LETTERS

Productive insomnia

Posted 8/13/15

To the Editor:

Occasionally during the hushed hours before dawn I suddenly awaken. I don’t know precisely why, but my hearing is finely tuned and perhaps there is a chipmunk crossing near my …

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LETTERS

Productive insomnia

Posted

To the Editor:

Occasionally during the hushed hours before dawn I suddenly awaken. I don’t know precisely why, but my hearing is finely tuned and perhaps there is a chipmunk crossing near my home. In the past, such wakefulness would cause me to fret, but now that I am a member of an advanced generation, I think, “It’s no big deal. There is no harm in losing a few minutes, or even a few hours, of slumber.”

One of the advantages of the accumulating years is the fact that the body requires less sleep and therefore the time-wasting nightly eight-hour interim of oblivion can be more productively used. I no longer have to jump to the imperious summons of the alarm clock at an uncivilized hour and run the frantic race from shower to freeway to face an employer who expects daylong efficiency, and therein, probably lies my sense of relaxation toward the whole prospect of insomnia.

“This is a gift of time,” I tell myself. And being a writer, I eagerly seize the minutes to search my memory for ideas to form the basis for story plots, or images to incorporate into poems, or opening sentences for articles.

The brain responds favorably to the supine position; it is free of distractions – o finhibitions. It can freely associate. “Give!” I urge my subconscious. “Anything you can dredge up will be appreciated; a sharply defined description, a memorably clever phrase, even an outrageous pun!”

This is so much better, I tell myself, than sitting in my work chair, confronting my taskmaster, the typewriter, and an uncommunicative sheet of paper.

“Ah, yes. Well, let’s see now … Come up with an image for my next poem or a new rhythm. Give me a word to get started…”

I move around in the bed as my mind explores creative possibilities. I meditate. This period of solitude is soul satisfying. In the pleasant dimness of our bedroom, I glance over at my roommate – my husband of so many years – and I think … “How lucky I am to have love and companionship … a hard working man who accepts me as I am … a peaceful family … a safe, comfortable home. Our grown children are successful; we have good health; our friends are sincere.”

Happiness engulfs me. I burrow into the blankets and sink deeper into the mattress; odd, how it conforms so completely to the curves of my body. The bedcovers feel soft against my skin. What potentate knows such luxury? Such bliss? The bed is a warm nest even though the surrounding air is healthfully cool.

But the thought – the word – the image – whatever it was – escapes me; it was not tangible. Nor was it ponderous or profound. It floated off into the ethereal mist … and … (as comic strips were wont to say in days of yore)… Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Rosetta F. Desrosiers

Warwick

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