The Old Gray Mare

After weeks or maybe months (o.k., years), I'm feeling a teeny, tiny bit more calm these days. Mellow. I haven't cried after a bout of Sophie's morning seizures for a week or so and I'm able to almost detach from my usual feelings of desperation and lovingly tend to her during those seizures. Perhaps this is from the meditation work that I've been doing or the inclining my thoughts, my breath, my being toward meditation, to prayer. Perhaps it's the tiny little OM sound machine that I've started turning on as Sophie has her bouts -- I push the button OCEAN SURF and listen to it with Sophie, quietly whispering to her that I'm here, you're fine, it's all right, breathe. Perhaps there's been a type of surrender (and I'm cognizant of the fact that nothing stays the same and I might be a Ellen Burstyn in Requiem for a Dream lady, again, at any time).

I'm not really sure, though, because I made myself laugh yesterday on the phone with my friend S when I told her that I might also just be like a broken horse.

The old gray mare.

She ain't what she used to be. She ain't what she used to be Ain't what she used to be. The old gray mare, she ain't what she used to be Many long years ago.