My insomnia doesn't come these days during the first part of the evening. In fact, I've been drifting off to sleep while reading a book, my head snapping up as the book falls to the side. I fight this sleep, actually, wanting to stay awake and be lost in the pages of a fiction-world, a documentary-world, a memoir of someone's fascinatingly ordinary life. Last night I went to bed to read, lusting after that wee-hours reading that I've been known for since childhood. And, while I read a bit, it was nowhere near the bleary-eyed ending I'd imagined.
No, these days it's the morning portion that haunts me. It's not chronic or cyclical, this insomnia. I'm not even particularly concerned about it, except in that way that everything concerns me and I acknowledge the weight, the heaviness of the days. Instead, as happened this dark-morning-night, after returning the kidlet to his own bed, I realized that it was only a bit before 3, a completely decent hour to fall back to sleep. Except it wasn't.
So, I prayed. I meditated on my toes and my ankles and my knees. I flipped pillows and went to the bathroom. Finally, I put socks on my feet and ventured into the living room, eyes still heavy, body still aching to be asleep. Snuggled in beneath the ancient quilt and with the puggle snoring in the bend of my knees, I caught up on some things from the DV-R.
It's a tricky endeavor, this dwelling in the in-between of night and morning. The dog will sleep as long as we do, but once we're awake he likes to be fed and let out, to be let back in moments later. I understand. I rather like those things first thing in the morning, too. He returns to his spot quickly, though, content to have someone watch him sleep. But it's also a time when I don't want to wake the rest of the house, and I hope upon hope that I'll fall back to sleep, and so don't want to engage in a task -- like the dishes or the bills or the taxes.
Mostly this morning, honestly, I was thankful for the few hours of solitude, the quiet only broken by the sound of an occasional snow plow, the darkness illumined by the flashing orange lights. My time alone like this is rare, especially unencumbered of expectations of productivity. The day feels different when I'm the first one to stir, when I'm the one to break the seal of the sleep cocoon, and to see the first rays of sunshine glowing behind the blinds.