard the programme before. Radio 4 Extra my favourite station keeps repeating things (perhaps no new material is being commissioned during this time). I don’t mind. To re-hear is often illuminating. Anyway, this one featured Lemn Sissay talking about finding and meeting his birth-mother, I think it was in the Gambia. He writes well, from the heart, it is almost visceral. It’s a moving story, he says. Not moving in the emotional sense but ever changing, in flux. I want it to be that way, he says, I never want it to solidify. He is fearful of self-pity, of telling the tale so off-pat that it ceases to have authenticity. I get that. It is apposite for me. For how does one tell such things, how do they remain as elusive as they are? I want to learn from such luminaries but not be so awe that they make me frozen with fear.

I hear from her. She tells me of the children. The eldest is learning so fast. Lots of words. Her favourite, she tells me is ‘investigate’. How I love them.

The details of last night’s dreams are lost, all I remember is being angry with him. He’d let me down in some way and I was seething. Sorry, love.