Enlightenment Through Insomnia

Alright, I'm up. There's no sense in trying to fight it any longer, so I may as well get out of bed and do something. Although it feels like the loneliest thing in the world, I am sure I'm not alone in suffering the horrible frustration of insomnia. Usually I will just grab the book off my nightstand and read a page or twenty. Unfortunately, I forgot to include A.J. Jacobs' My Life as an Experiment when I packed my bag to spend the weekend at Michael's in the city. I am bookless, and doomed.

Lying in bed from four to six AM, I stared out the windows at the Atlanta skyline, watching the occasional car wind its way up or down the parking deck of a nearby hospital. I looked at the moon. Pretty. But after twenty minutes its beauty started to fade as I grew increasingly irritated at my inability to sleep. Michael's peaceful sleep sounds--the deep, sonorous breathing and the occasional snore--mocked me. The worst part of insomnia, for me anyway, is having to listen to my own mind. If it would just shut the hell up, maybe I could get some sleep.

I suppose it's the stillness and lack of stimulation, coupled with the stark isolation, that make fertile ground for my conscience and my superego to dig and till, planting seeds of doubt and worry. I laid there, letting my thoughts grow darker as I waited for the sky to grow lighter.

"You know your job is only a temporary position. You need to get your act together and find something more secure."

"Your kids are growing up so fast. Are you spending enough quality time with them? Are you teaching them everything you should be?"

"When are you ever going to put together some photo albums of your family life? You won't have anything to remember all these good times when you're old."

"Did you ever make an appointment for your daughter's annual physical?"

"When are you going to rewrite that novel and send out queries?"

"You don't have enough money in the bank right now. One unexpected expense. . ."

"Someday, you're going to grow old and die, just like everyone else. And it's sooner than you think."

Alright, enough already. At this point, I decided to get up. I hate it when my mind gets all existential on me like that. And it doesn't help that we have the condo decorated for an upcoming Halloween party with skulls and bones everywhere. In fact, on the futon directly across from the bed lie two full-sized skeletons, a bride and groom. How apropos.

I am reminded of Thich Nhat Hahn's meditation on one's own corpse. (Sound morbid? Well, what do you expect? It's the middle of the night, and I'm alone, surrounded by skeletons.) He suggests that his students meditate on the image of their own corpse, decomposing stage by stage, until nothing remains. It fosters the ultimate acceptance of impermanence; nothing lasts. Once we embrace our own temporary nature, we can release the suffering that comes along with attachment to our bodies, our health, our youth. This body my spirit presently sports has a shelf life of about 80 some odd years, give or take a few, and that's if I take good care of it. At forty-one, I'm halfway there. In the eerily desolate hours between two and six am, this truth becomes a stark reality.

The Spanish language has a wonderful word for this time of neither day nor night: la madrugada. Probably the best translation we have for it is "the wee hours of the morn," although that sounds frivolous and trite. If we find ourselves alone and awake in this madrugada, we sometimes face our own mortality and the ultimate truth of our aloneness. We all die alone. Yet comfort comes in knowing that all of us are in the same boat, so to speak, on this ocean of isolation. Every one of us alive today, in fact, everyone who has ever lived, has had to face this same truth. And life goes on.

So, I can either lay in bed and think about my inadequate savings account, my job insecurity, my empty photo album, and my eventual, inevitable death, or I can get up and live today, here in the Now. Because none of those things will matter once I roll over and take the big dirt nap. No one will care that my job wasn't secure (I certainly won't need it anymore). No one will give a rat's behind if I scrapbooked every minute of my kids' lives. And unless I can take the balance of my bank account with me to bribe any boatmen or gatekeepers, it doesn't matter if that ends up a big fat zero. (My grandfather used to say, the last check from your account will go to the undertaker, and if you live your life right, it should bounce.)

Here's another truth for you. This is one beautiful world we live in, and I have much to be thankful for. My children bring me a steady stream of love and laughter. (God, I have some funny kids.) It may be unsteady work, but I do have a job that I love and that has flexible hours, so I can spend time with my family. And sleeping noisily in the next room, Michael has managed to become both the love of my life and my new BFF. Right now, this is my reality. And this moment is all that really is. If I stay here, in this moment, I'm content.

Oh look. . . the sun's coming up. The sky is awash in pink, purple, and blue. More cars are circling up into the hospital parking deck. The full moon fades as the sky lightens around it. The night may have been a rough one, but it looks like the start of a beautiful day.

And the skeletons are smiling.