Feast or famineWith the blogging, I mean. Here I've gone months without the urge to type a word, and now, I suddenly find myself having thoughts--random, incoherent, whatever--and not being too overwhelmed even to type a sentence.
I feel like a switch has been flipped this past week, and I feel more human than I have in years. I don't know if it's a grief stage, or that elusive "healing," or the sunlight we have finally gotten, or a serendipitous surge of mood-enhancement, but god do I hope it lasts. I have spent I know not how long feeling like *everything* is too much effort; it's all I can do to drag my ass through the day, and anything aside from sheer survival was overwhelming. Even throwing out rotting food, or boiling water, or flipping the switch on my self-cleaning over was an insurmountable hurdle. Now I have this sense that I want to do stuff. I don't know what has clicked, but I desperately hope it stays. Oddly enough, I have had 2 days where, in the midst of this modest surge of energy, I have missed my husband sharply enough to cry.
On the other hand, the fact that my small cement garden statue of the Virgin Mary fell over and was decapitated seems like a not-so-good omen.
And the barbarity of this story, and the general attitude that this is simply part of doing business in racing, makes me sick, sick, sick. Blaming the jockey, however, seems like the worst approach--unless he deliberately over-ran the horse, my sense is that he is almost as exploited as she was. The thought of all those dressed up people drinking and partying while a horse is dying just down the track makes me ill. Isn't "Eight Bells" what they say at sea for the death of a sailor? Grimly ironic.