Nights are quiet but never still

I guess I’m just wired that way.

The minute I lay my head on my pillow my mind surges with enough power to make the grid flicker. It doesn’t matter how tired I am, or how starved for sleep I am, part of me wakes up when the lights go out.

After a lifetime of dancing in the dark, you’d think I’d be used to it. But I still fight it almost every night, and I usually lose.

I have my rituals and my talismans, designed to make me sleepy: I take a hot bath. I don’t watch television and I try not to spend too much time in front of the computer before bed. I try to think serene, peaceful thoughts – sandwiched between the to-do lists and worrying about the children and why the dishwasher is making that odd sound – and I don’t eat spicy food late at night. I open the window to bring in fresh air and I shut the bedroom door to keep the cat out.

It doesn’t help. I’m a natural-born night owl.

That’s OK. There’s an up side.

Sometimes, when I realize that I am out of sync, sliding my tired body between the sheets before my head is ready, when I toss and turn and count the minutes on the clock, I’ve learned to give up gracefully. I’ve learned to slip out of bed and walk through the dark house without waking anyone else.

When this happens I’m usually drawn to the window. I sit there, wrapped in a robe or a blanket, hidden in the darkness and I watch the world until I get sleepy enough to go back to bed.

I’ve come to understand what a gift that kind of sleeplessness can be.

A lot goes on in the darkest part of the night. You miss it if you’re sleeping.

For one thing, it might feel that way, but you’re never the only one awake. Anywhere in town there are others in the same position.

Every night in every part of the world, there is a mother somewhere who is walking a fretful baby, bouncing and swaying and singing softly, trying to soothe a little one back to sleep.

Nurses move quietly down hospital corridors, checking vital signs and taking notes, comforting and tending to the sick.

Police officers drive through shadowy streets, watchful and alert, attuned to subtle cues that something isn’t right. Firefighters sleep with one ear open, listening for the call to jump into action.

Taxi drivers ferry the intoxicated home, and people swarm over offices and other workplaces, cleaning them in preparation for the workers who will return the next morning.

There are things that choose to hide in the darkness. Cats move in and out of the shadows. Skunks and raccoons and coyotes feed on scraps and stolen bites. Bats fly around streetlights and stray dogs lope down the sidewalk, noses to the ground, hot on the trail of an adventure.

I’ve watched them all from my window.

Thieves and dark-hearted people get up to no good when the lights go out, too. We may not see them as often as we see the wildlife, but they’re there. The sirens wailing in the distance tell the tale.

The night world may be a quieter place but it’s hardly still. Like my mind as I sit in the darkness. When I churn the day’s events, or worry over something till I wear it down to dust, the way water wears away stones in the river.

Eventually, lulled by the quiet and the black and white view from the window, I settle. I yawn and stretch and I know it’s time to go back to bed.

When you’re wired to wake up at the end of the day, the trick isn’t getting to bed on time. It’s finding the right switch, a way to turn off the day so you can close your eyes and drift away to sleep.