up the raveled sleave of care, The death of each day’s life, sore labor’s bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course, Chief nourisher in life’s feast.” (Wm. Shakespeare – MacBeth: Act 2, Scene 2)
I’m not good at sleeping. Even as a baby I was not good at sleeping (so I was told) tho I was good at staying very, very quiet.
Sometimes I don’t sleep because my mind is racing a mile a minute, obsessing over past, present and future occurrences and events. Re-hashing conversations/confrontations past and present and anticipating future ones.
And sometimes I can’t sleep because I think what a waste of time sleeping is, and I could be doing something, or I’m missing out on something.
Last night I woke around 12:30am – and thought “I can be up doing something useful” and went promptly back to sleep only to wake again around 4am because Frankie (the cat) was trying to wake my husband up – 4am is getting on to be breakfast time in their world. I then fell asleep and slept like the dead until a little past 7am.
I felt well rested, my usual goofy morning self, yet – so lazy. I spent the morning procrastinating –
I am a self-described night owl but I wonder if that is just my natural rhythm or one acquired as a baby. Several months ago I decided I would go to bed when my husband did – 10pm, sleepy or not. And now that is my habit, and mostly, just barely, I am asleep by 11pm or so. I can’t remember the last time I slept through the night, slept more than an hour or two at time, waking, being aware that I was awake, and then falling back to sleep, sometimes sooner, sometimes later. And sometimes not at all.
“The sleep that knits up the raveled sleave of care” is not the sleep I know much of, but when I manage it I appreciate it, I cherish it.
Can one love sleep? Yes, like the inconstant lover that it is.