Sleep Talking and Other Stories

After five months of marriage, I'm still surprised by how much it feels like a sleepover—the kinds my best friends and I had when we were kids. I think it feels like that because of the conversations we have.

By 11 p.m., I'm in one of two states: my jokes are getting more ridiculous and I'm cracking myself up or I'm so tired I've gotten weepy. Either way, Super has to get me to stop talking so I'll sleep. In this respect, I most resemble a little kid who never wants to go to bed and needs to make one more trip to the bathroom. We've switched sides of the bed, because the closets in the dark fuel my nightmares.

In the morning, we discuss who won the struggle for the blankets, who took more than their half of the bed, who actually slept, who was awake all night, and who said the most ridiculous thing in their sleep—the most famous of them being when I asked Jacob, "You san't cleep?"

The other morning I woke up and realized my husband was—both literally and figuratively—the brightest thing in the room. I know this because I've had a head cold, and I opened my eyes searching for something bright enough to trigger a sneeze. And I saw him, said nothing, and happily recited to myself the words of Thomas Merton:

"There is no way of telling people they are all walking around shining like the sun."

Do-da-do-do.

All photos by Jacob

I want to say that morning and I have a complicated relationship, but that's not quite it. I think morning is more fickle than I am, because it seems to keep moving.

Somedays I wake up early and greet it outside before 7:30. At those times, it rushes around me once with its fresh cool touch and then settles right next to me. Together we stride out. We meet strangers walking by and board trains going somewhere. But mostly we just breathe.

Unless, I'm late. Then there's more huffing and puffing towards the next thing. Morning feels neglected. My sleep schedule gets disrupted once again. And we stop seeing each other in the same beautiful way.

Then morning surprises me at a later time. Around 9, it's still there for me, waiting outside, but it's colors have changed. Instead of sitting by me, it waves from the mountains and causes them to shine. I say hello quickly as I walk to the car, and it seems just fine with that, like a friendly neighbor with nothing to hide.

Today we met twice at 8:30 and 10:43. Each time it reached in through my bedroom window and made the piles of laundry and the stacks of boxes gold. The tree outside was glad to see us both.

I sometimes try to remind myself that getting up early means enjoying more beautiful mornings, which is more satisfying than sleep. But morning and I like the variety. Turns out, it's lovely always.

In the spirit of this post, I share this video: "Here Comes the Sun" from The Concert for George, which is still to me one of the most lovely musical endeavors ever. One year after his death, George Harrison's friends gathered to give what Eric Clapton described as (if my memory is correct) "a beautiful tribute for our lovely friend." Never forget that "Here Comes the Sun" was written by George, not Lennon and McCartney. 

I Believe in Chacos

Yesterday, my Chacos came out. Here's to the next eight months.

The world just got so much brighter. So long coldest winter. Thanks for being good to me.