Let There Be Light

I find comfort in the near-daylight glare of Times Square at night. These lights never go off, do they, and in the depth of winter I bet 3am looks a lot like 5pm. Do New Yorkers who find they can't sleep wander 42nd Street and pretend the night isn't slipping away (as I think I would)?

Sleeplessness in the country is a solitary affliction, you, your book, your worries, your small circle of yellow light in an ominous, edgeless, black world. Or worse no light at all. Coming back on the train at night the utter darkness outside city limits is the first thing I notice, the hardest transition, from light to dark.

Lately I don't leave falling asleep up to chance. 3mg of melatonin ("the hormone of darkness") and a cup of hot Sleepytime tea (like the one I'm sipping now) and I'm more than ready to hibernate for 8 hours. In the morning my new Zen alarm clock, a Christmas present from my brother, chimes until I reluctantly emerge from my down and flannel cocoon. Have I mentioned that there's no heat in the bedroom?

I wake to a shifty and dull smattering of dream memories, nothing at all like the clear vision of my mom I had in early December. It disappoints me a little, but then again, this is the way of things. The sun sinks below the horizon every day, but only a handful of sunsets take my breath away. If moments of beauty and grace became common occurances, would we take them for granted? Or would we find ourselves living in a permanent state of bliss? What would our spiritual signposts be then — or would we no longer need them, because we would have reached the destination?

Personally I'm still fumbling for direction in the near dark — but there are lights along the way. And I see the tea is kicking in — goodnight, friends!