3:17 A.M.

The dinosaur was of clear glass, and I’d placed the concert tickets in its belly for safe keeping. The unfolding plot was intriguing, and I fought to pursue it. Why did I think the dinosaur was secure?  What concert were we planning to see? Were the tickets that valuable? But the pain persisted, increasingly agonizing. Ignore it!  Ignore it! But it could not be denied, and I was wrenched from sleep. I stole a squinty, one-eyed glance at the clock. 3:17. What is it with my bladder and 3:17?

I padded to the bathroom to pee, then stood at the bathroom window, nose pressed to the cold glass to better see the full moon.  Bathed in light, the roof seemed snow-covered, and the yard and woods beyond were a tracery of radiance, inky-black shadows, and bare limbs. A jet trail, illuminated - stark, straight, and startling - cut a path among pinprick stars. As I always do when the 3:17 call comes, I scanned the scene hoping to spot a bear, dismissed the stump that masquerades as such, and decided the serene beauty of my night visit was worth the dream interruption. 

 

Back to bed. 

 

Sound asleep still, Dave breathed evenly, stirring not at all as I snuggled into bed and sighed deeply. Ahhh. Cozy flannel sheets, soft blankets, a warm quilt, and my Honey beside me. I nestled in, eyes closed, smiling at my comfort and good fortune to be so ensconced. 

 

Apparently, comfy or not, I was no longer tired. Ruminations intruded. And hey, why not guilt?  That’s always a sure bet for the middle of the night. Why do I have all this when others have so little? Why do I have the security of this house, this good man, this comfortable bed?

 

 Lea. Stop. Nothing to be done about that now.  Empty your mind.

 

Oh yeah, like that’s gonna happen. But I gave it a shot. On my command, blank mental screen. Inhale.  Exhale. Keep it blank.  Doing it! Deeeep breath.  Deeeep breath, not to be taken for granted in the age of Covid. I took another deepest of deep breaths for the sheer joy of it and because I could. Imagine the horror of being on a ventilator.  Thank God I can breathe! Thank you God for healthy lungs! Thank you for the health and safety of my Dave, kids and grandkids. Thank you for my sisters and friends! For the beauty of your world and my fellow creatures… 

 

In White Christmas, Bing Crosby crooned about counting blessings to fall asleep, but it wasn’t working for me. Never seems to. Blessings, guilt, and pleading prayers seem to go hand in hand in a stroll toward troubling thoughts. Like trickling waters in a tidal surge, seeking and spilling into even the tiniest crevice, Covid worries tumble to Trump’s maneuverings, his machinations morph into a chessboard, which triggers disquieting images from the Queen’s Gambit. Sigh. Empty your mind indeed.

 

But on some nights, like that night, associations spark inspiration: must-do’s remembered, quandaries resolved, awkward conversations worked through, and snippets of sentences that might lead to a piece scribbled on the pad on my bedside table. So, when the clock hands marked 4:09, I’d made my peace with it. I hoped my scrawl would be relatively legible in the morning, took another quick bathroom run, and tucked back into bed to give sleep another try. 

 

P.S. You were up too?  Shoulda called!

 

 

The Sting and the Blessing

The fridge held plenty of leftovers, but Dave wanted grilled salmon for dinner. So, despite falling snow and the required hat, scarf, parka and gloves, my husband geared up and headed outside to the grill.

He was in the mood to cook. I was in the mood to write in front of a cozy fire in the dining room. As always, I felt some guilt over this. I would benefit greatly from his mood. He would gain little from mine.

The industry involved in preparing dinner was evident in the repeated opening and closing of the back door, the chopping sound of knife on cutting board, the hollow tap of wooden spoon against steel. The scent of toasting sage and simmering onions competed gloriously with the woodsmoke of my fire.

“Anything I can do to help, Hon?” I called, hoping for a negative. Pleased to get it, I resumed typing.

Dave’s way is to scurry, mine to be still.

When I was growing up, time spent writing or absorbed in a good book was viewed as a pastime important as schoolwork. Now it is a guilty pleasure. It’s hard to feel at ease with indolence when Dave strides by, drill or hammer or spatula in hand. I always feel better if I leap up and clean a closet or organize a drawer, but I wish I didn’t feel the need to strive for equal worthiness.

The products of his efforts benefit us both: delicious meals, cut firewood, home repairs, freshly-baked bread. Mine, less so: an orderly house, bills paid, errands run. Guilt is neither necessary nor constructive, I tell myself, and yet, I’m not convinced.

The pressure to perform does not come from my husband; even at age fifty-seven, I am sheepish to admit, it stems from my need for approval. Through Dave’s long career as a school psychologist, he has earned respect and love in counseling kids and their families. My path has wandered, a reflection of my own lack of clarity and purpose. But even in college, when first we were dating, I recognized the responsibility, the challenge, of attachment to one so good. Friends would tell me, “The guy’s a saint! Don’t blow it!” And I have continued to feel I stand in the shadow of that goodness; that Dave’s abilities, his work, and his character have set a bar that I, like a puppy after a stick held teasingly out of reach, can not hope to attain.

Years ago, when mothering was my primary role, the kids and I were playing on the lawn at the school where we lived. A pretty young thing of a teacher passed by and observed, “Must be nice to have such an easy life. Time to hang out with your kids in the sun.”

I flushed with anger. “Easy life”? I’d like to see her deal with ear infections, carpools, diapers and croup. And yet, her comment touched a chord. I did feel guilty. If Dave came home from work to find me watching a video of “The Goonies” with the kids instead of folding laundry or making dinner, I’d tick off a list of whatever chores I might have accomplished earlier in the day to justify my sloth. He’d make no comment and I knew he thought nothing of it, but I did. The sting and blessing is that Dave was the perfect husband and father. Beyond his work at the school, he helped with vacuuming, cooking, dishes, and the kids. Some (myself included) might say, “What are you whining about, for god’s sake?”

Whenever I mention to Dave my discomfort over his flurry of activity while, I, say, read in bed, he responds, “And we’re both doing exactly what we want.” Just the right answer. A soothing answer. A psychologist’s answer. And he means it.

So, on this snowy evening with the fire warm on my back and Dave bustling in the kitchen, I file guilt away. The window before me looks out over the backyard. A spotlight mounted on the roof illuminates the dance of whirling flakes, the path to the bird feeders Dave shoveled earlier, and the tangle of spindly branches traced with snow.

“We’re just about ready,” Dave calls from the kitchen. I add another log to the fire and move my computer aside to make room on the table and then head to the cupboard to fetch plates and glasses. In the sink, a soiled whisk, wooden spoon, platter and saucepan soak in soapy suds.

I will wash the dishes after dinner. Truly, I will.

Dave serves up the salmon with a glaze of mustard, honey and Jack Daniels barbecue sauce. I spoon helpings of herbed potatoes and collards onto our plates. If we’d spent the afternoon together, reading in front of the fire, followed by a dinner of eggs or oatmeal, I’d still be content.

But that salmon looks pretty good too.