A long time ago, I used to wake in the night when Sophie was seizing and then not be able to go back to sleep. I'd lie still, on my back and stare at the ceiling, humor the chaos, allow it to creep in, take over. I'd think about death and trial and tribulation, violins would be playing furiously, chins tucked, eyes closed. I'd get on my knees and plead for mercy from a god that was as substantial as the wisps of reason that sailed through the room (not very much). In my mind I was dressed in the black of my southern Italian grandmother, veiled and dolorous, confounded by the disappearance of light. I would fall asleep, eventually, and wake in gray light, nearly embarrassed at what I had loosed the night before.
We are all cups, constantly and quietly being filled. The trick is knowing how to tip ourselves over and let the beautiful stuff out.