It’s counter-intuitive to have trouble falling asleep right after daylight savings time has stolen an hour from us last weekend and seemingly again every morning since. Add to that the cold I either have or am getting over (I hope) and the drowse-inducing cold medicine I took, and it makes even less sense. But there I was, wide awake at 1:30 a.m., sitting in a pile of flannel sheets and quilts while adding up all my business expenses for my taxes. A person able to collapse into deep dreaming shouldn’t be able to add numbers, although I can’t vouch for any accuracy even when I’m wide awake.
For the last week, I’ve slipped and slid through various installments of insomnia, sometimes successful catching the sleep train before midnight, but often missing it and having to wait another 45 minutes for the next one, or the next. I could blame it on the birds, singing brightly all the daylight lately, or the coyotes, united in their high-pitched howls at my running-in-circles-barking dog, who stayed out too late last night in his mission to save us. Maybe it’s the sudden burst of spring weather and early greening specks in the field. Or the dizzy of March with its sudden call to go plant sometime, wash the car, and give the bathroom a good scrubbing.
Whatever it is, such late nights for no good reason land me in more surrealistic mornings when I feel a second or two behind life no matter the strength of the tea. Yet there is a certain vague sweetness is being shaken out of my habitual meanderings so that I can, like right now, sit on the porch in a thin jacket, listen to music I’ve never heard before, and write this to you.