Intimate writing. The small bound book, a cool blue – Swedish blue rather than porcelain – that I took because of its smallness, its colour as much as its title: Solitude and Communion, written by a nun in an enclosed order. I imagined it as the quintessence of a life; ten thousand days compacted. The secrets of all these days lying down like the skeletons of sea creatures that give us coral. Day after day, sheet after sheet until something was made. Or like the rarest of whiskies, distilled and double- and tripled distilled. Or like a paneer pushed through muslin and pushed over and again through muslin. Until there was nothing left – or just that, itself. Itself – the spirit of ten thousand days.
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