Picture this: A shady, screened porch: overhead fan ticking lazily. Puffs of afternoon breezes to puncture the stillness. Me, on a comfy old futon with big pillows which smell of sunshine and weather. Chili Dog sleeps away, curled against my legs.
I have a book and good intentions, but both worked their way out of reach not long after settling in. A nap - no, make that a Sunday, summer afternoon nap - beckons, but first that moment of drowsy stillness, when all of life's business slips away with my book and good intentions.
A butterfly, floating from a red zinnia to a yellow one, appears on the inside of my eyelids. My still sunny backyard fades to sounds and sensations. It's now that I wish I'd learned from my parents to identify bird songs. They sing and squawk and cackle and call from the live oak thicket and from my neighbors' feeder. Cantankerous crows caw, caw, caw, and only they sound seriously engaged on this summer afternoon.
I hear the wind, as well as feel it, as it rustles the pines and the spreading bush cherries along the fence. An airplane lazes overhead. I half hear a tinkle from the tiny wind chime attached to the fan chain. "Desultory" comes to mind, or should I bother to search for a better word? I'd like a sip of my melting ice tea, if it weren't just out of reach.
(At this point I move my legs, and Chili, not wishing to be disturbed, jumps to the floor and flops on her side, stretching her full length on the cool cement.)
I have insomnia, and one of the worst symptoms has been the loss of my ability to take a Sunday afternoon nap. It's somewhat better now, and I revel in the delicious prospect of complete idleness. It's a treat I like to give myself. The world slows a little through the drugged haze of half-sleep and precious cat naps. The "shoulds" take a break for a while.
As Bill Waterson (creator of Calvin and Hobbs) said, "There is never enough time to do all the nothing you want." I read that somewhere. I may think of where in due time, or maybe not.
I have a book and good intentions, but both worked their way out of reach not long after settling in. A nap - no, make that a Sunday, summer afternoon nap - beckons, but first that moment of drowsy stillness, when all of life's business slips away with my book and good intentions.
A butterfly, floating from a red zinnia to a yellow one, appears on the inside of my eyelids. My still sunny backyard fades to sounds and sensations. It's now that I wish I'd learned from my parents to identify bird songs. They sing and squawk and cackle and call from the live oak thicket and from my neighbors' feeder. Cantankerous crows caw, caw, caw, and only they sound seriously engaged on this summer afternoon.
I hear the wind, as well as feel it, as it rustles the pines and the spreading bush cherries along the fence. An airplane lazes overhead. I half hear a tinkle from the tiny wind chime attached to the fan chain. "Desultory" comes to mind, or should I bother to search for a better word? I'd like a sip of my melting ice tea, if it weren't just out of reach.
(At this point I move my legs, and Chili, not wishing to be disturbed, jumps to the floor and flops on her side, stretching her full length on the cool cement.)
I have insomnia, and one of the worst symptoms has been the loss of my ability to take a Sunday afternoon nap. It's somewhat better now, and I revel in the delicious prospect of complete idleness. It's a treat I like to give myself. The world slows a little through the drugged haze of half-sleep and precious cat naps. The "shoulds" take a break for a while.
As Bill Waterson (creator of Calvin and Hobbs) said, "There is never enough time to do all the nothing you want." I read that somewhere. I may think of where in due time, or maybe not.
I love that pre-sleep feeling - especially when I have time to indulge it. Hope your nap was lovely.
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