Nocturnal Wanderings
2:41 am.
And I’ve already been up twice to pee and pace. Lately I find myself waking up sometime in the wee hours of the morning and wandering through my dark home like a ghost. Each room, with its particular vibe, seems to whisper, reminding me of the life in this happy home for the past 28 years. It’s a nighttime ritual that’s new to me.
Up until a month or so ago I was able, with the help of two melatonin, to sleep well. Then something shifted. Not only do I now seem to be wide awake, but also wired, as if there is something important that I’ve forgotten and need to take care of. I can’t find a comfortable position in bed. A side sleeper, I shift back and forth multiple times. When I face the edge of the bed, I feel as if I will slide out, and pull my knees up into a fetal position. When I turn toward my husband’s side, I feel as if I can’t breathe properly. The anxiety builds until I slide out to wander. I pace and box breathe deeply.
I enter my son’s old room, which has been turned into a meditation/workout room with weights, bands, and yoga mat. Along one wall I have meditation cushions. A painting of a sleepy bear floating on his back to gaze at the plants and dragon flies surrounding him in a lake is on the opposite wall. The room is painted two shades of soothing blue with white trim. The thick blue carpet silences any footsteps. I stand at one of the windows and look out into the night. My mind always returns to my son’s childhood, the joys of being his mother. How quickly the years sprinted by. Those wonderful years of creating, building a life and living it fully. Sometimes I sit on the cushion to create a sky-like mind, let random thoughts drift by as mere clouds. Sleep still eludes me but my mind finds a reluctant peace.
I wander into my office, not only filled with computers and desks, but also personal keepsakes, memories from all facets of my life. My father’s portrait gazes down at me and I feel as if he is watching over me. The joy of finding him not that many years ago fills me before I remember his funeral and the deep emptiness I felt to lose him again. Two watercolors of Monhegan Island, painted by my old illustrator Barbara Maxwell, cover one wall. They remind me of a magical time in a magical place; a writing retreat during the off-season with only a handful of residents and no other vacationers. Every day was filled with nature: the deep woods and the craggy headlands, Lobster Cove, and Manana island. The one store that was open stayed mostly unmanned, and fully stocked with instructions at the front to “get what you need and leave the money under the counter.”
A kick-start to my writing life.
In the family room the built in book shelves are slathered with photographs of our family, mostly our son through the years. The rollercoaster of nostalgia hits me every time. Included on the shelves are tchotchkes and photos of our travels throughout the years. Along with stacks of favorite books. As an Army-brat who moved every two years, books were often my best friends, and I still have my favorites close. Each one has an essence. Shel Silverstein’s Falling Up. Hemingway’s book on writing. Maurice Sendak’s Where the Wild Things Are. Angelou Maya’s beautiful prose.
Lastly, I wander into the unused dining room, our once-stately table now filled with book material: stacks of documents, notes, promotional materials, photo albums, legal pads with reminders and more notes. My printed manuscript sits in the middle, inside a sturdy box that once held my favorite boots. I’m reminded of the work ahead of me; in a few months the developmental edits begin and then the flurry of copy-editing, cover design, promotions, and a final polish before launch date in March.
At this point I typically remind myself I must get rest. And make my way back to bed. Sometimes an hour has passed by, sometimes more. Eventually, as the sky shows just a tinge of light, I fall asleep, usually deeply. It’s as if my restless mind has to assess and be reassured. Is this typical of those of us who have lived almost seven decades? For all the adventures in my life, there are so many I wanted and did not have. Is my restless mind taking a tally and finding a lacking? Or am I trying to justify, to give my life the appreciation it deserves?
My nocturnal mind is taking inventory. I sure hope it’s done soon.
