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!