yesterday, I started a long explanatory letter to father prior at st hughs.
it is sitting half-finished beside me now: surprisingly coherent, but incomplete.
whether it will ever be finished I cannot tell although I think the writing of it may be more important than the sending of it.
today, the way is steep and windy: I am blinded perhaps by the very things I was trying to say yesterday. I shout into the gale. [a terrible gale that I remember from worth actually (and I don't mean the 1987 hurricane)].
the psalms are all about me again.