What keeps me up at night

Last night, after nursing Isaac and snuggling him back to sleep at 3 am, I returned to my bedroom to slip into that peaceful haven of soul renewal myself.  Lately, when I try to get back to sleep, I imagine myself on a raft at the edge of a wide, clear lake in the dark of the evening.  The middle of the lake is perfectly still and silver--a looking glass for seeing dreams and visions, a place of rest and clairvoyance.  I have a long pole, rather than oars, and I stand on my raft and pole towards the middle of the lake, eager to return to the clarity of sleep.  But there are things on the shore of wakefulness that entangle my raft, and which I must remove one by one, so that I can make forward progress.  Sometimes the tangle of waking thoughts are about tasks I must accomplish or relationships I am sorting through.  Sometimes it is the black tar of worry (in the night my sense of things is often especially negative), which threatens to drown me in the enormity of imagined problems.  Sometimes it is a repeated scenario from the day, which I have to work through emotionally to make peace with.

As I tried to pull my way into sleep last night, I was harried by nets of regrets which made me almost weep.  I mourned missed opportunities to visit five special people on the long vacation we recently finished.  Each person was within easy driving distance on this vacation, which is not usually the case.  In each case I worried that somehow the arrangements would be inconvenient on their side or mine, and that the distance, which was greatly reduced on account of our travel, was still too much.  We had a limited amount of time, it is true, and there were more desires to accommodate than mine alone--my kids and husband had to be considered as well, and they didn't have the same level of interest in extra trips as I did.  All five people will still be my friends, forever, I hope, and there will be other opportunities to see them.  Still I mourned.  I mourned the opportunity to show them by my extra efforts how special they are to me.  I mourned the strength that would have been added to each relationship by the visit.  And I mourned the chance to receive their love in return!  Ms. Walker, Naomi, James, Margaret and Desi, please forgive me!  I love you and mourn not getting to have been with you.

It has been two years since I have been able to do much reaching out to people.  As we returned from a vacation with so many missed opportunities, I questioned my character--the character that was revealed by not choosing to go to see my beloved ones.  What is the matter with me?  Have I become a hermit?  Do I not care about people any more?  Are my relationships so weak?  I think I am out of practice, certainly.  For two years my emotional burdens have been so heavy that I have felt I could scarcely lift my head, much less put energy into relationships outside of those that confront me every day.  In August 2008, Sam's family moved in with us.  They meant to be with us only a month or two, but months passed, and passed, and it wasn't until July of 2009, when Sam and I felt the time had come and aided the way for their departure, that they moved out.  In that time, we had between 6 and 8 extra people living with us.  It was hard for many, many reasons, and I was emotionally worn.  I felt isolated within my own home--both from those living in it and from those outside it. We literally no longer had space to invite people in, so our times with friends dwindled considerably.

In August 2009 Isaac was born, and his medical problems took us to Little Rock for two months, and then when we returned, the need to keep him out of general society meant that we were again limited in our social availability.  Physically, also, and mentally, this time has been more of a challenge to me than any other that I can remember.  Exhaustion from Isaac's care has drained me and reduced me to a bleary version of myself--unable even to participate in my other children's lives, fully, much less any one else's.  And so, two years of seeming solitude have passed.  I am out of practice in reaching out to others, I suppose, but I think that is why I lament the missed opportunity so much.

One of the powerful lessons that these years have taught me is how much I need others.  The pain of isolation grew steadily, and in the last half of a year I realized if I couldn't get help, support, strength and friendship, and might not make it.  When my burden grew too heavy, I didn't know where to turn.  I could hire someone, but in my exhaustion I didn't do even that.  "Your friends will help you!" my sister, Anna, wisely reminded me.  But who were my friends?  There are many who I call friends within my community, but I hadn't nurtured any of those relationships for years!  How, now, could I call on those who I had not reached out to, to reach out to me?  My friendships have worn thin and frayed at the edges. And so I mourned last night.  I tossed and turned and wished as I don't think I've ever wished before to turn back time and visit my beloved ones, my friends,and be strengthened by our relationship.  I deeply needed to relish in that sweetest of human joys: to give and receive love.

It wasn't until nearly 6 am that my raft escaped the nets of sorrow.  My husband  turned and draped his arm over mine, and with the aid of that strong, gentle touch, I was able to press forward, seeking peace.