Lately when Sweet M is getting herself a glass of milk, or making a chocolate milk—her favorite—she looks over at me and says, with all the sweetness, and earnestness, and optimism that are her nature: "Maybe this will change my mind."
What she means, of course, is not that this will change her thinking, or her opinion, or her ideas, but that maybe it will change her state of mind, maybe it will change how she feels. For M—Descartes be damned—thinking and feeling are of the same cloth.
Her inflection—her hopefulness—usually makes me smile, even in these glum days of midwinter.
Since Friday of last week I have been looking for something to change my mind . . . I tried all my usual tricks: a long walk alone through the heart of the city, an hour on the phone with a friend, an especially delicious meal with friends, an impromptu double-feature courtesy of pay-per-view, an extensive, if decidely forced, list of all that I have to be grateful for.
But it was all for naught. I couldn't find anything that would change my mind, not until I read the excruciatingly beautiful post by MOM-NOS. In the end, the gentleman from her congregation was right. Sometimes you just have to breathe. Huddle on the ice shelf. And worry about whether I'm raising a milkaholic another day.