It was a rough morning. No, the kids weren’t screaming, I didn’t burn my toast, and I wasn’t bothered by the crystals of frost clinging to my windshield. Even the fact that we were running about 10-15 minutes behind schedule wasn’t unsettling to me. It was pure, self-induced exhaustion. My eighth graders are reading The Pigman right now and one of the vocabulary words we just learned was nocturnal. I jokingly admitted that throughout the summer I become nocturnal, but I’m realizing that it’s more than a seasonal “affliction.”
In many cases the quiet and comfort and potential Tracey mentioned in the invitation for yesterday’s morning light assignment is something I feel right around 10pm. When I hear the contented sighs of deep, sleep from my son, or pause my clickety-clack typing to be sure Seneca’s coughing isn’t something that warrants my attention. When the hum of the refrigerator is a) noticeable and b) the only sound that interrupts my thoughts and working – it’s a beautiful thing. So many of my moments are filled with the wonderful noise of life, and they invite me to participate, to do, to engage. That engagement doesn’t always allow for thinking and reflection. So, I work…late. It’s a bittersweet pattern, and today it was certainly more the former. My whopping 7 hours of sleep since Sunday evening was scarcely enough. Which is why I’m happy to remind myself that rest is reflective, and restorative.