It is 4:45a.m. on a night when I should be sleeping. It isn’t insomnia, more like an incessant noise in my head that keeps me from sinking into anything that could be considered rest. Or maybe that is precisely what insomnia is, except mine is rare. It’s on these few nights that I barrette myself for my scattered meditation practice. Right now, I am an enemy to my mind.
When I was young, I loved being awake in the middle of the night. My mom was usually up, unable to find sleep herself. I would tiptoe down to her studio and, if I was lucky, sometimes we would do an art project. Mother and daughter alike, unable to make peace with their exhausted minds.
Tonight there are no art supplies. The paint brush beside the bed has dried with the acrylic I forgot it had on it. I don’t even think we have paper to do a sketch on. I work a twelve-hour shift tomorrow and so that guarantees my continued wakefulness.
I never get triple shot lattes but tomorrow morning will be an exception. Shaky hands pair well with a job that relies on a sharp knife. It is one of those days, I will justify a continued coffee intake.