There is something creative about lying in bed. Something scrumptious. Something drug-free-but-drug-ish. Something sinful.
I am not one to loll about in bed all day, and when I “hit the hay” I’m pretty much out until the next morning. I don’t take naps. When my alarm goes off in the morning I head out to start the coffee maker. Lying in bed, awake, semi-comatose, awareness arising with each passing moment happens more than rarely but not often.
Waking in the morning one alarm will pierce my awareness at 5:00 a.m. If I don’t hop out of bed another one, this time music from another electronic device, starts at 5:15 a.m. Usually that gets me on my way.
There are some mornings when it doesn’t. I “lie in bed”.
On those mornings, my consciousness slowly moves from the darkness of sleep to cognizance. I start to notice the cold from my cracked-open window. I pull blankets strewn awry by the restlessness of a night’s sleep around me, up around and over my shoulders so that my cheeks can still feel the cold of night and I can smell the freshness of the morning.
I start to notice my breathing. That sounds very Zen, but the breathing here relates to a CPAP machine’s white noise in the background, my nose filled with air pushed into my head via a mask, all linked with a long hose twixt air-breather and air-producer. I am aware that I am breathing. (More Zen…) Air is leaking somewhere, and I hear its phssst…. I adjust straps and such to settle in to a more peaceful buzz.
Slowly my imagination comes into focus. It’s just images at first. My friend Vince and I had a discussion while hiking yesterday about dreaming, and I remember that I hardly ever dream. I think brain people would tell me that I do but forget them. Nevertheless, I hardly ever remember a dream. And always in black and white. Almost always.
It is in this early morning awakening where I come closest to dreaming, maybe because my cognitive defenses are down, imagination is allowed to play, hopes and fears I sequester normally can peek out and come to frolic a bit and, psyche supine, the theater of my mind raises its curtain, popcorn not included.
The puritanical part of me says “get up and get on with the job of the day”. The obverse, perhaps considered sinful side of me, wants to “waste” more time. Sheets and blankets and pillows to remain scrunched and punched and crunched and hugged and hand-tossed pizza-esque and clawed and kicked and enveloping the lazy-day morning.
There I lay. My mind at play.
As fleeting images and words and emotions come into focus, so does the task of the day-in-waiting. At once, the lying-in-bed is tossed aside along with covers and breathing equipment and scrumptious dreamiliness. Legs swing over the side of the bed.
Bedtime is over.